Anonymous said...
such a sad story but true could u make a polm for the town please
azza
https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7899299685333724371&postID=8786381231768270743
If I were to draw a map of my Murphy’s
In the old days
I would be kissed here.
And there - high on the hill.
My poetry would follow the terrain of the land,
Each sonnet a hill,
Each song - a contour.
A bath of red rose petals is drawn,
further along the road, to the left.
It seemed nice - but it wasn’t.
Cups of tea and conversations lay to the lower place,
Across the dusty paddocks of thistle and cactus,
Taking bags of carrots - for the horse.
On my Murphy’s map, is a tree.
A huge gum, shading the water
As it glides - beneath.
My old cat is buried there,
Wrapped in a green shirt,
He dreams - of mice.
On my landscape is the road I rolled my car.
Driving backwards to the tune of Oh! My! God!
It was never going to end well.
And yet - it did.
My world of Murphy’s contains the valleys and the crests,
A meandering effort tracing across the page
Where everything seemed so important
And yet - it wasn’t.
Today’s map would be different, drawn in a shaking hand
Containing rips and scars,
Lumps of land would be missing,
Chunks of lives would be smashed and splintered
Against - the edge of the page.
If I were to redraw the Murphy’s map today
I would hesitate to put pen to paper.
I would scribble in purple, a healing softness.
A purple map of love - and hope.
But I’m not a map maker or a person that can
Hold a pen with such precision
As to redress the past.
I can only guide a hand towards the future
Whatever that will be.
We are all architects
Of our own - life.
~~
...and so I did.
~~~
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