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PPA Staff

HOUSES

 

we wrap houses around us like the arms of old lovers

where we rest weary, fevered heads

find our way home like a stray cat

weatherworn and hungry

 

eager for that bowl of sweet milk at the door

stretch our bodies into the old rug

dig our nails in its fiber

 

we wear houses like old, knobby sweaters

not minding the tattering of a sleeve

a button missing

 

on snow high days

we stare out hazy windows

curled like a dog in its favorite chair

content in our man made wombs

 

perhaps we wouldn’t fear death so much

if they buried us in our houses

 

Gloria g. Murray

Many publishing credits, multiple award winner, appearances on radio and TV shows, two chapbooks available

FISHERMAN

 

most of the time I am alone

curled under a blanket

on one side of the queen size bed

 

often in the night

I roll over, touch the empty space

your pillow holds

 

for a moment

half in sleep, floating

between this world and the next

 

I forget you are fishing

casting your rod

like a mysterious spell into the sea

 

or asleep, zipped in a bag

under the stars

on a beach with the wind beating

 

against your cap

the moon a spotlight on your face

the mosquitoes biting your ears

 

Gloria g. Murray

Performance Poets Association®

THAT SPRING

 

that spring

you went for Chemo

the weeping cherry died

 

for over thirty years it scattered

pink blossoms across the lawn

obscuring windshields

settling like pink snow in our hair

 

we were silent in that spring

when sap hardened on its bark

roots blackened under green

 

and the birds continued to nest

in its bare branches anyway

 

Gloria g. Murray

I BECOME A FOOL IN LOVING YOU

                      for Joshua

 

I can’t stop stroking the softness

of your olive skin

the brown curly down of your hair

inhaling that powdery baby smell

even when your diaper’s full

your spit-up saturating the bib

 

I become a fool in loving you

like a puppet

swinging arms and legs

dancing around like a bear

barking on all fours

for your squeal

 

your hand trying to grab my nose

your finger in my ear

the surprised O of your small mouth

your arms begging to be lifted

and the smile

for which there is no  metaphor

 

Gloria g. Murray

YOUR HEART

 

I thought as long as it was beating

I could win it

like some prize at a carnival

 

“step right up—just hit 3 of the 6 moving ducks!”

 

but the ball bounced

behind the painted blue water

 

the stuffed animals with lop-sided smiles

hungrily ate my quarters

staring, staring, with  gum-ball eyes

 

as I missed, again and again

 

Gloria g. Murray