David Chorlton’s “Still Life with a View”

Birds watch the red rock mountain and a tall, still

palm feathers the sky. A hawk to the left belongs 

to the larger painting with a pear, a stone as in nectarine, 

a pitcher with reflective gleam, branches, and a smaller, 

rounded bird. There is a serenity here, a curtain 

to the right. At night, does this still life sleep? 

And are their dreams the same as mine that mine 

the urgencies in self-splintered pieces not at peace? 

Do they collect themselves in one gentle full-fledged day, 

each fiber performing what it does? Here I see cerulean sky 

might light the eyes. The will to hold still and breathe 

from middle distance, a spirit on the lam hiding 

hope for mid-day light and a little privacy.

Sonnet for Monsoon

Not a world to anyone please instead
Stay unblinkingly astonished here
Choose close listening don’t step listlessly away
Remember your home once unremarkable
Has left me repeatedly the natural
Unspoken haven evening out
The viola clef in the course of fife drummed in
Let’s share a table and table work
Those close-by people are so much work
Tempting me to adulterate your life history
Despite your refusing to wear
Your hair in that faucet I recommend
You take my course become shocked open
To the not yet watched framed world 

Jazz Fingerings 

15/

Bass is reliable; wind blossoms land. One supper at a time, piano keys crawl

toward a not-yet destination. Something unnamed is golden to the touch

conferred like clothing on the line in a late summer partial breeze. The tone

once wished comes gently true. Hands limber toward clock time, then turn

away. Some cleanse seams a placid otherwise. One fraction at a time,

the thought of light erupts but inside quiet named nothing except froth, 

a moth of mood until steep enclosure wrinkles what looked smooth.

A supple colorless blush leans toward an unexpected window brimming

with light brought in with the spirit. Is spirit legible? One chooses shades

of midnight to lie down upon. The texture steals the sound, then dreams 

replace the mis-remembered daylight with wrist movements and sheepish

dream. How many consecutives can fit inside the case of the instrument

that parlays ounces of escape within the warm tones? The missing armature

is found beyond a rinse of mild caffeine, of other liquids once unsealed.

And melody holds still amid the gem of color almost heard between

the interstices of a jewel to be considered warm compared to glistening

keyboard’s in-charge motion in the moment fresh cards are played

and fill the tiny room that might become a yard in mind as open 

as imagined fullness. Quick with change and quiet then. As optimistic

motion lotions its way into what’s possible while only smiles are held

within the smoke around the silver of the playthings that instruments remain.

Monody for Monday

I sleep through my carb-fed shimmering REM dream 

where nothing and everything insidious lets go. A wreck 

of metal belonging to someone else whose name has left 

its mark minus the syllables. I sing in my sleep less than I laugh 

at something that wakes me. And if you must know 

the daylights out of this, my vocabulary makes fun of me 

and my popping joints that feel fluent (sic) enough to me. 

Ready or not, I love a good road trip as much as anybody. Two lanes 

won’t quite do, but I’ll take them so long as they’re pointed north. 

I used to gather arrowheads and tuck them inside something soft. 

Wildflowers showered me with myself. Anymore, I don’t bother 

glaring at the scenery. I’m a window facing the aisle through which 

you can only perspire perhaps unknowingly on nature 

sprinkling ablutions where least expectorated. 

Sheila E. Murphy. A Pushcart-nominated poet, recent appearances include Gargoyle, Poetry Bay, Poetry, Lana Turner, Poetose, Volta, and others. Most recent book publications are I Want to Be Your Radio (Unlikely Books, 2025), Escritoire (Lavender Ink, 2025), and Permission to Relax (BlazeVOX Books, 2023). Recently performed at the New Orleans Poetry Festival. Won the Gertrude Stein Poetry Award for Letters to Unfinished J. (Green Integer Press, 2003) and the Hay(ha)ku Book Prize for Reporting Live From You Know Where (Meritage Press, 2018). She lives in Phoenix, Arizona.

Her Wikipedia page can be found at: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sheila_Murphy_(poet)