"murphy" poems
For he's a jolly good fellow,
adorned in yellow and love,
it was hard to see his face through the smoke of a three blunt rotation, but I could feel his heart beating from across the trailer.
Worn out eighties music was the unofficial theme of the night and I think we lived up to the expectations Eddie Murphy set for his.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
Quote#1- Seventy-five years. That's how much time you get if you're lucky. Seventy-five years. Seventy-five Winters. Seventy-five Springtimes. Seventy-five Summers. And Seventy-five Autumns. When you look at it like that, it's not a lot of time, is it? Don't waste them. Get your head out of the rat race and forget about the superficial things that pre-occupy your existence and get back to what's important now. Right Now. This very second. And I'm not saying, drop everything and let the world come to a grinding halt. I'm saying that you could become a seeker. You could be loving more. You could be taking some chances. You could be living more. You could be spending more time with your family. You could be getting in touch with the part of you that lives instead of fears; the part of you that loves instead of hates; the part of you that recognizes the humanity in all of us. And I tell you, That's where you're fortunate..
Quote #2- Your good is Better and your better is Blessed!...
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 5:48 PM UTC
A secret society founded as a dark, heavy rainstorm
loomed menacingly one night in November of 1888
over Boston University; Sarah Ida Shaw,
Eleanor Dorcas Pond, Isabel Morgan Breed
& Florence Isabelle Stewart sneaking in their
nightgowns into the dusty attic where Florence
swore she had seen three black cats sitting
in the rocking chairs talking; to humor their friend,
the others followed her up into the dark attic:
meaning only to frighten Florence, Eleanor
pulled a kitchen knife; the uncomprehending
Isabel & Sarah forcing the terrified [so they thought]
Florence to her knees; while there, eating the *****
of the knife-wielding Eleanor, who raising her stiff
nightgown told the others to do likewise until they all
were satisfied, shouting - meow meow meow meow -
old lady Murphy hollering up the attic steps: 'who's up there?'
the three girl giggling their little heads off running
past her down the stairs; Florence nearly tripping,
coming down a few moments later, also grinning
but silently to herself.
'what are u girls doing up there?' -
'playing w/ the cats,' said Flo, slipping past her;
'Cats! Cats!' shouted the old witch, rushing up the
stairs raising her broom [from that evening Delta Delta Delta (ΔΔΔ)
has met to lick talking black cats in secret college sorority rituals]
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 12:28 PM UTC
I
Stacked green crates by the futon,
records sealed as buried letters,
each sleeve longing
to be drawn out into daylight
by her small, thoughtful hands.
I just want to play that Nick Cave again
teenager’s resolve in her voice,
she drops the needle on "Tupelo",
traces Peter Murphy with her thumb,
holds Kate Bush to the light
like stained glass.
She laughs
at the ****** box on the speaker.
I tell her it’s never going to happen.
She grins, unbothered,
says she only came for the vinyl.
I watch her tilt each sleeve,
never touching the grooves,
brush the dust,
lay the needle like a secret,
slide the disc back without a wrinkle.
Each time I’m surprised
by her precision.
It’s the third time
she’s dropped by.
She makes mixtapes.
Pressing pause,
pressing record,
stitching songs
into a spine of hiss.
Once, to me, or to herself,
she said her father wanted a tape.
She’d mail it when
he had somewhere to send it.
She follows me across the bridge,
talking about her brother,
an ex-best friend,
mimicking her professor,
how he wags his tongue
when he writes on the chalkboard.
I haul a duffel:
apron, uniform, boots heavy with grease.
She skips in the rain,
strumming cables, humming
the last song played, still in the air.
II
I unlock the door,
steeped in garlic and kitchen sweat,
boots leaving grime on the boards.
She isn’t there-
only the crates, stacked neater,
jackets squared, spines aligned,
as if her care was meant for me.
The room settles with her absence,
yet holds me upright
in its small, thoughtful hands.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 8:11 PM UTC
Winter camp,
snowbound bunch.
Uncertain smile,
what's for lunch?
The forlorn hope is grim.
Mrs. Murphy says to
commence on Milt, and
unceremoniously eat him.
Feb 21, 2020
Feb 21, 2020 at 9:30 AM UTC
This looks very strange to me.
I am from the Island,
And...
You never see it.
This blue sky spreads a beautiful
Calmness amongst everyone and everything.
The birds chirp, the people do their gardening
And speak nice things about their neighbours.
And yet,
In the corner of a dark room,
There I sit.
Alone.
Alone and angry.
The path has split and cracked
And I stagger with drunken fury.
All the way home.
This endless rage burns,
And burns through my words.
But at who?
What for?
The sea is dark, blue and empty.
The ship bobs in the churning water,
As one man pulls endlessly at fishnets,
But vultures circle above waiting for him to starve.
GRAHAM MURPHY
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
Dragged out screaming, senseless from the hallows of martyrdom
My father's mother's wayward brother
Baptized in propaganda and searing lead
Kamikaze death machine to paranoia fever dream
A noble experiment in utter catastrophe
Half measure, interstellar tourniquet
Stem the free flow of blood like inconvenient statistical evidence
Dripping down born-again ****** America's chin
Vector-like, everything explodes outwards
And on trajectories like these only friction is holy
Murphy's law in ecstatic altercation
A furious life lived under an anachronistic magnifying glass
Truly the only thing worth decaying for
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
I don’t want to perpetuate the produce – consume loop
but when I don’t, I feel like such a lazy moocher
Could I play guitar near after dark bars for $23 an hour?
Victor and I did that once, for $11.50 each
Untaxed, that’s better than my dour real job
So, if I really made my place at a street corner, I’d be a smart earner
But then I’d be a fixture, like the accordion man and the bums with PVC buckets
The bar goers would soon hate me for chumping them out of their cash
with three gritty “Heart of Gold” covers
Then soon the mediocre bums would jump me and Riot, my guitar
She’ll smash into the walk under a Irish flag in front of Murphy’s Law,
while drinkers whoop and punch the air
The bucket goes over my head
and the accordion bellows squeeze round my neck
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
She's was sitting pretty
with her long hair flowing,
both arms were covered
with brightly colored-sleeves,
eating a burger & fries.
She seemed intriguing,
like a sweet fox,
her jade eyes
screamed adventure,
her **** aura
whispered,
"Come & get me."
I was going
through the drive-thru
& when I came back around,
she was hopping
into a pick-up truck
with some other dude.
That Murphy's
is a crazy place.
Who knew some
fast burger joints
had quick-women,
too.
Did you?
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
Lost your *** and spent your gold
Drunk all night and you were told
The Murphy girls have brothers ninefold...
So, have you an inkling this mornin'?
Don't say you had no warnin'!
Gee those Murphy girls sure are pretty
But now your listening to this "told ya so" ditty
Got a bit fresh and way too giddy...
So now your hurting this mornin'
At least last night wasn't boring!
So next year's the same when put'n on the green
Remember the date it's March Seventeen
Kathleen, Maureen, Colleen do preen...
Just to count your gold in the mornin'
So don't be a leprechaun hornin'
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester,
On the basketball court
Prince had to come up short
At least that what
Charlie Murphy and them thought
So they went to his house
Thinking they’d just get ******
And the basketball could wait
But then they heard Prince state
He asked,
In his high heels and all
Wanna play basketball?
The shirts vs the blouses
Now you may be six feet tall
And I’m clearly small
But I betcha
You’ll lose your trousers
Eyewitnesses say
That Prince could play
Better than any of ‘em knew
He could shoot and defend
Against the much taller men
And before the game was done
Charlie Murphy said
Prince led two to one
“No hard feelings.
Let’s shake
Would ya like some pancakes,”
Prince is alleged to have asked?
Nevertheless
Who could have guessed
They’d be the best
Pancakes that they ever had
He asked,
In his high heels and all
Wanna play basketball?
The shirts vs the blouses
Now you may be six feet tall
And I’m clearly small
But I betcha
You’ll lose your trousers
“No hard feelings.
Let’s shake
Would ya like some pancakes,”
Prince is alleged to have asked?
Nevertheless
Who could have guessed
They’d be the best
Pancakes that they ever had
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2016. All rights reserved.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 9:10 AM UTC
Holding hands with Amber,
As a sweet melody plays.
There are bells in the distance,
As her crafted face stares at empty space.
I could point out a thousand stars,
but none seemed bright enough.
Her interest captured,
by her own hands.
Stuck in mud,
that sound could not wash away.
The beat intense,
But events quite clear.
Apollo has alined the stars
and the planets stand still.
Almost to attention.
To the dying embers.
GRAHAM MURPHY
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
Alight me Paddies! Today the world is Green;
I am in a mood, alas, to gnaw crubeen,
To kiss my Irish lass, and cuddle her awhile,
To hear the Irish Rovers sing their bonny Isle,
To wear a shamrock, laboring o'er a stout:
Murphy or Guinness, to me it matters naught.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
Would you like some Opportunity?:
Make the Opportunity inopportune!
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
One for the man bunkered down in the trenches
sent in by his country as a henchman.
He's laying in the mud, praying for safety,
losing less blood than what's shed daily.
In this hazy hell, a drug buzz is needed.
Morphine seeps in, easing the beaten.
And in no man's land, a man cries for mercy
but his cries are cut off by the hands of Murphy.
Early in the morning, he packs his bags.
Rucksack on his back, heading back to base camp.
There's a damper in the room, sunken like the marsh.
Friends have fallen, it's clearly marked.
And his heart aches but they can't be dead.
Nah, he sees them every time he lays down his head.
From time to time, he jolts up out of breath,
but he never felt more alive, when he was close to death.
It's not a sob story, no it's just old glory
Two for the man bunkered down by the park bench,
clutching a cup, praying for penance.
He's laying on cement, waiting for change,
and trying to stay dry from the ******* rain.
In this day and age, a drug buzz is needed.
Morphine tabs, tap in the defeated.
Lungs splitting, teeth gritting, he's wishing for mercy.
Two times the dose, he curses out Murphy.
Early in the morning he packs his bags.
Rucksack on his back, he heads back to PADs.
He grabs a tray, sits alone, and says grace
because there's no space open for the "nutcase".
Arm's race to golden gates, he dragged a debt.
He carried his country as heavy as regret.
He carries his friends, they dangle from his neck.
But the thing about memories is that you can't forget.
It's not a sob story, it's just old glory
© Matthew Harlovic
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
~
"memory runs back farther than mythology."
two years,
two months,
and two days,
in a cabin they built
near Walden Pond.
on a mission of gravity,
the heavens forming a spotlight
on centrifugal force,
abroad the hollow mind,
chronically untethered.
"I went to the woods to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms..."
this ship's captain was an architect,
but her starblazing failed
to break ground,
so this life is now a structure settled upon sand,
and way out yonder,
where there is
no blade of grass,
just weeds growing out from under the floor.
but her daughters are
grinning magnets,
passionate machines.
"copy that?...," asks Houston.
she takes a long, hard swallow,
the shadow of a bell
inspiring the astronaut in her
to shoot for incapable stars,
but the bell she hears now
is that of an alarm clock
telling her it's time to wake up:
shoulders straight.
hands free.
arms strong.
fingers stiff.
chronically untethered.
she's not looking for new days,
she is a new day,
compacted out of water,
tired of changing real estate
and showering with
other people's success.
those loud kids, her kids, play
down the hall, in the beehive.
radio jargon's on full blast too
and telling her where
to buy and sell today's instant pleasure.
she's busy now with self-stimulation,
Betty Dodson Method,
then mixing orange powder
with 100 year old whiskey
kept in the lunar module:
it's a spacewalk to eternity, faster-than-light:
she sees broken pool tables
and backyard swings.
she sees 'ordinary'
checked off on the calendar.
she sees 'happiness'
hiding in an old photo of Murphy's Camp.
she wakes to
her husband, Houston,
in a holding pattern,
she feels him moving, whispering,
and touching something
far off inside of her,
but not moored
in a specific time or place.
in search of where
she now exists
(if she even existed at all),
her memories feel artificial
in that she lacks
the emotional attachment
that comes with
actually having lived them.
there are no answers, no choices.
only reactions.
it is always going to be
that broken state of things:
these days of heaven,
chronically untethered.
"only that day dawns to which I'm awake. there is more day to dawn, I suppose. and like us, the sun is but a morning star upon being dreamed into existence..."
~
Jul 25, 2022
Jul 25, 2022 at 9:19 PM UTC
There will be no service and no luncheon
when you “now” becomes a “Then”
Just a dignified cremation
awaits at your Journey’s end.
There will be no spoken eulogy
By a priest who knew you not.
No crying yapping relatives-
For none had you begot.
There are those of us
who’ll shed a tear,
to think the old Girl’s passed.
but there’ s no need to wear a suit
Or get the Limos gassed.
You’ll have passed on in your sleep
Having felt the needles pinch.
A far more humane fate I think
than dying by the inch.
Brownie was a good dog
And often gave me her paw.
She always got excited
when she saw me at the door.
A better pet you couldn’t get,
Nor meet a gentler soul.
I’ll shed a quiet private tear
when I put away her bowl.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 7:49 PM UTC
I'm trying to write a poem, because that's what I do
write poetry about me and you, you and I
those guys, these kids...
that time I choked on fireflies because every third word I'd say illuminated the sky and between every spark of light the shadows clenched my eyelids. Or all of the times Elmer fastened them shut and I saw nothing but sticky, icky white glue
poems about something true, like the genetic connect between my cats- they're sisters
or the non genetic connect between me and my stepsister- i miss her
poems about hating the way I destroy each building block I set aside
poems about hanging on for the ride
I could write a poem each and every day about the birth of the earth in may
but when springtime arrives and lucious life thrives I can barely get out of bed
poems about irony
poems about the law of murphy
There's a poem I've written too many times about the criminal I am and all of my crimes
there's a poem I have not yet written in ink, about not knowing what why or how my thoughts think
there's a poem I will write, and it fills me with fright yet gets me through the night
because the beauty blooming from your eyes intoxicated me, like the hug from a drug pollenating
You can't simply try to write a poem- upchuck the acidic thoughts you think
they weigh you down like past and future hangovers
molded like heavy boulders almost tipping off your shoulders- you can't simply try to write a poem
It's like loving your cousin though you've barely known him
like a conch pressed to trying to hear the ocean
but it's really just your blood pumping in motion
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 8:44 AM UTC
Sit down,
the nun says,
bringing Magdalene
into her office,
pointing to a chair
opposite her desk.
The nun eyes her
seriously, her face
framed in a black
and white headpiece,
her hands on the table
in front of her
palms down.
Magdalene sits
and stares at her shoes.
Do you know why
you are here?
the nun says.
You asked me
to come in here,
Magdalene replies,
lifting her eyes
to the nun's face.
The reason why
I asked you
to come here?
the nun says firmly.
Magdalene shakes her head,
fidgets in the chair.
The nun sits back
in her chair
and stares coldly.
Silence fills the room
and Magdalene moves
back in her chair,
crossing her legs
at the ankles.
There have been reports
of you and Mary Moran
being seen entering
a toilet cubicle together,
is that true?
the nun says,
head to one side
as if her neck had snapped.
Magdalene shakes her head,
no, who'd say such a thing?
What wormy ****
would say that?
Magdalene says.
The nun eyes her colder.
Sister Bridget saw you,
the nun says.
With or without
her glasses,
Magdalene says,
she's a bit short-sighted,
she often mistakes me
for the Murphy boy.
The nun stares
and shakes her head
and says,
you should show
respect to the nuns,
and not try to score
points off of other's
disabilities.
Magdalene looks
at the nun's hands
on the desktop,
tapping away
on the old wood.
I was not with Mary Moran;
I was on my own,
and why would Sister Bridget
be spying on me
going to the bog?
Magdalene says.
The nun slams her hand
down on the desktop,
and says,
DO NOT BE SO RUDE
AND TELL THE TRUTH.
Magdalene stares
at the slammed down hand;
once it had slapped her thighs
as a young girl in R.E,
for not raising her hand
to leave the room
for a *** now
she just stares at the nun
and says,
that's the truth
after all said and done,
cross my heart
and hope to die.
The nun rambles on,
but Magdalene
no longer listens,
recalls the kiss
on Mary's lips,
and the spark
in the nun's eyes
that glistens.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 2:50 AM UTC
naturally,
after we leave,
everything seems to get better.
not that we took it for granted
no, really, we didn't.
we were:
test subjects
guinea pigs
a band of misfits searching for the positive
yet somehow remaining apathetic.
I somehow expected you to be like us
a little less caring
a little less bothered
that's what I expected, not this..
subdued insecurity manifested in your eyes
they keep darting around
looking for answers in a scallop
or in the bottom of a coffee cup
silence where you should be laughing sits
hanging heavily on your shoulders,
making your natural slouch even worse
...I wonder if you noticed that your eyes are getting bluer
we learned once in english class that films use blue to represent anxiety
that the churning sea is symbolic of a churning mind
we never learned that you can spot that in a man
so lost in his worry that he can't see
...his eyes are getting bluer.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC
Poignant prose chucked out and recycled by morning.
Turned out trick repeated til boring.
The local band just started touring.
Sonnet's blasted until the ladies are 'whooring'.
...
Roxy Music dropped David Byrne.
For Ellie Goulding and a remix of burn.
Robert Johnson's been reworked.
Ratatat rap as interest is perked.
Dylan picked up the silent game.
Making ambient noises which all sound the same.
The Rolling Stones joined the church.
After buying some of Hoosier's merch.
Nicki Minaj claps her ****
Laying down a tribute for Terry Fox's stump.
Benefit concert soon to be run.
By the played out Glee Club composing Fun.
Beach Boys dragged in with the tide.
...And Stars Collide.
NOFX has gone clean
Fat Mike's gone and become a dean.
Tom Waits stomps out to Kendrick Lamar.
Hacking up bits of blunt induced tar.
Bumping out in Steve Ellison's car.
To Captain Murphy's karaoke bootlegged from a bar.
...
Less than 10 good tapes a year
Even fewer if referring to those others actually hear.
Jack White's gone third eye blind
Getting over run by his drug free mind.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
There are a lucky few of us, who benefit from the paltry services of the mental healthcare system.
The rest of us, well, we are the ones who walk naked down the street with absent faces.
We are the ones who sit alone and ***** on the street corners of your small town America.
Your America.
We mutter nonsense to ourselves, for the sake of a sanity that was denied us.
Denied us, yes, as we sought and sought a solution to our degradation, but we never could grasp that golden ring.
Mrs. Murphy trims her hedges.
And we walk obtrusively through the park
on your warm, sunny, sky blue happy day,
seeking love and connection with our own humanity in the garbage receptacles
that are scattered down the paths of our solitary confinement.
And in your eyes? Yes, yours!
We seek our solace, our redemption.
If only a single soul would glance up,
and connect with the eyes of our soul starved, 'yes, here I am, friend!'
We seek the self same recognition that you do.
We seek that opportunity to be.
That opportunity to be loved.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
The TV people scare me sometimes.
They are always saying bad things.
They do so with an air of confidence and reassurance.
They fill your head with narcotic gossip and
Everyone salivates over the tasty words.
The addicted watch with anticipation.
Eating up every juicy bit.
The worse the news, the tastier.
The media is an all-you-can-eat buffet
For the cynical lovers of catch 22’s and Murphy’s law
They gag on the good news
Altruism, the Golden Rule, honest to goodness people
That doesn’t taste so good
It doesn’t give us our fix
You need the bad to have the good
And we only like the good to emphasize the bad
The audacity of the TV people; how dare they tell good news
Good news doesn’t sell
Bad news is good news
Jan 3, 2010
Jan 3, 2010 at 8:30 PM UTC
Teeth chatter and butts raise above seats,
Riding pickups atop the corduroy road,
Thunder claps of rubber bass beats,
Slapping the undercarriage's rusty odes.
The tires rhythmic riffs are risky,
Clavinet keys echo wood beams over muddy water,
Walter Murphy drinks a Fifth of Beethoven's whiskey,
Leaving superstitions for Stevie to Wander.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC
The universe confounding, plans of mice, and men
it's not confined to where, just events, of how, and when
Fate throws a monkey wrench, into all cogs, and gears
destroying the machinery, confirming doubts, and fears
Murphy was an optimist, I've hear that said before
offered up the obstacles, blocking all, and any open doors
The wreckage and destruction, will never be forgot
plans that yielded nothing, amount too, diddly-squat
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 10:04 AM UTC