Monday, November 20, 2023


 Three Monobons by Sheila E. Murphy


Tone Tempura


Humpbacked hashtags winter here among the decibels caught up in an ear trumpet just newly cleaned. I stole a moth from the giveaway coat as beige as let-go winter trees. I writhed with smudged wings to be included in a chamber music mainly insects know. Mirroring the sotto glow of bronze bells lifted to another weather. Astride a full-grown tarp draped across a dry dark fence. A kind of limbo marks the close of trail toward and away. Any deviation, a sullen mischief marks the smudge that seeks a quiet shrillness in the cold. 


Mortuary science left to tithe beyond young gravitas







He named himself Divinity to ward off a plethora of sycophants stepping up to court him and win his heart rumored to be vacant. Gusto notwithstanding countless suitors spoke his name in warbled tones resembling voices of an aging choir. Whose chipped-sounding melody perspired a lack of harmony. Such imperative social gatherings held a sitcom quality minus his now forgotten will to laugh. He impolitely bade each intruder adieu, preferring his shades drawn to match the windows he'd sealed shut. The furniture remained clean, plastic covered, and unused. Hermithood felt almost jaunty compared with the infinity of imaginary conversations he would not endure. 


Curmudgeon for rent, inquire within 





Monobon for Eileen


Acreage a ways away from new blue running shoes I’ll walk fast in starting tomorrow when meld fields suck in steps that covet distance from here to otherwhere. Sore foot no more no how for now. Midwestern tree frogs squeal their way to posterity in me that lasts all singsong day. Relay at cost, no loss of spiritu sancto. When out of nowhere the flex index endows the park with ideograms to mimic tactics of didactic fracas impacted and compacted. Just before the call for plighty windmill squall where lamb tame supplication confounds the rules and regs stretched in the direction of square polished pegs destined to reach the ad hoc roundabout wholes.


Anchors away from triptych sprawl of afternoon y’all





Sheila E. Murphy is an American poet who has been writing and publishing actively since 1978. Recently released from Luna Bisonte Prods in 2020 is Golden Milk. Murphy's book titled Reporting Live from You Know Where (2018) won the Hay(na)Ku Poetry Book Prize Competition from Meritage Press (U.S.A.) and xPress(ed) (Finland).  That same year, Broken Sleep Books brought out the book As If To Tempt the Diatonic Marvel from the Ivory. Luna Bisonte Prods published Underscore (2018), featuring a collaborative visual book by K.S. Ernst and Sheila E. Murphy. Murphy is the recipient of the Gertrude Stein Award for her book Letters to Unfinished J. (Green Integer Press, 2003). Murphy is known for working in forms including such as the ghazal, haibun, and pantoum in her individual writing. As an active collaborator, she has worked with Douglas Barbour on an extended poem called Continuations. Murphy’s visual work, both individual and collaborative, is shown in galleries and in private collections. Initially educated in instrumental and vocal music, Murphy is associated with music in poetry. She earns her living as an organizational consultant, professor, and researcher and holds the PhD degree. She has lived in Phoenix, Arizona throughout her adult life. 

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