The Dancer
The dancer turns elegantly:
her pivot light and feathery,
her eyes as brilliant as a wren’s,
her lithe form swanlike as she spins
in ceremonial artistry.
The dance is life, felicity,
and also deep despondency.
Away from falls, time and again,
__the dancer turns.
The nimble dancer gracefully
moves to the places she should be:
past the stages where dreams end,
to the theaters that love attends
where with airy vitality
__the dancer turns.
Condolences
“Condolences,” the letter read,
yet meant more that could not be said,
for there are no words that suffice,
just as a good life has no price
for valuing the treasured dead.
Death exists without being bred;
Death reaps all others in its stead,
unable to self-sacrifice.
__Condolences.
Though sometimes welcome, Death is dread
met in cradle or hospice bed,
in dry desert or sea of ice,
by hair perfumed or head of lice.
Its nippers snip each mortal thread.
__Condolences.
Hate Is Twisted
Hate is twisted for it seems fair
when focused on a lack of care,
aimed at injury or at pain,
at deadly drought or flooding rain,
or at the pedophile’s vile lair.
Hate must have its place here and there,
in cramped cities and open air,
although we know its awful reign.
__Hate is twisted.
For it is sharp, and it can tear
holes in connections that we share;
so often it’s misused for gain
that we may never quite explain
how hate’s a tool that we must bear.
__Hate is twisted.
David Murphy is a writer and poet educated in America and Sweden and currently residing in Mexico. His website is https://davidlandonmurphy.com/
