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Sheila E. Murphy :: Four poems

A New Routine

Resume vivace. Find the cup
To ripen space. Alleviate,
Revive. Untie the stitched
Warped to weakness.
Maybe anybody busy
Hurtling toward the unplanned
Finish line evaporates intact.
Who knows who cares?
Dominoes reputed to effect
Downturn may be rumors
Only skittled in a curve
Not named. Apply your name?
How do you want to be
Recalled, if at all?
For slumber, or no waves,
For thick vast summer sprawl?
All of a sudden destination’s lost to destiny. What lived within a frame has fallen from the hasps perhaps imagined. He introduces a new name, the locus of adventure. Who is she what has she done why does she live? He has a story not yet made. I hear it for the first time if he speaks. An attractive nuisance shapes itself in view. There is nothing more to do but linger and admit the loss. His thought dialing new number after number.
Stretch not to reach, just stretch as though a fated reflex
Now That

Now that I have something
I have something to protect.

This unwoven world may own
moments in common, or may not.

How do we connect when we do not
resemble? How might we derive a lesson

from a lesson not yet learned?
The earning of a heart refashions

something of a brain, an engine particled

into invisible détente allowed in keeping.

As the moment freshens to another moment,
how will we remember what we thought?

And will it matter anymore? Will this point of thinking

translate to another place from which to start?

This Day
pray for
peace of mind
host nation speaks
volumes fluently
to doves
be projected on
our grief shapely
as lust
channels burst
open openly opining
shall we say
in syllables
heatfelt heartland
heartily by process
of elimination past
the point
now leveling
to new lows
give a girl
a break
you pastor
speak some truth
the piano bench
I barely
sitting up
straight (yeah, right)
the way you
wayne let’s
say or Clint
all these figures
of imagination
mind locked
on fossil fuel
“patient denies verigo”
the room
a number
sit and stew
wait for a
clear signal
hand express
frustration or desire
until the general
dies no
will advance
to the next
corresponding avenue of
removed fate
sprawls across
the naked eye
or sight unseen
particulars weigh
those who
admit the real
into their cortex
are we

Sheila E. Murphy is an American text and visual poet who has been writing and publishing actively since 1978. She is the recipient of the Gertrude Stein Award for her book Letters to Unfinished J. Green Integer Press. 2003. Murphy was awarded the Hay(na)ku Poetry Book Prize from Meritage Press (U.S.A.) and xPress(ed) (Finland) in 2017 for her book Reporting Live from You Know Where, scheduled for publication in 2018. She currently lives in Phoenix, Arizona

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Elidio La Torre Lagares :: Six poems

walking in Rome
male cicadas foretell the sun
the distance of rain as we walk
through Rome on the 25th of July:
the history of Empire

i touch the breath of fireinside
my mouth birds peck at
dormant words under my steps

roads lead into alibis for an idea of time
when tutte strada vanno a Roma

lady Cicadas, on the other hand, treasure
silence around the marbled stories
of Villa Burghese

Sophie walks beside me painting
the air longing dreams
the world conforms a canvasher voice
a ripe fruit that floats
on the Roman landscape

from the hills of Villa Medici the city
spreads like the wings of an eagle of light
constantly diffusing emergingsomehow
the impending clearance of dependences
melts with the gradation of memories the precise
clockwork of stages

with loss and life to gain

clouds travel homeless


The Roman Colosseum-
round as a certainty
or the eye of a hurricane-
was once one of the
seventh wonders
of the world. But, little
is known of it compared
to the years it has outlasted
time and earth…

issue four :: March/April 2018