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PPA Staff |
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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 |
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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 |
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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 YOUfor 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 |