creased and cut newspaper pages
I don’t watch it leave,
sleep the sleep of the just retired,
wake in mid-winter.
Reinvigorated, raring to go,
worlds to conquer,
I shuffle toward the oyster,
sharpening pen and oiling voice,
knowing I’ll rarely work wonders with either,
grateful for time to try.
High, high climbs the roller-coaster
to oblivion, such fun on the way,
every moment suffused
with freedom’s sharp tang.
- - -
Bryan Murphy is the author of Goodbye, Padania, Linehan’s Trip and countless poems. He recently retired from a job within the United Nations system and now divides his time among England, Italy, the wider world and cyberspace. He welcomes visitors at http://www.bryanmurphy.eu
The cold wine cleanses--
And I really feel your absence.
Out of the patio door I spy:
Coloured hanging lanterns against
A lavender sky.
I know the door is locked.
I fall ten years back
back into your garden.
It’s a green blur from here and a kitchen table through a window.
Pale wood, solid. Definitely circle.
A chain of coloured lanterns holds me focused as
I try to recall your face.
I try to summon memories time locked away.
All I get is fish and chips and an aubergine cardigan.
The sun is setting, falling behind the firs.
I run to the kitchen door
Desperate to find you.
The door is locked.