Poems by James J Murray

The woods are shook this time of year
Quiet too as you can hear
And covered in a carpet white
All living things seem out of sight
The little brook that babbled cheer
Has slowed to but a weeping tear
Beset upon and choked in ice
Is stilled beneath a winter vise

Yet little signs of life appear
To signal winter's end is near
As crocus peep their little heads
Out from their whited forest beds
In colors pink and colors blue
They signal spring is coming due
Too soon be spread out far and wide
By dint of winter's waning tide

Oblige me ye O little sprites,
          Why is it so you fret?

I saw you flit your little wings,
           In startle at my sight

Afar a voice! I heard you sing,
            Your elfin songs that drew me

While morning mist upon your wings,
            Leave rainbows as you flee

Your lucent light has dawn aglow,
             As long the eddy rocks you go

Those limpid eyes so shiny bright,
             Awake my heart with gladness

So fret not all ye little ones,
              I'm only passing through

You've given to the morning mist,
               A wondrous golden hue.

I'll capture the wind and barter a peace, upon a most certain conditioned release
Then summon the gods to ask Mother Nature, O why her rogue son is lacking her nurture?
They'll tell her most stern as matter of fact, her wanton neglect had forced me to act
Her anarchic heir and friends that he keeps, make oceans a tempest while willow trees weep
He takes them along as ever he blows, those cold driven rains and wintery snows
That cling his every breath like an oyster, that teether on beds while peeping through water
With lackeys in tow and hail to bring sheer, unflinching and stoic in their daily drear
The wrath he has flung on city and village, then left it to ruin in sunder and pillage
He cannot see reason nor will he be told, implored by the many so young and the old
So deep in my cellar well hidden below, tis there he will sit with lackeys in tow
Until I get answers that put me at ease, she won't get a bluster not even a breeze.

Who else but Clover Boo
Could make her daddy swoon and woo
     And get him in the kitchen too
Where all her treats lie there in view
    She'll stroke and poke with claw and paw
Until she gets the one she'll gnaw
    Then snatch and grab and turn her arse
And then repeat this daily farce.

Shaped and baked near whipping post, Father, Son and Holy Ghost
                Lords creation at first glance, now becomes a heinous stance
Without method style or grace, prearrangement takes its place
                 Love, hate, joy and pain now conspire an epic feign
Guilt and loathing to atone, gild the walls and precious stone
                  Paltry pence in fusion grow, to the pompous they bestow
Hollow empty vacuous gesture, cloaked in stark and splendid vesture
                  My conceit has placed me well, fear of nothingness or hell.