Before I get to the Shadorma poem, here's the Free verse rant that wouldn't leave me alone this morning:
WORKING THROUGH THINGS
I have a prince
In shiny tin foil armor
Of whom I expect
So much.
He works every day
At his quantifiable job
Designing
Fixing
Programming
Solving problems
Which allow people
To be comfortable
And to make sense of
Their days.
"Have fun slaying dragons!"
I say as he goes out the door.
Then I go
Back to bed.
When I re-awaken
I do things.
Write
Concoct
Imagine
My flights of fancy
Are less tangible
Until finally the books
Lie in boxes
On the living room floor.
Until I sell them,
My work effects
No one.
Nebulous
Unquantifiable
Perhaps mildly pleasing
If I'm lucky.
Maybe that's why
My knight cannot
Rejoice
When, at last,
The evidence of my work
Presents itself.
He cannot grasp
What pains, what striving
Brought forth
My work
Into the light of day.
To him, it's fluff
Blowing in the wind--
A mere breeze
Here now,
But soon gone,
Merely something
Which keeps his wife
A kept woman.
To him, it's all bonbons
And daytime dramas,
Pap for the masses
Which keeps his
Dinner from coming
To fruition
Unless it's burnt or late.
In reverse,
He comes home
Dragon blood everywhere,
Tired from castle-storming
To find little done.
The difference rankles
"What has she done all day?"
He asks himself
As he washes off the
Dust of a thousand
Passages and crawl spaces.
"She wants to be
Congratulated
For the little she managed
To accomplish in eight hours?"
And with a sigh
He folds himself
Into his desk chair
To find relaxation
And await the
Burnt offering.
Not knowing
How much I need him
To look me in the eye
And acknowledge
That I am
Just as dusty
In other ways.
©2021 by H. Linn Murphy
So today it's a Shadorma poem. "A what, now?" you ask with your head tilted to the side. Let Stephanie tell you here. Otherwise it's on to the offering:
Round black disc
One long spiral groove
Hides magic
In music
Needs only a small needle
To call back childhood
©2021 by H. Linn Murphy
