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  • murryben 5h

    Will read ya'll later

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    What is Red?

    ~the punctuation in a sentence, that makes you stop and pause for effect~

    ©Meri Murry

  • murryben 1d

    Nary a doubt must your heart murmur
    Whereby the creatures of the sky gather
    to feed on heaven's abundance in the open.
    Come forth my love, Rest easy your frets.
    In light steps must your form find me,
    Resting in sweet surrender inside Earth's
    sweet bower.

    'Tis here Gaia summons the wind,
    On a conch dazzling with rhinestones,
    And the sky in pearly reverence weeps, to
    witness her nameless divine. She walks in
    lithe grace and the hills and mountains
    tremble in adoration while grasses part
    in delight to make way for her gazelle feet.

    What gaiety must the sunflower feel when
    the bees cluster to woo her affection 'neath the amber sun! What delight it is to have the wind
    kiss my flaming cheeks the colour of a cherry!

    Anxious beats my heart, waiting for your footfalls. When your form finds my outstretched arms, I shall bedeck your tresses with stars and kiss away the city's smog from thine eyelashes and poetry shall find us running among golden fields serpentine cities, could never truly understand.

    ©Meri Murry

    @writersnetwork thank you for the lovely repost. Much appreciated ♡


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    A Shepherd Serenades his Lady Love

  • murryben 3d

    October arrived early this morning,
    A superstar in gucci gold robes,
    Whispering sweet promises of
    a full stacked granary before the
    Sun's nightly slumber. My thoughts
    wander towards the empyrean, a
    flamboyant enchantress dressed in
    cobalt blue, she floats and sings the
    bashing Sun a serenade, I think I feel
    the tip of my ears burning. The birds,
    in jubilation, breaks into a chorus of
    hallelujahs, a tune that sets my heart
    racing. It is morning like this Peace
    finds me, beneath the wizened tree in
    sweet repose, when the Earth's a tranquil
    mother, waking to the sound of her children's
    laughter. She smells of damp soil and
    rosemary thyme, a concoction
    my nostrils in acceptance sniffs to.
    And so I sit in awe, tasting the bliss of
    solitude on my tongue's tip while
    the lone leaf the old tree clings to, dreams
    of a spring that was promised to him.

    ©Meri Murry

    #patheticfallacy #wod
    #podben #benecc

    @miraquill you don't know how much this means to me. Thank you for the pod ��

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    An October Morning

  • murryben 4d

    Behind a broken heart waits
    an aging sun, plotting to break
    free from the insipid cloud's
    claw and run on feet that defies
    gravity. But Broken, I tell you,
    is a homeless vagrant, battling
    the sea with a lion's heart even if
    Hope smirks at him perilously
    poised on live crackling wires.

    There's a river flowing inside his
    heart that feels empty because
    Life in it sleeps in a trance to a sad
    lullaby Orpheus played on his lyre.
    He waits for his darling's kisses
    on a spring day, when the purple
    crocuses will bloom and tickle
    awake the sleeping fishes and the
    river in him will again pulsate to his
    lover's touch.

    If my poetry doesn't rhyme,
    would you still care to sway along
    to its emotions?. This is an unrhymed
    poem for broken hearts because battered
    hearts still beat beneath troubled
    waters, Perhaps a little slow,
    but then a rhythm it picks up, when
    you find the right beat to groove to it
    and make it your own.

    ©Meri Murry

    #combination #wod #benecc
    @/writersnetwork Thank you for the repost.

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    Broken Beats

  • murryben 1w

    Talking about writer's block and Bukowski yesterday made me remember this. This is a reworked version of a "poem" I had earlier posted on my "other" account. Some of you may have read it.
    Edit: @writersnetwork it's been long ��
    Thank you for the repost ♥️

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    Why Do I Write?

    There it was on the
    mahogany table. Pieces
    of me scribbled on faded
    yellow paper. He called
    it a poem as he sipped
    his morning coffee.
    I laughed and said it was
    pretty crappy to be called
    a poem. But I was ninety-nine
    times lighter and I breathed
    easier. And the voices I
    befriended in misery, they
    were silent. At least for now.
    Something I hadn't quite felt
    in ages, I thought as I looked
    at the paper, a little less in
    disgust, a little more in
    acceptance this time.

    ©Meri Murry

  • murryben 2w

    273 Days Later

    273 doggone days,
    The cat still licks my pink toes
    and purrs at me.

    273 doggone days,
    The coffee still leaves me gagging,
    Acid reflux's a sore treat for empty
    stomach you should know.

    273 doggone days,
    The October's sun still steals into
    my balcony at eight in the morning
    and I blink.

    Come heaven,
    Come hell,
    Some things just don't change.

    For instance the headline still reads;
    A kid kidnapped at gunpoint last night,
    A politician caught in his mistress's embrace,
    Hollywood and Bollywood sells meat for fame,
    This rumpled pyjama that sticks to my body like summer's slick sweat,
    And oh yes! This newspaper! Yes, this newspaper in black and white dotted ants.

    273 doggone days,
    My finger's been tracking days like tracing beads down the rosary.

    Some things just don't change,
    A rut of a life I'd sooner call a nuisance,
    And through it all I am alive,
    C o u n t i n g
    Just counting.

    ©Meri Murry

  • murryben 4w

    A View to A Dinner

    We suffer our dinner
    in silence; He is the
    abandoned chapel
    her hands didn't quite
    know how to dust the
    tangled gossamers clean.
    We suffer our dinner in
    silence; She is the fragile
    glass his feet didn't quite
    know how to nimbly
    tread on.

    I'd like to keep my home,
    it's sunshiny warmth that
    makes my heart skip a beat,
    but my mother has her one
    foot firmly planted on
    separation's threshold.
    I'd like to keep my home,
    but my father only
    burrows deeper his
    face into his
    plate of food.

    This is a warzone,
    the forks the knives,
    sets aim at smiling portraits,
    hanging limp on tired bare
    walls. And sandwiched
    in between, I feel a tired
    metaphor begs release
    from my bloated

    The truth I know is, in
    between the achings,
    the bruisings my heart
    speaks fluently of, poetry
    breaks loose from
    this pit of agony to
    swim free on the surface of
    plain white paper because, we
    choose to suffer our dinner
    in silence.

    ©Meri Murry

  • murryben 4w

    Twenty-six seasons of wintry
    indifference and Life begins
    feebly at the heart of a titanium

    This must be solitude, I tell
    my wheelchair, as I sip the
    cheery red horizon of a
    fading sundown. This could
    be solitude but misery clings
    on my skin like an old
    dissatisfied lover, fearing

    We take a roll down the hills,
    My wheelchair and I. And I wonder,
    should the sky come crashing and
    bury us six feet under, would I still
    have the clouds to crochet a shroud
    for me to sleep in?

    Twenty-six seasons of grieving
    Autumn's fall and it took Death's
    frosty breath to jarr awake my bones.
    This must be freedom but my legs
    stay suspended mid-air and my
    knuckles pop under the weight
    of my apocalyptic percepience.

    Twenty-six seasons of living in
    blindfold indifference and the
    unadulterated wind sits for the
    first time on the tip of my tongue.
    I crawl, lamefooted towards
    where the damp soil beckons,
    and feel, for the first time, life
    gurgling inside my bulging veins.

    ©Meri Murry


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  • murryben 4w

    So, this is personal but being sick for almost two months nearly made me go bald and I had to get a hair cut. It left me sentimental.
    @writersnetwork thank you for the repost and the ec. Ben adores you ♥️

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    ~Haircuts and Heart Cuts~

    Thus begins this ritual,
    This act of cleansing:

    A woman knows her
    hair well but when the
    maggots starts to nibble,
    her home loses its warmth.
    And so mutters the scissor,
    a wizened old woman,
    'what isn't strong mustn't live'-
    shots of truth served neat and
    the maggots in my cerebrum
    squirm when the snip snip drills
    into my skull and burst that big
    black cloud of watery sickness.

    The scissor,
    she does the talking and the
    ants in my heart scurry up
    and down in panic and leaves
    a gaping hole. A woman knows
    her hair well but when she has
    been kissed by Death's icy blue
    lips, she chooses to cut it all;
    the blight that tears her home
    asunder.Something there is,
    in the act of cutting my hair,
    that makes my soul mourn and
    the mirror only looks at me in
    feigned pity.

    Something there is about it
    that talks of a bloody massacre
    and so tonight, poetry is a woman
    in cropped hair slow dancing to
    misery in a trance and she
    summons April's gale to Autumn's
    door rather unceremoniously.

    ©Meri Murry

  • murryben 5w

    Once when I was young,
    I chased amber sunsets in
    my rainbow bicycle along
    the green hills I called home.
    Oh! But the ding dong of
    my bike's sing song made
    Old Yueri chuckle boyishly.

    Once when I was young,
    I'd fashion hairdos out of
    mama's precious muslin
    scarves and wear her
    black stilettos to wobble
    around the kitchen, much
    to Papa's delight and
    mama's exasperated

    Once when I was young,
    the marigolds and the
    hyacinths in our backyard
    stood taller than me and I'd
    stare and stare in green envy
    till (I fancy) I morphed
    into them and grew
    flowers out my
    bedazzled orbs.

    Once when I was young,
    I raced in glee to the mountain's
    call. Perched atop his shoulder,
    I cupped my hands and yodelled
    aloud my love and pranced in mirth
    to hear the birds the animals
    echo back their love to me.

    And now I've outgrown the
    flowers. The mountains, I
    love, grow houses out of them.
    But should I meet a fairy who'd
    humour me, I'd like to go back to
    chasing butterflies barefoot under
    the golden autumn sun
    every dreamy eve.

    ©Meri Murry
    9th Sept. 2021

    P.s: I took "Once when I was young" very literally ��
    #once #wod
    Thank you for the Ec ��

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    Once When I Was Young