The Romance of an Old Man and His Western Sweet like gin-vomit his breath is hard and palpable he asks, between teeth slanted like brown graves a gathering of sickly men enameled leaning up against each other in a slush of gums “Where are the Westerns” Gone, old man a pile of trade paperbacks on... Show moreThe Romance of an Old Man and His Western Sweet like gin-vomit his breath is hard and palpable he asks, between teeth slanted like brown graves a gathering of sickly men enameled leaning up against each other in a slush of gums “Where are the Westerns” Gone, old man a pile of trade paperbacks on dusty shelves disorganized and 97.11% L’Amour they attract only those who read them in their youth. Covers of ox skulls and pistols and leather chap-clad gun slung mustache men A horse, and some twelve dozen yellow pages that fit snuggly in an old man’s hand as he tucks the book into the pocket of a dusty, whitewashed denim jacket and he strides out through the door and he keeps a secret hand on L’Amour SCOTT BIBUS MURPHY SQUARE 9 Show less
Kiss Her movements are a sonnet, A tribute to the splendor of her core. Lids close like blinds over the globes through which the soul is viewed the silence only broken by a staggered release of inhibitions through the lungs. Intimate distance slowly becomes millimeters between lips The heart... Show moreKiss Her movements are a sonnet, A tribute to the splendor of her core. Lids close like blinds over the globes through which the soul is viewed the silence only broken by a staggered release of inhibitions through the lungs. Intimate distance slowly becomes millimeters between lips The heart trembles. Unspoken reassurance of heartfelt emotion brings her closer The sweet breeze of breath wafts into my slightly ajar mouth. An internal smile is shared Then, subtle contact. We are enveloped by a bubble of comfortable warmth Through which no needles of surrounding environment can penetrate. Brought together by some strange fate Of which any explanation would be futile. Lips dance as though they are following steps To an old slow Righteous Brothers’ tune. The smile returns to our hearts. CHRIS CARR 10 MURPHY SQUARE Show less
Walking At Midnight ‘ 6 baby, huh?” She turned her gaze to the puffy man next to her. Seeing his eyes Afill with tears, she pulled a crumpled piece of a bar napkin from her pocket. Vodka stains still marked the wild nights before and stung his dilapidated eyes. “My belly’s bein’ eaten from the... Show moreWalking At Midnight ‘ 6 baby, huh?” She turned her gaze to the puffy man next to her. Seeing his eyes Afill with tears, she pulled a crumpled piece of a bar napkin from her pocket. Vodka stains still marked the wild nights before and stung his dilapidated eyes. “My belly’s bein’ eaten from the inside and I gotta get rid of the killer.” Her heroine hands shook and rested on his crucified face. She kissed the corners of his forehead. He said he loved her and she knew their track marks would not fade. “I have ta go back out an’ spread for cash, but who’ll want me now?” Drugged bills lay on the table in front of her, white talc edges and rolls. She turned her face to the floor. Drops of blood from her cocaine nose hurried into her mouth, but she pulled on her red and black stilettos, zipped her black leather skirt, and smothered her face with white powder and red lipstick. She looked in the mirror, combed her gnarled hair and nodded. She was dressed to walk her body. LYDIA NOGGLE 12 MURPHY SQUARE Show less
Retablo of the Black Christ The retablo paintings are dark, but the candles make the dark skin of Jesus glow, his face turned away- a strange sorrow in his long, elegant legs, crossed at the ankles, as if reclining on a couch. A short man stands before him in his clothes decades old- plaid cuffed... Show moreRetablo of the Black Christ The retablo paintings are dark, but the candles make the dark skin of Jesus glow, his face turned away- a strange sorrow in his long, elegant legs, crossed at the ankles, as if reclining on a couch. A short man stands before him in his clothes decades old- plaid cuffed pants, crumpled nylon shirt. He’s got a cowboy hat in his left hand, heavy gym bag over his shoulder. He’s as dark as Jesus, but his black hair has turned almost totally gray. The Church is so empty, I think, the man feels free to talk to Jesus outloud, for that’s exactly what he’s doing: conversing. I can’t understand the words but I know a good gossip when I hear it. He talks passionately - vivaciously - confidentially - all the modulations of conversation and when he turns and passes by me, he smiles — his wrinkles, a map of faith. Note: This beautiful figure is found at a side altar at the Church of St. Francis, La Antigua, Guatemala. After I wrote this poem, I read that this figure of Jesus is made of papier maché, not wood, and that the insides are sacred Mayan texts, used by the conquerors to make the paper mache. In this way the figure retains the power of the civilization that existed before the Spanish colonization. ROSEANN LLOYD MURPHY SQUARE 15 Show less
as if there is someone to hear us. Myestomach growls, gurgles, reminds me I haven’t eaten all day and usually drink sugar—free pop. Is it the sweetness of the soda making me shake, the damp night air that makes me tremble? Why do smoke, Cigarettes, damp wood and body odor suddenly smell like... Show moreas if there is someone to hear us. Myestomach growls, gurgles, reminds me I haven’t eaten all day and usually drink sugar—free pop. Is it the sweetness of the soda making me shake, the damp night air that makes me tremble? Why do smoke, Cigarettes, damp wood and body odor suddenly smell like perfume to me? His mouth tastes like Dr. Pepper and tobacco. MARGARET ANDERSON MURPHY SQUARE 17 Show less
Fourth of July, Way After Dark We sit by a roaring fire. I’m not sure what combustibles my partner threw in but it spits multicolored flames high in the night sky better than fireworks, shapes the form of our emotions. Out here in the country the humid air has condensed into thick mist. It hangs... Show moreFourth of July, Way After Dark We sit by a roaring fire. I’m not sure what combustibles my partner threw in but it spits multicolored flames high in the night sky better than fireworks, shapes the form of our emotions. Out here in the country the humid air has condensed into thick mist. It hangs heavily over the backyard, mixes with the smoke billowing from our conflagration. Crushed grass scent rises up from beneath me. My back and knees ache from hunkering down on the ground, heavy dew drenches and chills my sandal-clad feet. But the fire warms my skin glowing in the metallic maroon of Dr. Pepper cans, illuminating his ash—smudged face, reflected in his brown eyes. He leans forward to light my cigarette, arm to arm our hands touch, sheltering the flame. His skin is warm. Cars pass, headlights bounce off the thick air and disappear. A dog bays across the road resonance lost in the mist. The fog shuts us in, shutting out the world. We speak, we sing, in hushed tones 16 MURPHY SQUARE Show less
