Abstracted State

As ever writing with my friend Christopher is a joy and pleasure

The Brown Bag Special

Though I stand erect
with seeming ease
for all to see
weights lay heavy on
my buckling shoulders,
and my bruised mind,

for eye to eye
we may converse,
but my focus strays
past the lines
on this empty page,

and the semblance
of any hope
is but a mirage
dancing turbulently
on the horizon
hidden within my
cobwebbed perceptions.

No grasp or effort
in reaching stability
succeeds to quell
this protracted vertigo –
this unyielding spin…

© Murrsma and Christopher Rupley 2015

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Reciprocal Cheval Glass

Working with Christopher is always a pleasure, I hope you all enjoy our collaborative piece…

The Brown Bag Special

To know joy,
to understand what
it means to feel sublime
means to know what
horror is,

To know what pain
can do to a person,
to a psyche,
is to understand the
inextricable link
between pain and peace

The depth and measure
are never left to choice
when a heart has pulsed with hope,
for it is far better to be pained
if daunting indifference
is the sorry alternative,

A heart ignorant of feeling
cannot be broken,
but is as still as stone,
never knowing the joys
of what pain can bring.

So pierce me then,
for comfort will be mine
within each tear
and carmine drop,
as I have felt
with all of me,

Because the house
in which pain lives
has a mirror,
and in that looking glass
pain takes off the mask
and shows others
what it wishes they
could so easily see,

That behind the scars,
and bloodied…

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Aberrant Inquest

This piece was a collaboration between Phen Weston and myself…a wonderful poetic dance experience..

"You must suffer me to go my own dark way"

By Murrsma and Phen Weston


Lose capacity to brittle verse,
Wrapped inverse to longer epochs.
We strive adverse for a grander grasp,
Rambling thoughts amid dusk’s grip.
Sling shot lover fills their days
With crumbling ideology and cause,
Waiting with obverse obsession
For more than lithe kingdoms
To traverse in passions sight.

Inauspicious timing of minds complexity
Feelings tangled in their subversive aim
All for wantings revised
We wade in need of purpose
Fractured reflections of Eons imagined
A tidy melange of possibilities sought
Kindle our aspirations keen hunger

And were the romantics far from favour?
To trek along the tracks of transformation,
Between the capricious shadows held
With ancient deities and golden calf.
I reached you in yearning and division,
Six feet underground I baptised your name.
Emerging from the mire to your learning,
Received in tenderness and underscore.

A willing Levi I lay expectant
High upon your inconsistent…

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You’re okay, I’m okay

Ceaseless Evolution

Who caused you so much pain that you started to hate yourself? Who made you believe that you are worthless?

I’ve lived my life with a little child sitting on my shoulder staring at me wide-eyed. Every rejection she asks “Why am I not good enough?” “Why don’t they like me?” “What did I do wrong?”. It breaks my heart. Because that little child is me. It’s the child that was rejected by her sister, not understanding why she wasn’t loved. It’s the little girl who never knew her oldest brother and didn’t understand why he didn’t want to know her. It’s the young girl who was always the third wheel, not understanding why they didn’t want to be her friend. It’s the young women who is always the second option to men and doesn’t understand why she isn’t good enough for them.

It’s easy to pretend that it doesn’t…

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My Muse…

imageIn Thanks and Honor to my muse…my grandmother who passed away long before my birth…of her many published poems this has always been my favorite… Published in 1932 when Lindbergh’s baby boy first went missing….

 Prayer for Lost Baby

Dear White Savior when it’s night

And winter’s stars blink coldly bright

And in the day while he’s away

Guard Lindy’s little one we pray

On those who stole him as he slept

Let thy strong fingers firm be kept

That Thou might halt them ere they make

A baby suffer for money’s sake

White Spirit of Jesus with thy might

Loan those that search all seeing sight

So Lindy Junior soon may be

Home in his own little nursery

Shepherd of Children let thy light

Shine down on the lost little one tonight….

Manic Propaganda

The Brown Bag Special

Images unseen

tempt my covetous mind,

frail cracked lines thwart

the delicate facade of marionettes,

the thin veil shadowing

what’s beyond,

I try to see inside,

reading between the

enigmatic lines

of life,

seeing past my own gaunt face

and into the eyes of those

souls surrounding me,

those beleaguered spirits who

try to mold me into sarcastic

replicas of themselves,

Fool that I may be,

flawed by perceptions of

illusions painted on a canvas

never meant for me,

though comprehension eludes

the weary pondering of

ghostly minds,

I still crave discernment

Threads scatter,

frayed truths once touched

tend to hold crumbled

dust caught in winds,

yet it lingers as a still

faint residue

And my mind scatters,

torn between the blank

sheets of canvas –

tabula rasa –

and those brimming,

eradicated minds which

entice us to such gratuitous

dimness

© Christopher Rupley and TheCrackedCrone 2015

(This is a…

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