Mark A. Murphy’s first full length collection, Night-watch Man & Muse was published in 2013 from Salmon Poetry (Eire). His poems have appeared in over 160 magazines world-wide. Lit Fest Press in America aim to publish his latest manuscript, The Ontological Constant in early 2018.



​

                                     Aesthete
 

One should start with your eyes when describing you.
My love, your eyes are jewelled pools for my looking
and seeing, for my journeys with and without you.
Your eyes are fires in the night toppling tyrants.
 
Your eyes are time in Rome and Paris, ancient
and fortuitous fountains quenching a young boy’s thirst.
Our brown and green fells are your eyes rising
up in sheer delight with the beneficence of sunlight.
 
Your eyes see the possibility of stars in ordinary skies,
tumbling and swooning like birds on the wing.
Your eyes beg clemency for the poor and maligned
and the dispossessed who search you out as earth mother.
 
Your eyes are children running wildly in summer rain,
swimming naked in our lakes and in our rivers.
 

                       Looking for an Epiphany
                     
It rains because the gates of heaven are open
to the druid's prayer:
'may the blessing of the rain beat down upon you,
washing your soul fair and clean.'
 
It rains because paradise exists here on earth
in the wild heather bogs, moorlands,
and the remnants of forests,
because the storm clouds have lowered
 
upon the hills and fens in the magic of Nature.
Because the rich man does not own it,
the poor man can take his leave
to feed his family and slake his thirst.
 
It rains because we are an island
and the gods of heaven and earth tire of doubt,
because the rain nourishes the land,
blown by the westerly winds
 
down glen and up dale,
bidding the wandering philosopher go in out of the storm.
I|t rains because the lit candle at the window shines
light within and light without,
 
so that stranger and friend in the field may share
in the warmth from the hearth.
Because after the rain, there is always sunlight,
then nightfall, bringing the deep peace
 
of the waning wave, the slumbering stone,
the eternal rocks, the flocking stars,
the pure white of the moon, the pure green
            of the wild leaf woods,
and the pure flowing air of the dewey morning into us.
 

                       Dreaming of Flying
 
So it goes. I just wanted to write
something as beautiful as you are,
so I listen to the wind
while the moon eats up the darkness.
 
You sing your sad songs,
improvising words, giving voice
to our longings, as you move
through the days without me.
 
Our lives are not lost, though
there are things I never told you.
Remember, this is not time
forgotten, but time remembered,
 
like ashes in the dissolving snow.
The universe narrows to this
before expanding to infinity.
Finally we are one. So it goes forever.
 

                                     Critique
 

Should we turn a blind eye to those acolytes
of critical criticism, or note
with all due attention, the 'inability to resolve the tension
between the lyrical and erotic'
in a given piece of work? We ruffians, all,
might well declare such wrist-slapping
as phony, thinking as we do,
that the learned man is out to double-cross or bamboozle.
For us, neophyte poets, lay men and women
of the thronging masses,
the moon might yet 'bring woman to man',
despite the 'reservations' of the academic heavyweights.

​

​     Letter to Newberry: June 14, 2016
 
Dear Jeff: Woke up to another shooting,
this one in Florida. Received your letter
earlier this evening.  Of course we
have no answers, only clichés that have
lost all meaning. I ‘played army’ as a child,
grew up with guns, served in the army,
learned how to throw grenades, becoming
the envy of some childhood friends when
I went to war. Funny how none of them
paid much attention when I told them
stories of serving graves registration, going
out to various locations to retrieve bodies--
three Iraqi soldiers, one missing a hand,
another with his skull crushed by a tank.
Stranger still was their silence when I tried
telling them how amnesty boxes were put
in place because American soldiers had
been taking human ears, fingers, and arms
as trophies—the result of too many
shitty movies about the Vietnam war.
It’s why I never bought into the bullshit
of thanking vets my age or younger for
their service.  I served with a lot of good men
but I also know the capacity for human
stupidity.  Sometimes I think I try to use
too many words to express my anger; where
I see other poets excise, I become verbose,
try to purge myself of all language, expel
every ounce of emotion. I fear the day
will come when I will need my words but
there will be nothing left.  I will be empty,
unable to conjure even the disappointment
of a platitude that has soured like milk,
leaving a void to be filled by fear, or worse,
by bullets.  Soon enough we will not be singing
a requiem for the lost, but one for ourselves.
Soon enough, there will be no one left to sing.
            Yours in peace, Justin   

​​mailbox
my passing years
on a rainbow
 
 
a leafless branch
blown out candles
at your wake
 
early daffodils
the blindness
of a snowman
 
on the sea
moonlit ripples
lighthouse on the rocks
 
on a cactus
childhood dreams
for sale

​All I can do is write I cannot fix shelves or work in factories. 
I am not that person anymore, so that is why I write and continue to write and hope people get something from what I write.

                                             WEB


The stationary long playing record
spider web
glistened in the sun.
Not the wet of vinyl
but the captures of the clouds
and golden paint of the sun.
 
                                        you beauty
 

I get the feeling
you should tell paintings how beautiful the are
even though they can't hear you it would be good if they knew someone was watching
looking at them
and it would be easier then to tell strangers of their beauty
even if those women don't know
I see it
and it burns my heart
that they are not being told enough.
 
 
 
 
 
                                        CHANCES


I went to the doctor's with a bite on my leg
she pulled the curtain and told me to jump up on the bed.
For a split second I thought about taking my trousers off
but kept them on and just rolled up my trouser leg.
 
I couldn't help but think she was a little disappointed that I hadn't taken my trousers off.
When we sat back down she started to touch my hand
and then she asked me if there was anything else she could do for me.
She certainly could
but like always I kept my mouth shut
and another chance passed me by.
 

                                  GO IN THE BUSHES
 
 
We came out of Argos and went to the car.
A family was getting out of their car.
The girl about 12 or 13 starting pulling on her mother.
Her mother pointed to the bushes.
 
Like a train wreck or that person about to jump off the building you know what is coming but you can't turn away.
She went into the bushes which didn't hide much.
Within a few seconds you saw that porcelain white never seen the sunlight butt squat down.
Me and her laughed.
 
I even waited for her to finish then beckoned her across the road and she smiled at me
and had no idea we had been watching her for the last 5 minutes.
 

                 NOBODY TO WRITE HOME ABOUT
 


Everyday I feel I am about two seconds away from insanity.
Two seconds away from oblivion.
When I talk to people which is rare
I feel sure they think I am crazy
either that or they ignore me
or try to get rid of me as quick as possible.
I don't blame them though
who am I anyway
nobody too important
nobody to write home about.
 
  
 
                                BLINDED BY THE LIGHT
 

I think about getting a blind dog or one of those canes
so I can wander around and when I get close to a woman I can grab them
and get away with it.
I guess it will only work so many times before I get arrested
and then I would have to pretend to be blind
and have to piss on the floor to make them believe me
but I can only do that for so long.
 
 
 
                                           FUCK
 

Today a woman asked me to touch her.
"Look feel me, I am hot." She said.
"I know you are hot. You are hot." I said.
I didn't want to feel her I wanted to fuck her.
 
 
                                      BLACK WIDOW


Dance your fingers over my chest
then drive them through the un-pubic hair
like a child pushing sand
leaning in with all their weight on those spread fingers
give me those hungry eyes devour me like you have never seen a man before
never turn away not even in sleep
lick my face and beard like a dog
vice me with your thighs
mount me like a horse
ride me like a buckaroo
and one last thing
be gentle with my little tender heart.
 


                                              LOVE
 
 
 
As I sleep, touch your fingertips along my fingers and arms
 
like a pianist for whom the music has stopped.
 
Or even the air between and slight
 
a gentle wave upon the quiet sea.
 
Rest your cupped hand upon my bent head
 
feel the pulses of love come from inside
 
like a lighthouse searching the sea
 
and feel how much I want to love you
 
you and the whole world.
 
Let me love you if only just for a bit.
 
 
 
 
                                            CRABS
 

I told her once
as she placed her hand upon me in bed.
Only in my head of course.
 
I couldn't dare to speak the truth only to think it.
 
I was sure she knew anyway
and didn't want to know.
 
After all
we were like two crabs
with our pincers stuck into each other
unable to prise ourselves apart.
Two bulls with our horns locked
 
A woman told me the other day
crabs mate for life,
wait,
no, maybe it was something else.
 

                                              ANGEL
 

There is an angel at my front door
I don't see him but I know he is there .
He is like a bouncer
he turns away all the undesirables.
Sits on a pink deckchair
and waits
He smokes a big cigar and has has a few slugs of whisky from the bottle he hides in the bushes only when nobody is looking.
He fans his wings out in a massive y when young ladies walk by.
He dances sometimes at night when everybody is asleep.
Other times he just stares up at the stars and wonders where his next job will be.
Hopefully it will be an easier job next time.
There is an angel at my front door.
I Don't ..........................................................
 
 
                           BLIND MAN'S BLUFF
 

I saw a woman with a blind dog
waiting to get on the tube.
 
As I passed her I winked at her.
She did not wink back but she saw me.
 
Maybe it was the dog who was blind
or maybe she hoped she was.

                                                 A CHEEKY ONE
 

As we sat in Nandos
a woman got a drink from the machine
then she stopped and let out a big fart
but like a magician pulling handkerchiefs from a hat
it went on and on.
The man getting some drinks started to raise his eyebrows
then it came to an end and she walked off.
I burst out laughing but nobody knew why.
 
 
                      HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS
 

The beggar sits there everyday like Socrates at the city gate.
I want to shout at him
"Hey you this is not ancient Greece, why don't you go home?"
I am home, he might say.
If that is right he has the biggest home in the world
and not only that
it is free.
 
                                     ON AND ON
 

How is it possible to stop existing to even think of it
and besides
who will turn the lights out when we leave
who will upset the neighbours
who will insult the wife.
No I must go on.
 
 
 
                                   SALMON
 

I felt like asking her
if she ever got tired
tired of trying to swim upstream all the time.
Why don't you for once turn around
and let the river take you where it wants you to go for a change.
 
 
 
                                   WRONG FLOOR
 

I pressed the button for the lift
it came down but the door didn't open
so I started to bang on it like a front door
The doors opened and the people started to laugh as I walked in
"Did anybody hear knocking?" I asked they must of thought I was drunk at 1 in the afternoon.
 
 
                                         BEAR
 
There is a photo of me holding up a bear in front of the hermitage on the wall.
There are thirty of my paintings in this room alone.
I talk to dead people here in this room too.
I know there is a magic in life and you should not care about any of it.
I keep thinking as I lay here
I am a all or nothing kind of guy and I prefer nothing.
The time is coming as sure as the clouds when I will have to go out into the world again who knows what I will find.
 

Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe'st is an English & Literature Teacher, aged 24, an Acholi by tribe from Kitgum District, from a dirt poor family background. Uganda is the East African nation commonly known as "The Pearl of Africa"; once ruled by the Dictator Idi Amin Dada(1971-9), and then Y.K Museveni(1986-present), and also invaded by Joseph Kony{LRA}(1986-2006).

                               A Clean Stain on Paper
 
I read the lines with keen eagle-eyes,
No word missed,it compelled me
Looking at the dying picture
Perfectly photopapered by an expert journalist,
Of a girl more tender than a breast-feeding baby,
With the head perforated with a bullet
Of two elephants threshing grasses under their huge feet,
Bullets raining, blood running on the streets.
Cold captured me like the thought-police
As I curiously looked at the flood of blood staining the white paper,
Running like a rapid rivulet,
On the Palistine's naked street of raining bullets,
Blood streaking from innocent faces like Jesus's sweats,
Of two parties boozed with bloodlust,
And everflowing river of thoughtlessness for human life.


                              The Pearl of Cockyne

​ 
This land over-flows with milk and honey,
Mixed with blood and corrupt money,
Bread and butter fall like manna to the haves,
And the have-nots are destined for graves,
For drugs are so expensive that deaths are cheaper,
This land of peace is for a peace-dreamer.
The jewellery pearl of Cockyne
Mixed with flood of Want and cocaine,
Condoms seal heroes in family planning,
Slavery handcuffs freedom with banning;
Men marry the fellows' bottoms,
Women the same,beside deadly neucleic atoms,
Tear-gas stings innocent lungs and eyes,
Society feeds on bones,vampires'
Hearts are very cold Saharan ice,
Feeding on meat like vultures
Pretending to benefit the bonny society
Where humanity died of modernity.

                               STARTING WITH GOD
 
​
God the spirit
Angels are wind
 
Man the disobedient slaves,
Sun might get fed up of
Lightning a new day
 
Language knows all
On earth, pay to dance on every noble floor
Age seven began to record my flaws
 
Family introduce headache
And provides a cure.
 
Friends betray every other day
Not even a boring hug,
 
I hear love is been sold at the mall,
Skimpy gown, only to advertise a little more,
 
Wife material
Road side tailor comes proposing,
She hiss and run
 
Fly out to nowhere,
Fishes still don't know net. 


                                         MILK TAXI
 

Welcome to the promise land
Called milk gold.
 
I have been standing by this
Signpost,
Putting on my best coat.
 
White stones fall and cause
Me cold,
No milk taxi wants to pack my
Load.
 
One says I am made of coal
Which would stain his cloth,
I pick a leaf to clean my skin
But, I see no coal.
 
We have the same nose
His is pointed like hose,
Under the sun there's no
Fixed home.
 
Never will I reject your toast,
We all are made of same bones.

                                   Bottles on Life Street
 
​
Breaking glass
always gave me a thrill
when I was younger
 
As if the heavens cracked
under the might of my
bionic super arm
 
and splattered their divine
contents upon the canvass of
the asphalt
 
The temporary glory and awe
was soon replaced with an angry
voice in my ear
 
Demanding that I clean the glass
up or face consequences of
the harshest kind
 
You see,being an adult is a lot
like breaking glass bottles
on the road;
 
At first, you see total freedom
and a way to find yourself within
the shards
 
and then you are chastised by
those who deem themselves
of higher authority than you
 
You quickly fall in line and
try and try and try to clean up
your mistakes
 
Only to find that there is no
possible way in hell to put all of the
pieces back together again.
 
Tread wisely, my friends.
 
 
 
                                                     Sacrifice
 


I would have dipped
into the void if only
to touch you but once
 
Fire and Brimstone
never shook the foundation
of my love for you
 
I would have spoken
to the wind
but the stars in your eyes 
caught my tongue
 
 
Heaven is just an 
overrated word
When I see your
face
 
  
 
                                      The Cycle
 

Death is an old friend we
haven't met yet.
 
Life Is the janitor
of the universe.
 
Both are family
and deserve respect.
 

Phillip Larrea is the author of Our Patch (Writing Knights Press), We the People (Cold River Press), and his brand new collection, Part Time Job (Sybaritic Press). He serves on the Board of the Sacramento Poetry Center and edits the annual print anthology, Sacramento Voices.  

                                       Sunday for the Masses
 

Sunday smells like soapy water.
 
Dia de Limpieza.
 
Day for raising a chalice to the newly anointed
patron saint of dirty laundry.
 
Dios te bendigo Juan Pablo el Segundo.
Te saludo con un fuerte café Bustelo.
 
Today this penitent intends to scrub three toilet bowls
disinfect ten countertops in the catholic tradition
wiping away the sins of the protestant world.
 
Now, eyes closed and prostrate, one meditates
In tune with the universal somnambulant waves.
 
We wake come sundown, when families congregate
To commemorate the Last Supper –
 
pernil de cordero de Dios
pure de papas, y judias verde.
 
Thus have we always and everywhere
given thanks and praise to the Eternal
while extending our offertory plates for seconds.
 
 
 
 
 
                                       Brujerian Slaves
 

We cower when they come to our tents at night. Sometimes less often- never not ever- so we do not forget our place.
 
We were taken by this tribe in some war past memory back in my father’s grandfather’s time. Now we belong. We are valued. Valuable so they surround us with warriors for protection. We bank their fires each morning. Children forage, women haul water from the river. Young men fold up tents for another day’s march of the army on its belly. We are the belly. Nothing of us is wasted, not even digested age. I am too old to chew, so I teach what is permitted. How to carry on. We are needed. The tribe has needs to fill. We are vessels. Weeks may go by, one no different than the other. We pretend then. Until they come to our tents at night- when we remember.
 
Sliver moon after first thaw is their sacred time. The season of New Battles. They select a prized madonna, freshly blooded, from among us. Each warrior fills her with seed until she is near death. She is swaddled after in soft skins, borne by all to Bruja Mother who nurses her back to life. There must be life in the madonna’s belly before Battle Season begins. Forty times have I witnessed this cycle.
 
Madonna calves in the barren hungry season. Our gnawed bellies are flaccid. We build a great bonfire to burn all that is dead. Here she is led to where the Brujo Father waits with his Holy Spear. It- death- is direct and swift, so revered is she. Bruja Mother holds a chalice beneath the madonna’s heart. All drink hot holy blood. Her flesh is roasted for the feast. The babe, knowing neither father nor mother, belongs to the tribe. The tribe wastes nothing.
 
This is how we live. How we have always lived since before memory. This is how we all die, one no different than another.
 
Except when they come to our tents at night- then we remember.
 
 
 
 
                                                Progress
 


We dig our trenches with teaspoons
in the name of full employment.
 
My shirt has at least thirteen buttons.
Pants and sweater have a zipper.
Shoes laces. Diabolical. Only my socks are simple.
I undress for bed early while I still have the ambition.
 
How global commerce would unravel
should we revert to the practical robes worn
by Caesar, Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed,
Rembrandt, Gandhi – but what do they know?
 
My crippled grandma could knock out five a week
between kneading dough, putting up preserves,
hanging laundry, with soup on the simmer inside
stocked with assorted vegetables from her garden.
 
What then would become of the poor Thais
who spend lives sewing buttons with opposing eyes?
Or those little twenty pin-needle people?
Some small army of wrap-it-in-plastic guys?
 
Box flatteners, box builders who pack boxes
in boxes wrapped in plastic sitting on docks
to be loaded by shore men for sailors
who will steer an even bigger boat box until
 
What is done is undone, stacked in department stores.
I could go on and on – perhaps I will.
We get in our cars, stop for fuel.
Another twenty or thirty cities’ worth plus
 
Several medium-sized countries to enforce rules,
collect all necessary fees to pay cleaning crews.
You may say it took a village to raise this child,
but only a world could fit me with this straight jacket
when in fact, I would rather just lay about in my robe.
 
 
 
                                             Pickle
 


Skip the dignity of labor guff.
He has ridden city busses ninety minutes
with two transfers for the privilege
of being pinned to his mark like a bug.
The midnight ride to put him back in his place
will be longer still.
 
Condiments ergonomic in a clock face circle.
His hands never stop or slow. I pace
in a tight oval on the counter’s other side
waiting for my order to be obeyed.
 
Flash back to the twenty-second
mile of that marathon when hamstrung
pulled to the ground like a calf
lassoed around its hind legs, I writhe.
 
Spectators exhort me to lift myself up
as if I could. They love me
as only a mob can love a man.
I hate them with all my heart.
So I rise.
 
His arms remind me of that
last mindless Road-to-Calvary leg.
Bun mayo lettuce tomato
pickle – I don’t want the pickle –
but I love him too much
to interrupt his metronome monotony.
For that very same reason
he hates me.
 
 

​SOULFUL HEART
 
I know how you feel
The anger and the pain
The stress and the sadness
I know the conscience you bear
The tetchy forces within your heart
The emotions you try to hide
And the love you dream to share.
I know your frustrations
The very kindness you can’t afford
The aching sickness you can’t heal
The sparkling laughter you can’t pass
And the sweet words you can’t say
It hurts…
I know
It hurts to see sorrow, and
Not having the shoulder to give
It hurts to see tears, and
Not having a silk to soak it off
It hurts to see a child, homeless
And not having a shelter to render
I know it hurts…
It hurts to see drought, and
Not having the rain to fall
It hurts so badly, that
You pinch yourself in pain, questioning the heavens
That you aren’t born… to heal souls.
 

                               DEMONS GRAZING 11


​Democracy
freedom unearthed from apartheid intestines
a legacy that carried sorrows since the days of yelping baboons
and yapping dogs
Monrovia blooming legumes of blood in superstitions
of blood harvesting
Crocodiles basking in the east of political comfort zones
Afghan with the heart burn for freedom
Baboons laughing other baboons in political forests
Politicians crushing poverty under their feet
Polishing streets with the glitz of robots and rainbow sweet talk.
 
 
                                   Letter to my daughter


this poem reshuffled cabinet
the rhythm resigned the president
its metaphors adjourned parliament

my daughter
awaken sleeping patriots eating peanut in slogan darkness
rise dozing voters in the warmth of political acid
awaken struggle heroes in graves tired of wrong epitaphs and fake eulogies
awaken fat cats puffing zanunised and mdcided propaganda burgers in slumber

rise green horns drinking much talked herbal tea of change
grandfathers of patriotism to bring back
truth drowning in potholes of grief
god fathers of change to bring back my vote choked in drums of new renewed
corruption

bring red hot charcoal to roast political bedbugs sucking our blood in daylight
bring a word scientist to burn the justified injustice in poetic sulphuric acid

my daughter
this poem reshuffled cabinet
the rhythm resigned the president
the metaphors adjourned parliament.
 

                                           My painful poetry


Its rhymes are of the poverty stripped widows in Liberia.
Its symbols are of the slain cops freezing on the mortuary slabs of Gambia
Its imagery is of freedom succumbing within bomb cry in Nigeria
Its sound is of poverty shriveled breasts of mothers in Eritrea
Its surprise is of hunger tortured children in Ethiopia
Its echo is of war caused orphans digging for fortunes and future in rubbish dumps of
Somalia

My painful poetry
Its connotations are of the weeping of ethnic tribes in Libya
Its voice is of groaning stomachs of banks in Namibia
Its tragedy is of sewage pipes gushing out disgusting contents in the streets of Zambia
Its metaphors are machetes slicing wombs in the valleys of Kataga
Its similes are of blood stained walls of sufferance in Tanzania
Its alliterations are of genocides and atrocities in Rwandan corridors
Its resonance is of butchers and slaughters in Burundan drives

My painful poetry
Its beat is of apartheid explosions in South Africa
Its allegory is of the crying of the Povo in Zimbabwe
Its satire is of the inking of villages in Mozambique
Its irony is barter exchange of diamond and riles in Angola
Its epitaph is the dying of the cultures in Algeria
My painful poetry is painful and never beautiful