a poem for a lonely night (with a nod to Miller, Nin and Kerouac who kept her company)

a poem for a lonely night

(with a nod to Miller, Nin and Kerouac who kept her company)

let me take you to a jazz show please

to celebrate that

intricate relationship between

the music and the body

let us marvel at the many ways

that the spine can move

the back can distort that a

fantasy can be interpreted

then after I will confess as we gaze upon a canvas

surrendered under a bloody sheath

that everytime I stand before

it and certain others I fight

the urge to lick

the texture left by the artist’s brush

just above the left corner

do you see it?

in the cab, let me practice my insouciance

I’ll gaze out the window

as we

pull up outside a dark cafe

where we shall drink with heads

bent low and you can tell me a

story about a stranger in a

statue garden

and because you are a friend

I’ll let you

slam me up against

a brick wall

dry hump me

fill me with cognac

and then I’ll send you

on your way

content

at

last and ready

to call it a night.

But the longing for other places keeps her awake

words and image by Lisa Murphy-Lamb

But the longing for other places keeps her awake

Instead

of slipping serenely into the tenderness and refuge

family life offered

she was restless.

His thoughtful goodnight kiss, the

way he brushed

crumbs from each fingertip,

his socks left

each night balled carefully beside the bed-

lost

to the dogged, whispering murmur-

a ceaseless entreaty that robbed her

the pleasure

of bathing each pink toe on the left

foot of her youngest,

long walks each Sunday afternoon and receiving

a cup of tea while balancing what

he earns

and collectively what they spend.

She saw a different life

where crumbs fell freely and kisses

given

were unexpected, public, deep

and often.

Where tea grew native.

This image-this murmuring entreaty,

she worried,

would tire of calling her and

would

fade away

leaving her

only the call of the

tea kettle.

evanesce

evanesce

Rock stack

magnificent

strata of colour.

Fading into the horizon

not all hurtle by it

like I.

Recognizing the disquiet

in the hills,

from abandoned train cars

sculptures toil in the heat, erect

shapes

in harsh contrast to the natural

landscape-

beautiful

wonderous.

New material nestled

in centuries-old dust.

Unfamiliar angles upon

gentle slopes

tug at my senses.

I know each vein is worth lingering

over,

with close examination,

I’ll find

exultation

Yet, despite my

hunger

It seems I should continue on

and ignore

the call from

my loins to

slow down

to touch, taste

experience

the layers of this new land-

the deconstructed,hidden,internal,emotional,magnificance---

Yet

these hills scream out

they will not allow it-

Me

to fade

into the horizon

like a memory.

Words and image by Lisa Murphy-Lamb