One Hundred Fifty-Sixth
We saved the several cards from Father Ted at holidays, blue snow
shadows beneath brittle trees, the dome and blond brick.
If I could undo one thing it would be not to vote against myself, my
own interests in favor of another's con.
Within this notebook, fractions rebel against the whole subject,
color-coded to mirror a discernment, perhaps, even parsimony.
She calls herself a "nosy parker," until nothing is left to
apart from reels to watch, relive, substantiate.
This microchip of joie de vivre entails relaxing standards, waiting
for prime vintage to be absorbed into the atmosphere.
One Hundred Fifty-Seventh
Horizontal playthings gussied up like figurines for shelves romance
their way into my past tense slow-mo shattered heart.
Snow upon this evergreen plumps foreground as though it weighed
something worth waiting to let melt.
Hunger brings on a suspicion of sanctity in line with teachings from
the tiny volume.
Quiet as a temperature, the visceral reliving of a moment chastises
fictive selves purported to have lived trumped up renditions.
His eyes, beneath the balding head, if only I could have soothed them
at the moment we were just past being children, helped him learn to breathe.
One Hundred Fifty-Ninth
I used to think without a subject, until someone paid me to neglect a
Swing on front porch, painted something, met the breeze, and we were
on it, talking, hearing, liking blossoms.
Now my dusk is past the midpoint of focal
innocence: you can blame me for the leaves I've missed.
I would trade carloads of blank checks just to see the eyes that
bathed love into me at first to teach joy.
Each day, only water's needed, and sometimes a single boiled egg, my
One Hundred Sixty-Ninth
Heart (his) pumped the go-ahead with sadness, so a conversation
brushed across skin typified by raw vulnerability.
I live my lighted keyboard in four-four time.
A voice that hails from next door or so sings.
What happens in speech remains in speech
when hapless "ly" drops from adverbs.
Cover story dipped in red ink possibly to build readership,
what if China's economy splits open and buys nothing?
Default position defies even vintage growth.
Master's tournament invites wearing the green.
One Hundred Seventieth
At this time, he is indisposed. I'll have him call you
when the divan no longer appears occupied.
Torsion has no nestle point, the cure for fever
includes aspiration of the type our founders wore.
Centigrade does not begin to measure reassurance
needed at a time like this enduring lack of froth.
Slow growth along Indian School Road, but growth
just the same, indigenous flowers, plump new trucks.
The doorbell rings, a tiny package from UPS,
multiple gigabytes in a tiny drive.
One Hundred Seventy-First
You keep brillianting, I keep copies of your text,
the world encompasses its own infinity.
Broken opus one oh wunderkind, you are my
snare drum, my lighthouse, my fulfillment center.
Raspy-voiced Bob D gained favor and the spotlight
finally, the way he wants we want and so the chief.
Yes men crowded in an elevator stand and hope
erasure reaches each one individually and soon.
My friend loyally poses before harsh cameras.
He holds her hand, my friend the honorable man.
Sheila E. Murphy 2012