Posts Tagged ‘Life’


Posted: October 23, 2016 in Uncategorized
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I found a crimson dawn
A wake of an unusual ambience of glistening airs
It came iodinic, but gave an impression before it disappeared
It did gave a seed of royal gaze, Elise
Of Pulchritude, of Nous. Her breathes are sentinels
So, that she captured my thoughts, completely
Elise, your advent is not momentous. Time brought you to stay.

For this time alone, this whole season, I cherish
Elise, time borne you, when my bloods would dry
That your breathes would resurrect their fading shades
That your palms would fix the cracked skins
That your sight would heal the drowning countenance
That your whispers would save the dying heart
That the bloods wake again, to smell the spice of comfort
Thence, from within, resurrect like a multicolored Phoenix
This love that I have seen, yours, has melt my thoughts.

If love shall be fair, then my heart has found rest
For seasons have betrayed my past fantasies
Chances have mocked my wishes and interest
The weathers, from afar jested my heart with simpers
Now that you are here, I smell time and love reward

Elise, love is no time’s fool, it reigns
Its colour is not chameleonic; it speak constancy
I will love you as brightness, to the sun
I will do, as the whale, to the blue sea
Elise, not time nor chance, will intrude the love.

Murphy Simon, 2016.


Photo Credit: Free Internet Search

The sun would soon be tired
When her fabrics bleach ecru
The fading feather fabrics of her fainted follicles
She would be weary, when the rain comes
To bath her with mockery dews of insipidity springs
Lumps of her throat wouldn’t dissolve, not one
Chance, may comfort her dying desire and hope
Tell her I shall join her, on the staunch faith seat
Waiting for the one, that never comes

The Archer spoke to me of blossom-ness
His surplice white was celestial, of high regards and sacredness
My shadow yet would not go, no, after the twilight play
The Archer was malignant, his black blood spoke it
Tell him, his stabs on my Shadow hurts but yet bearable
Of him, of his Machiavellian hues, I remain stoic
On this post I yet remain, building my brows of grey and yellow
Waiting for the one, that never comes

They say, patience is a virtue that doesn’t fail
When my nostrils smelt its different shades, they scared me
Its shade are ambivalent, seeking which to build on
Brimstone would rain tomorrow when the sun sleep
And royalty would be jested when the purples slumber
If time would yet spare us, we shall yet be staunch
Waiting for the one, that never comes

So I will sit, and be sober, and merry and be pensive
The fogs and the snows of the North, I shall consult
They will please my heart and they, me will melt
The one that never comes would come, serendipity
And the Sun, and the Archer,and Me shall be patient
More, perhaps Patience would smile of it fairest countenance
Yet, building optimism, waiting for the one that never comes

© -2016- AdamsMurphy®


Picture: Found Randomly

I told the dreams,
I won’t come visiting again
My eyes are weary of their ambivalence
That me, of utopian pleasures waste
And Fears, divorce my shying skins
My mental flies, on Phoenix wingspread
But a step away, when time dismisses our sights
The northern wind blows my fantasies
It does, that the frozen south scare them to wither
Dear dream, let time solve the faults
Those, that have bewildered our stars.

I told the Stars,
My skepticism has gone astray
Beauties of their twinkles birth their paranoia
I will tell the airs to aid the growing dread
Then me, and doubt, would be of enmity road tread
But I shall soon love my skepticism again
When the moon comes, risen from its seething castle
The Star tales shall mock its shaming feathers of lightening
The moon will come, and me, and him, will form the future

I told the moon,
A little while, the grasses would be green and lively
When the green comes, and then the night, they would fight
The frailness of the moonlight, then the mockery; would glow
But I, would betray him; I would get swayed away with it
Then the stars would come, then the dreams, to jest and simper
Dear moon, we shall be ashamed. 

I told the sun
Hers is Arrogance but I, will disdain her
The threads of her rays, and the beams, yes
When the airs agree to my connivance, and waters
Soon, then she shall know my prejudice is benign
That her wings, shall detests her glowing hues
And the Moon, and the Stars, and yet the humbled Sun
We shall wake to Reality, together, sober stupor.

I told the Waters
Soon I shall smile, but only for maggots’ pleasure
It shall be borne of my decaying brittle bones
But before then, my foviers are untidy and my brows, heavy
They should purge them, that their hues be civilized again
That me, and them shall of accord be for mirth and pleasures
Hairs of my Hyde are weary of unending journeys
Now that their streams are cleanse, and their sources, thoughtful
I, shall be stupor of them
So i, before my memories speak of me, shall yet glow, like my peers
And me, and the sidereal dine in shining fame

We shall all taste of truthfulness and deceit would divorce us
So when our eyes, and paths, and tendencies are tutored
We shall, tend, where the existence keeps our fortune.

© – 2015 – AdamsMurphy®

The Sons Of Cyclone…

Posted: January 29, 2015 in Poetry
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Do you hear their silent whispers?
Their heartbeats are convulsive
Do you feel their jittery minds?
Upon the roaring podiums they breathe
The lands disdain their footing
The airs have spelled them of pleasure
The waters gladden of their dire thirst
Faded beauties of their hoping fortitude
Weary yellows of their supposed sun
Their stars shy to twinkle
Their moon fears to brighten
Their trusts swallowed by dread
The ember of their roses is faded
The radiance of their diamond; dull
The fertility of their nature now shames
No crimson to merry for droll
The graveyards garrulity yet gives no solace
They are the children of the nonchalant fathers
They were brewed from the careless mothers

Their bloods; the land soil’s ecru
Their dreams; the moon exhausted.

© – 2015 – AdamsMurphy®

My Sojourn, On this Land..

Posted: January 23, 2015 in Poetry
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Upon nine mountains I tread to reign in this kingdom
Among several seeds dispersed on a journey to rule
Racing on the anthills to wrestle for a value
There I succeeded, thrusting others with my hard thumb
For I am Akanda; the mysterious sojourner
That welcomes himself with some cries of lateness anger
Precipitated by the damsels of the mountain
On whose all lips I dearly found lullaby’s fountain.

Nine rivers I did cross; with me, swimming all alone
There, comfort pleased my feet; for sweet and sour they did taste
So my flesh pleaded; that in time, there shall be some waste
For on its brow were some sweet pleasure found there got done
But oft I chided it with biting satires I found
Thus refrained her from the vain urge that on its lips sound
The ninth mount; the ease of all, but its rivers hindered
It was quick to curb its tides when my valiant angered.

I, Akanda; my royalty shall rule this kingdom
Fate had spoken it; on the far ninth mountain I heard
The words then came hostaged when my intrepid ears heard
Caress not my head; my hairs have malign momentum
When they pierce, their anger suck bloods; for them it pleases
The bloodshed herald their strong stride to assert their wishes
The cries of my lateness anger are my conquest song
I shall rule this kingdom; I shall rule for years so long.


© – 2015 – AdamsMurphy®


Posted: January 15, 2015 in Poetry
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In my “IT” days
When I was on the “HE” road
When my Tabula Rasa was a Saint
Still whole and not defiled
Of it innocence with vanity

In my “IT” days
Hands stayed where they are meant
Legs were never hasty to tread
The eyes were of eagles borrowed
Pure and clear; never intruding

In my “IT” days
Dreams were yet blessed
And memories were still unborn
Peace was still a young naïve
Of glowing smiles that gladdens the ambience

Not until I tread my “HE” grasses
Then, my eyes; the unseen sees
The Tabular Rasa; of jargons filled
Courtesy of the orchard’s nurture
Now, my adaptive nature, succumbs.

© – 2015 – AdamsMurphy®


Posted: November 14, 2014 in Poetry
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Hand of life

Seems like the more I think
The more ambiguous things become
Seems like the more I search
The more things and words get elusive
Seems like the more I go
The farther the journey gets
Seems like the more I build
The more things get undone
Seems like the more wealth I gather
The needier I become
Seems like the clearer I see
The blurrier all becomes

Seems like the more people I trust
The more betrayal I experience
Seems like the more I try to love
The more I get hated by people
Seems like the more I eat
The more hunger finds a place in me
Seems like the more the rain falls
The thirstier the lands seem
Seems like the more I quest for truth
The more lies sing of victory
Seems like the more I feel I have won
The more failure’s hue become brighter
Seems like the more the Sun shines
The more darkness darkens
Nothing ever come so real as they seems
Life is so contradictory and vague
Today never defines tomorrow!

©2014 ~ AdamsMurphy®


Posted: October 28, 2014 in Poetry
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A final tribute

Seven lives you had
Over some woven tethered
Of ancient  mended clothings
They were your left fingers rings
On your brows they hide there feet
Your lips harboured their white stars
Glowing fine on your soft sleeves
Kimola, your life was seven.

Your heart did whispered to me
It jittery voice bruised my mild
Mild, my mental of royal scheme
But the songs seemed of Nightingale’s borrowed
Albeit my mild still bleeds of the bruises
Now that your steps have missed the ground
And you are gone, gone to pity my adversaries
Kimola, shall you still come?

I asked of you at the backyard
Bloodshed were my clock’s time
Tears were my Cheek’s golden polish
Backyard brothers grayed my page with your dirge
Then, your mem’ries whipped my conscience to weep
But the tears still were my comfort
Yea, on a pedestal of selfish blues
Kimola! Shall I again behold you?

I knew your first life
It was made of finely brewed jealousy
Writhe in hierarchical chauvinism
Its tyranny humbled soon the second
The breathes from the thirds’ nostrils got aglow
Its flames choked them when others were yet born
Even when others came, they dare not speak
Their heart was a resident of their lips.

Did the callous sixth eventually fight?
Fight to save the fourth from thirds’ cruelty?
Your seventh, immature, weary to strive
And yet inflicted the innocent fifth
Kimola! How soon your waters ran off!
Seven congenial lives, of mysteries
But the lives were arrogant to live
For their stay with you came so malignant.

Unending joy seemed, the ground’s countenance
Your mouth-maggots scheming, Ground acquainted
Albeit of sweetness your response once tend
The hue of your Hyde shy to glory
Perhaps it’s saddened courtesy of your rest
Not your rest, but your seeming cowardice
Your extinct dreams that roared, though covert
Kimola, I yet glimpse bright your spirit!

I knew not if gloating your heart desires
But my euphoric bloods has journeyed South
The ice have fainted their arrogant hues
Fosterage harangues to ameliorate
Too weak my sun seems; Sorrow stupors me
My quest hope to banish this thoughts of you
Till my heart find rest where your abode sites.


©2014 ~ AdamsMurphy®

A Man of Honour

Posted: October 3, 2014 in Poetry
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I saw a man of honour
On whose lips sweet deceit reigns
As does the kings on their throne
Veiling faces with pure lies

When his mendacious lips cries
For intelligence arousal
Feigned orgasm does arise
Brain flexibility shamed

From limited knowledge he tries
To fool children unsuspecting
In his effort not relenting
And yet they sit, while time flies

Maybe we stand to see far
Beyond what we are being told
Perhaps some deep knowledge quest
Would save from shackles of tongues


Ironies Of Life (part 1)

Posted: February 21, 2014 in Poetry
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Men standing on the watchtower
Searching around for where dreams die
There sorrowful eyes, held so sling
With some weird unknown magicals
Up their loose nonchalant mentals.

Where were pains nurtured, or yet, born?
Arrogance on their mind modules
Soar high like though valiant eagles
Fearless and courageous in air
With their sharpened teeth, they inflict.

Where is it, that colourful dreams
Bright revealing and beautiful
Dies, without resuscitating?
Perhaps some Gods are just angry
With fantasies and brilliant hopes.

Would cries for once bury their head
Down the north to freeze their fountains?
Or perhaps, Sahara, to dry.
For our stupor eyes are heavy
And tired of all time pouring.

Depression still getting Happy
Of her sarcasm fiesta
Not happiness, but rather, jest.
And mockery of our weak ambush
The watchmen watching with tension.

Today, i start a series of “Ironies Of Life”. It shall be a weekly publication right here till I finish the series. I would really enjoy you guys to join in to explore together. Thanks for checking by.

~ Copyright © ~ Adamsmurphy® ~ 2014 ~