susurrus of the sea beckoned,
starched, awash in brine,
battered, dizzy at the helm,
wind-whipped, countenance corroded,
sun-dried, hardened at the edges,
decaying, rough-hewn of the Ages,
replenish, inter me where the tide is High
Gossamer
whence they come
mine tender thoughts?
adrift a gossamer breeze
of heaven’s hand,
or, perchance a summer moon?
what pokes and prods
relentless stirs
arouse me turn a loon?
me thinks tis them
come sure of mindless pen
danced of parchment Swoon
Years
Though thirty years I’ve searched,
Seen my optimism battle tested
Yet sustains, a trifle doubted
Where might he be,
What is apt to be his plight?
His life fulfilled and so him gone,
Laid low ‘neath granite slab?
Or yet pursuing Truth
While bonds hold him not yet free?
So if perhaps this one last time
No matter where he may be
Pray he hears our joyful toast
Let us raise our mugs up high
“Happy Birthday Ronnie Murphy
Wherever you may trod or fly.”
Detour
I was advancing in age.
Then whimsy came afflicting.