A brown cardinal babynestled in the crookof our back porch trumpet vineinvisible until her big red dad returnedagain and againbearing grubs to nourishand maybe sootheafter her important launch. Later in Targeta mom scouring aislesher own fledgling just new in a dormthe store shelvesbare of what she really sought:Comfort. Love.Courage for a newly flown almost-manHis deepeningContinue reading “Fledglings”
Who can sayat the dawn of a birthday?If we are born with goodness and trustwhat remains after so much launderingof oneself?Live. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. When I was youngI had a blanket, white with pink and blue flowerscotton with satin edging pink and soft and shinycomfort to a small cheek on a dark night.Her name wasContinue reading “At 53”
I tried an experiment today. I wrote six short stream-of-consciousness type poems as the day went on. The first two were written yesterday, but the second one got rewrote a bit, and then today, others came and went – and the last one was done during a thunderstorm. It was fun to play with tryingContinue reading “For Solstice 2021”
The day I was killedwhile doing my jobwas a normal dayin my American skinthat is to saymy Chinese American skinmy nonwhite skinand a taxpaying skinand a kind oneand a skilled oneand an everyday oneand a valuable one unless your dayin your American skinwhich to sayyour white male skinand an aching oneand a violent oneand aContinue reading “For Xiaojie”
I’m excited and happy to announce that my first poetry collection is now available for order at the Shanti Arts Website. Other places coming soon: http://www.shantiarts.co/uploads/files/mno/MURPHY_STONES.html
There’s something really fun about picking out a cover for a book. When we created “NY Votes for Women: A Suffrage Centennial Anthology” I worked with a creative design friend and we were so proud of the results. I’ve been fortunate again in working with a publisher, Shanti Arts, that is also a promoter ofContinue reading “First Poetry Collection!”
A Poem on Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday in honor of Coretta Scott King, his widow
When I wrote this poem, my mom tucked a copy of it in a Hanukkah card for her friend, Marlene. When she told me, it was a sweet reminder that we never really know how far, or where, our words can reach.
A couple of weeks ago, my brain started trading in small poems again. Much like the ones from the start of the pandemic, they are a mix of daily events, moments and thoughts, bouncing from the horror of our days to the comfort in them. I’ll admit they are a nice distraction.