Counting on you…

I’d rather count the days of the very best
Than the later days of struggle and unrest.
I’d rather count the times when I was helped and guided
Than the days when life slowly subsided.
I’d rather count the days when you arranged it all
Than the days since the sun began to fall.
I’d rather count the good days with family and friends
Than the days that to all of us God sends.
I’d rather count the stars in the sky above
Than try to gauge the bounds of a mother’s love.
I’d rather count your many smiles
Than focus on your later trials.
I’d rather count the days of strong support
Than the days of failing memory and thought.
I’d rather count your many strengths
Than count possessions width, breath and length.
I’d rather count the sparkling drops of love
Than those few strikes of lightning from above.

​

All of us feel sharp the pain.
All of us don’t feel quite the same.
But all of us know it’s true,
That here or not, we can count on you… 
©Keith Murphy

Fifty

Hours and days and weeks and years,
How they play upon our fears.
Simple divisions of complex time
Have led me to this silly rhyme.

​

1.578 billion seconds is not so very long,
1.578 billion seconds deserves a birthday song.
1.578 billion seconds is a landmark to astound,
Be brave, be bold, your friends are all around!

​

So here it is to billions more, 
Of seconds left in God’s good store.
Use them well, use them true,
Here's Birthday greetings just for you.
©Keith Murphy

​

A Change for Christmas

 
Doubles or triples and certainly minor,
Make mine surprise or delight. 
Royally, delightfully splicing the chimes,
Backstokes appropriately tight.
Christmas belfries, happy hunting, pleasures bobbing, 
Merry Christmas, everyone.

​

Stay hits the slider and almost the stop,
Conductor keeping us right.
Dodges a pleasure, an alliance of fun,
The Tenor is going to strike.
Christmas belfries, happy hunting, pleasures bobbing, 
Merry Christmas, everyone.

​

“Unringable” threes or glorious twelves,
Choose which chamber you like.
Christmas catering, can’t stand much around,
Be sure to switch off the light.
Christmas belfries, happy hunting, pleasures bobbing, 
Merry Christmas, everyone.
©Keith Murphy

​

A  Commuter's Love-Song
(With my sincere apologies to John Betjeman)

​

The M25, the M 25,
Loath'd and travelled by all that's alive,
With tailbacks and switchbacks, I just want to be free,
Alone in your fast lane - you against me!

​

Eight -thirty, eight forty oh! I just might be late,
The speed of a tortoise, it must be my fate,
With scarcely a ticking, time just does a jive,
I can't speak of your dreadfulness,  M25.

​

The M25, the M25,
How mad I am, sad I am, pray just to drive,
The route that I have is a route to depress,
And my options of travel, well they just get less.

​

Your madness astounds me, it's faster to walk,
As I drive past the Lakeside, all Essex and talk,
So cool is the van driver letting us in,
To the gap in the traffic 'twixt the lorry and him.

​

The scent of the kerosene, sound of the planes,
The view from my dashboard of Heathrow and trains,
As I try to turn off, I find I can't fly,
For we dance stuck to tarmac, my engine and I.

​

On the floor of your bedrock lie gravel and stones,
And the fast moving kids clutch their new mobile phones,
And westering, questioning the sun it does dive,
Off your high level gantries, my M25. 

​

Police cars are rushing, blue lights are ahead,
The vision of timeliness, painfully dead,
My sweet, I am stuck in this 3 mile long queue, 
And there on the shoulder, a concerto in blue.

​

By roads "not adopted" I truly desire,
To drive to my work and return to my fire,
Into rivers of steel instead I do run,
And mushrooming suburbs that don't see the sun.

​

The M25, the M25,
I can see from my car seat the dance to survive,
The full Surrey sections, my radio told, 
It's now strongly advised to get off the road.

​

Around us are Rovers and cars of all type, 
Above us flying eyes of radio hype,
And here on my right is the car in my dream,
In a space that is moving whilst I sit and scream.

​

And the scent of the road, and the signs never seen,
And the ominous, ominous walking man dream,
I sit in my car not to arrive,
And now I'm engaged to the M25.
©Keith Murphy

​

Albert the Bellringer

(With my sincere apologies to Marriott Edgar)

​

Albert were a tinsmith, a man of many talents.
He grew up hard in Northern climes,
With holidays to Blackpool’s famous seaside place,
Full of chips and ice cream chimes.

As a grand little lad he went to Zoo
With doting Mum and Dad.
He’d met a Lion, but then slipped up, 
All around said it were bad.

A lion had swallowed young Albert.
He never got digested.
The Lion he coughed and up Albert came.
Eh.. his Mum she were disgusted.

‘Post-traumatic’ the doctor said,
Better find him job inside.
So Albert went to steelworks,
A wage it did provide.

Now Albert had a lifelong mate,
Johnny were his name.
Now Johnny liked to pull a rope,
And bellringing were his game.

​

He rang at towers both near and far,
Of Bristol Max he had no fear.
Conducted quarter peals for all his mates,
And topped off evening wi’ favourite beer.

​

Now ringing band were facing crisis.
Of ringers short were they.
So Johnny spoke to Albert,
To see what he would say.

Well Albert was not decisive like,
He ummed and ahhed at first.
But Johnny pressed him long an’ hard
Till Albert finally burst.

​

Albert never was half hearted.
No challenge made him cower.
He asked Johnny for several weeks
To prepare for first trip to tower.

​

Now Johnny thought this somewhat strange,
But faith he had in mate.
So between the both of them,
They set the fateful date.

​

Albert saved some strips of copper,
Unwanted tin and the like,
From jobs around steelworks,
From what was thrown off site.

A bell of his own was what he wanted.
And not afraid of honest toil,
He chucked his metal in works furnace,
And bought it quick to boil.

​

Kiddie’s sandpit was pressed to use.
His mould used looked up data.
Albert poured in metal gloup,
And his Bell emerged few days later.

​

A washing line and bicycle wheel
Finished off his major project.
He set it up in soundproofed shed,
So no neighbour could object.

​

What to ring was quite a thought, 
So a ringing simulator was wired.
He worked his way, all diligent like
To Bristol Max, eh... he was inspired.  

​

Well the fateful day it did arrive,
And Albert to Tower he went.
Johnny was pleased to see him.
Rest of band, keen to impress, rang Kent.

​

Johnny took him up to hanging rope
And said “grab hold tight on end son”.
He put Albert through backstroke,
Who was not impressed with lesson one.

​

Albert stood square up to Johnny like
And had his little say,
That he’d like to cut preliminaries,
And go to method ringing straight away.

​

The band and Johnny were quite astounded.
From a learner this was quite a feat.
For most of band had only just,
Got beyond ringing that tenor beat.

​

“Well what can you ring?” asked Johnny boy. 
Albert glibly replied with smirk on face,
“Well, Bristol Max if you’ve got the band,
But mind it’s at right pace!”

​

Well, the band collapsed in fits of giggles,
Even Johnny looked fit to burst.
“Before we do that Albert lad,
I flick simulator on first”.

​

Two others said they’d join the band,
Whilst Albert chose his favoured bell.
Jonny and two others grabbed hold,
Convinced it would not go well.

​

They struck their way through method,
Eight electronic ringers unseen.
Every strike was perfect.
Albert’s handling was clean as clean.

​

Johnny was looking quite amazed.
‘How did you do it son?’
Albert replied all confidential like, 
‘Well after surviving that there ruddy Lion, anything’s easily done!’
©Keith Murphy

​

Albert’s Trombone

(With my sincere apologies to Marriott Edgar)

​

Albert were a tinsmith, a man of many talents.
He grew up hard in Northern climes,
With holidays to Blackpool’s famous seaside place,
Full of chips and ice cream chimes.

​

As a grand little lad he went to Zoo
With doting Mum and Dad.
He’d met a Lion, but then slipped up, 
All around said it were bad.

​

A lion had swallowed young Albert.
He never got digested.
The Lion he coughed and up Albert came.
Eh.. his Mum she were disgusted.

​

‘Post-traumatic’ the doctor said,
Better find him job inside.
So Albert went to steelworks,
A wage it did provide.

​

Now Albert had a lifelong mate,
Stanley was his name.
Now Stanley had those music genes,
And Brass Band were his game.

​

He played on second cornet.
A lovely tone had he.
Every year at Armistice
He blew that Reveille.

​

Now works band were facing crisis.
No trombones had they.
So Stanley spoke to Albert,
To see what he would say.

​

Impecunious were Bert and Stan,
A trombone were way off beam.
So Albert said he’d make one,
At work, in breaks, unseen.
 
He saved some bits of copper,
Bent tube and the like,
From jobs around the steelworks,
From what was thrown off site.

​

For three long months did Albert toil.
His efforts were rewarded
With funny looking instrument.
Eh.... it all looked rather sordid.

​

A polish up was all it needed.
So off to band it was took.
Albert proudly showed them all
A trombone like in no book.

​

Well, the band collapsed in fits of giggles,
Even Stanley looked fit to burst.
Conductor said “I know were pushed,
But come lad, you should have spoke to me first”

​

Albert’s lip was quivering,
What would make it hard to play.
But conductor was kindly man,
And gave him chance that day.

​

He set up stand with music notes,
With Euphoniums lined side by side.
Eb Basses gleamed behind him,
His trombone looked quite deprived.

​

Now what the band they did not know,
Was Albert’s will to get it right.
He’d enrolled in night school classes
For trombone playing by sight.

​

For a laugh conductor said, ‘we’ll play this piece
With trombone solo high.
Let’s see what Albert’s got.’
Baritones looked fit to cry!

​

Well the band played introduction,
And Albert’s time he did bide.
When a tone of dazzling brilliance
Came from somewhere deep inside.

​

A crowd then gathered outside hall,
To listen to the sound.
The band played on, and on and on.
A new star had been found.

​

All were wiping tearful eyes,
They’d never heard the like.
Albert’s bone had hit the mark.
No big news like this since miners went on strike.

​

Stanley was looking quite amazed.
‘How did you do it son?’
Albert replied all confidential like, 
‘Well after surviving that there ruddy Lion, anything’s easily done!’
©Keith Murphy

​

And We’re Not Quite Sure

​

A friend of standing no longer is,
A sheltered home of sorts is his.
His boat’s now moored,
His goal is scored,
And we’re not quite sure; although he is.

​

Never was heard ‘I’ll think about it ‘,
Never was heard a sparkling wit.
But he knew his mind,
A precious find,
And we’re not quite sure; although he is.

​

Compromise was not a word,
That he uttered or from him you heard.
A difficult life,
Cut with bluntish knife.
And we’re not quite sure; although he is.

​

What you saw is what you got,
Refinement of the model, total rot.
This is me,
Let it be.
And we’re not quite sure; although he is.

​

Not afraid, not a coward.
Not a waiter nor contemplater.
Not a thought for what might be,
Not a life for the fancy free.
And we’re not quite sure; but we know he is.

©Keith Murphy

​

Dead Of Night

I wake on my own, so cold it has grown,
As the ice on my window spawns spiky white fingers.
I dread, the dead, of night.

​

I'm thinking out loud, and see passing white cloud,
As the heat of my breath meets naked nightime like steam.
I dread, the dead, of night.

​

No need to pretend, my heart will not mend,
As the tear from my eye hits the cold crinkled pillow.
I dread, the dead, of night.

​

So much to be said, so little time dead,
As the words from my lips slip silently skyward.
I dread, the dead, of night.

​

I will go back to sleep and the sunlight will keep,
My thoughts from growing too dark.
It's not good, or not right to dwell, in the dead, of night.
Keith Murphy©

​

Don’t Lower Manhattan

​

Don’t Lower Manhattan, 
Keep your heads held high.
Don’t have any truck with evil and 
Let West Side show your best side.
We all come to you,
We’ll still come to you.
We know you can show us,
The city with a pace and a grace
That will get you through this outrage.
Don’t alter your sidewalk geography,
Don’t falter on the altar of exclusion or 
Illusion of a yet more secure existence
By locking all the locks and freezing your liberty.
For those who remain, it’s the struggle
To balance freedom, and tame
The terror and the tantrums of insane
Acts by dangerous people.
For those who have gone, you will long 
Be remembered in the city that neither sleeps,
Nor forgets.   
©Keith Murphy

​

Family Tree

​

The family tree grows tall and true,
Its leafy branches cradle me and you.
Like every tree it has a season
When branches drop, sometimes without reason.
Our tree has suffered great distress,
Not merely damaged, but under major stress. 
Our central trunk now counts the cost
Of our sad and undesired for loss.

​

A life remarkable, lived through war.
Lived with grace, not counting score.
Instead counting strokes across the greens
And fairways of pleasant Surrey scenes.
A life devoted from age nineteen
To his fellow traveller, through postwar dream.
From East End roots to West end shows
And musicians’ diaries the fixers chose.

​

Abiding memories we all must have
Of generous parties, good times and bad.
Of cups of tea in which spoons could stand
And Embassy & Senior Service suddenly banned.
His driving skills were leant in tank
But skills passed on, two generations thank.
On the phone he’d say before he’d bid us bye
“I’ll just pass you over now to Vi…”

​

Another season awaits our tree, 
And future blossoms we’ll no doubt see.
Our tree’s robust and will bloom again
And deep etched in bark, we’ll see his name.
A life well lived provides the feed
For our tree to nurture future seed.
Goodbye to one loved by you and me,
It’s quite amazing is our tree. 
Keith Murphy©

​

Folding The Crease

​

Two ideas we do decree,
Heads or Tails, Steam or Sails.
Black or White, Dim or Bright.
Do we not allow, an option ‘C’?

​

Two just fits our life of rhythms,
Out or In, Her or Him.
Left or Right, Loose or Tight.
But we need more, for life’s tough decisions.

​

Binary choices seem quite clear,
But look beyond
The detail here.
That random devil just
Sits by deepest blue.
While a rock and a hard place,
These await you.
 
War and Peace follow no rules.
Lifelines run 
On random spools.
Some know War, 
Some know Peace.
Somewhere between these two, lies that crease
That oh so easily, folds us into state of War,
Or allows us to unashamedly bask,
In that Peace, we should not ignore.
©Keith Murphy

​

Ground Forces

​

A garden is created from a patch of barren land.
It could lay on basalt, chalk or oolite, or perhaps St.Agnes Sand.
Its first few years are learning, a time of  growth and toil.
A slowly evolving character, deep within the soil.

​

The garden soaks up strength with drops of springtime rain.
It grows plants and personality, and there's never one the same.
It takes on independence, rebels against owner's  rules.
Grows weeds or flowers unexpectedly, till its ardour cools. 

​

Maturity is a glorious phase of colour scent and feel.
The battles fought on bed and border, seem a touch unreal.
Effortless perfection seems simple to attain, 
A visit to the Garden centre, a pleasure not a pain.

​

Years turn round and the garden grows in absolute precision.
The work gets tough but help is just a small employing decision. 
Teamwork is the basis of many an enterprise.
Gardener, owner and garden, coexistence without surprise.

​

Then for no reason, no reason that you can see,
The world moves on and you're left behind as if clearing up the tea.
The edges of precision within your humble plot
Now look ragged, rough and shoddy, and the golden rods are not.

​

Suddenly barrenness beckons from underneath the loam.
Basalt, chalk and oolite are calling for their own.
No matter what is done, no matter how hard you try
This garden's day has come, let it quietly die.

​

For you or me or us or them, it would be end of game.
Bury us deep beneath the ground or consume us in the flame.
But not the renewable garden, it can reappear.
The taming of the land again, year by year by year.
Keith Murphy©

​

Gardens and Art

​

Give me my Garden,
All richly clad in glorious hues.
Reds and greens and purple blues
Demands my soul not harden.

​

Each garden site
Now contains a thriving fair.
Sheltered here and sheltered there
Art works of pure delight.

​

Now can we see
Delicious scones with jam and cream?
And did we really walk that far
Right out beyond and back for T?
Keith Murphy©

​

Someone asked me to write this poem

​

Someone asked me to write this poem,
It's never happened before.
Someone asked me to write this poem,
It could be such a chore.
They said it's about Gardens,
Of which my knowledge is slight.
They said it's about Gardens,
I'm afraid it'll sound so trite.

Take your time they said to me,
It's planned for June next year.
Take you time they said to me,
I'm sure you'll do it dear.

So what do I think about gardens,
I'm sure they'd like to know.
So what do I think about gardens,
It's where my weeds do grow.

Can I wield the spade and fork,
I'm sure that I can not.
Can I wield the spade and fork,
I'm just sure I'd get too hot.
Perhaps I should just sit and watch,
The pleasant summer sun.
Perhaps I should just sit and watch,
My flowers all having fun.

​

Many people find great relief,
Waiting for the flowers.
Many people find great relief,
In welcoming springtime showers.
Myself I'm not so self assured,
My confidence is low.
Myself I'm not so self assured,
That I 'll reap what I did sow.

Something always goes amiss,
Between planting and the bloom.
Something always goes amiss,
In my backdoor garden room.

Though fingers green I'll never have,
I shall not be depressed.
Though fingers green I'll never have,
My garden is the best.

So as you walk though gardens fair,
Please enjoy the sights.
So as you walk through gardens fair,
Sample all delights.
And plant this thought free to grow,
Inside your fertile brain.
And plant this thought free to grow
Gardens keep you sane.
Keith Murphy©

​

I gardened lonely round the back

​

I gardened lonely round the back
Where weeds grow high o'er grassy plot,
When all at once my back  did crack,
Much pain, it hurt me quite a lot!
My packs of daffs, beneath my knees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

​

The medicos called by nine nine nine
Came speeding down the motorway.
They fetched me in to join that line,
Kept waiting for the empty bay.
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Casualty queues, no earthly chance.

​

So quickly dancing on my feet,
A wave I gave, and off to see
My private doctor him to meet.
He fixed me up for modest fee,
I gazed-and gazed- but little thought,
What peace for me that policy bought.

​

For oft when round the back I spy,
My work now done and growing fast.
Plants of gold that grow so high,
My heart it leaps, ignores the past,
My back it moves by aid of pills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Keith Murphy©

​

The Henfield End to End

​

The Henfield End to End  is a tale that must be told,
Of three jolly bicycle men who braved the hot and cold.
They braved all manner of obstacles, 'nowt were too tough for them,
They finished the planned exercise hard and toughened men.

 

This exercise in  torture was invented  one fine day.
Keith hap'd  mention idea to Richard at Sunday School play.
Rich was fired with this great idea to cycle from south to Northern tip
All the way from that land's end to the pointy bit  at top.

​

The third man of the party joined at slightly later date.
Martin always wanted t'try it but thought he were too late.
Nay said Keith and Rich, come and join the fray
Besides, if we have to buy things the three of us can pay!

​

Planning ride was all great fun but where O where to start,
Should it be George, t' Plough  or perhaps p'haps White Hart?
Wednesday late would have to do so Rich could ring his bells,
So the three of them set to work to find a route through fells.

​

It soon became clear to three that without maps  you wouldn't get far
So Martin took staples out from  atlas in his car.
A list of cycle vendors seemed like a grand idea
So Internet supplied a list of merchants far and near.

​

The next big thing that was addressed was where they were to stay.
Would B&B fit the bill or a tent with 'nowt to pay?
Now as all three were getting on, their comforts they did like
So not one was up for camping after 60 miles by bike.

​

Then Rich he had a problem, time from work they would not give
So he'd be up to 100 miles a day with which the others could not live.
So the tortoise and the hare was born, who'd win nobody would guess
With Keith and Matin taking 18 days and Richard  'sommat less.

​

The tortoise party did arrive at South West corner bit,
The training had been done and the pair were feeling fit.
But  a party o keen cyclist showed  'em  way to go
With support van, no luggage and aerodynamics to aid their flow.

​

Undeterred the pair set off in showers and hazy sun.
Before long they were panting hard and wondering what they'd done.
They kept themselves t'task and worked so very hard
Supplies were bought each day of dripping bread and lard.

​

The Severn Bridge it did appear  just as 4th day were done
A mighty river they beheld all bathed in setting sun.
They spent the night in Chepstow just so they could  say
" In Wales we spent some brass, but didn't spend a day"

​

350 miles the clock had turned since pair of them began
Till just 10 miles from that Chepstow  place Keith's back tyre it went bang.
This sad event would floor most men but not our gallant two
A tyre was taxied from cycle shop  and fixed without much ado.

​

Just at that time Rich began to cycle hard and fast.
His one desire to catch the pair and if he could get past.
All on his own he did toil and never once did walk,
Unlike Keith & Martin who at them steep hills did baulk.

​

Time went on for the tortoise pair and their mileage did improve
Rich spoke to them by mobile phone and were shocked at how they'd moved.
England  turned to Scotland and sun shone all day long.
An improvement in t' weather oft bought Mart to song.

​

The final lap were coming up as Inverness were passed.
At that point  hare took lead and tortoise it took last.
The two of them they did not meet as different routes they trod
Hare took all them major roads whilst others small lanes did plod.

​

29 hours  was difference twixt teams arrival times
John O'Groats was dull and dank, a place where sun n'er shines.
But bright enough it was for us after 1000 miles on road.
We tried to act all nonchulent and pretend pain n'er showed.

​

The final chapter of this tale of Henfield End to End 
Lies with you our happy audience and the money that you spend.
Children's hospital in Brighton, it craves much needed brass.
So if you haven't sponsored us, it's not too late, just ask.
Keith Murphy©

​

Homage to Catalonia?

​

Policeman wielding batons or shedding  a welled up tear,
Flag waving populous or staying home in fear,
State defence of self, or defending historic lie,
Should we pay homage, or should we just weep and cry?

​

Turning out to vote, or disobient surf,
Democratic abuser or defending right of birth,
Violent state repression or debating reasons why,
Should we pay homage, or should we just weep and cry?

​

Hurried lines drawn on maps or quite beyond the pale,
Land up for rental or permanently for sale,
Freedom of expression or state to look and pry,
Should we pay homage, or should we just weep and cry?

​

Part of bigger state, or standing on your own,
Wired in kit at home, or mobile telephone,
Going with a third, or vote not home and dry,
Should we pay homage, or should we just weep and cry?
©Keith Murphy

​

Home to Me

The sound of tide washed stones and shells,
The pealing of earthbound wedding bells.
The sight of village green with inn,
The children with their playground din.
The circling seagulls squawking shout,
The Saturday nights and the going out.
The shady spot under leafy tree,
All these and more, say Home to Me.

​

The music made by young and old,
The stories that our grandfolks told.
The friendship of both near and far,
The frosty night with the shining star.
The Sunday lunch at 2 o'clock,
The foolish fools we love to mock.
The this and that that I could be,
All these and more, say Home to Me.
Keith Murphy©

​

Low Comments in High Places

​

Bellringers are generally a sanguine breed,
And are both pure in the thought and pure in the deed.
But a comment let slip in a moment off guard,
Can oft' make their lives exceedingly hard.
On an outing that now has passed into myth,
A couple of lads, one ringing the fifth,
Made comments on rope lengths and reaching up high,
And distance 'twixt  Master's head and the sky.

​

What can we do, what can we say?
For our "heightist" comments we find we must pay.
So before our dear Master sulks and retires
To his corner and over poems perspires,
All "over large" ringers wish to crowd all around,
And declare Sussex Master one of the best that we've found.
No more comments will rise when he steps on his box
And no place will be found for the ringer that mocks!
Keith Murphy©

​

May I Take The Liberty

​

The truth to be told,
We don’t really know
Our Liberty is our freedom, so please don’t let it show.
We stand for this,
And we stand for that.
Our Liberty is our freedom, but we treat it like a mat.
Taken for granted,
Ignored until the last.
Our Liberty is our freedom, but only if we’re asked.
Papered and whitewashed over 
When it suits our whim. 
Our Liberty is our freedom, but not when others sin. 
Taking liberties 
Is not like taking Liberty’s flame. 
Our Liberty is our freedom; it’s not a simple game. 
Solutions to our problems
Come in all shapes and sizes. 
Our Liberty is our freedom, slipping before one realises. 
Rich get richer, 
Poor go to the wall. 
Our Liberty is our freedom, you're free, don't bawl!
Justify your greed, 
Satisfy your need. 
Our Liberty is our freedom, but children it will not feed. 
Powerful Corporations, 
Tax avoiding nations. 
Our Liberty is our freedom, no balancing these equations. 
Statuesque and strident, 
Unchained and free,
Our Liberty is our freedom, please let those blinded, see.
©Keith Murphy

​

A Millennium Hymn (To the tune of Jerusalem)

​

And do our thoughts
In times of peace
Stray to the passing of our time?
In months and years, it does not cease
The clocks of man they strike and chime.
And does the clock of human time
Work silently and ceaselessly?         
And is the coming time builded now,
Amongst us gathered here today?

​

Two Thousand years,
Since God's own son
Showed us the glory of your way.
What wonders  still can yet be done?
We see so much each day by day.
Today we live, Tomorrow comes,
And all our time will come to pass
And we will live eternally
In heaven with you every day.
©Keith Murphy

​

But Norfolk seems quite bare!

​

Lincolnshire has its poacher,
And Scarborough has its fair.
Good Old Sussex has its sea,
But Norfolk seems quite bare!

​

Bangor has its day trip,
And Dublin's beyond compare.
Many belong to Glasgow,
But Norfolk seems quite bare!

​

Eton has its boating,
A pastime Skye does share.
Even Surrey has a fringe on top,
But Norfolk seems quite bare!

​

Scotland's roads are high or low,
Harlech has men to spare.
Richmond Hill it boasts a lass,
But Norfolk seems quite bare!

​

Derry has its air so clear,
London has quite a flare.
Ilkley has its moor bar tat,
But Norfolk seems quite bare!

​

Dover has its cliffs of white,
Green Partridge has its pear.
Blaydon has its horses racing,
But Norfolk seems quite bare!

​

New York New York's a wonderful town
Cisco has flowery hair,
Vienna has its tale of woods,
But Norfolk seems quite bare!

​

So raise a glass to Norfolk,
Unassailed by minstrels craft.
Perhaps someone could write us one,
That should raise a laugh!
Keith Murphy©

​

Ode To A Nation With No Flag

​

Our newest entrant, our newest nation, forged in fiery code
Bubbled like red hot lava from a net of connected phones.
This nascent nation, transcending any boundary road,
Passing ports of entry into our domestic pleasure zones.    
Is there no folly to consider here, no rampant beast?
Who, we ask, released it from its lair?
How long had this giddy, gyrating force been there?
Is there need, is there greed, is it time to despair?
Did that wingéd patron god of financial gain release
The beast, enabling the mean, to become the mode?
We sit comfy in computer chair, glazed in fluorescent glow,
We reboot, pass the word and wirelessly our blogs upload,
With our mouldering dark suspicions pushed far below.
For our new nation is a force for good, bull not bear,
A force for good, a force for all, a democratic lion to share.

Forces now darkly gather, looking in, rooting round
For sight or sound of hesitation, repetition or deviation.
After just one minute they think they’ve found,
Something wrong, something perplexing, defying gravitation.
Our new nation fights, fights hard for her Liberty.
Advocates and orators, lawyers and barristers rage,
Fanning the crackling flame of their inflated wage.
This Nation with no flag will not go back in her cage.
A migrant, an itinerant, but once met, here for perpetuity.
She has no planes, no ships, no boots on the ground,
No home front, no crying of havoc and barking dog,
The click, click, click, not gun but her keyboard sound.
Her defences invisible, as if lost in coastal fog.
We have this gift from others, a child to raise.
Chains she should not be in, Freedom must turn her page.
©Keith Murphy

​

Freedom Tolls for Thee

​

Our bell is silent now;
Silence marks the passing of each hour.
The tower has no comment, makes no sound
Despite thirteen tons of primeval power.

​

Our bell is silent now;
The sun dimmed in mute protestation
The day it stopped, the day life turned
Into a sentence lacking punctuation.  

​

Our bell is silent now;
It used to speak, same call to all,
No misunderstanding, no spin of truth,
Unlike those below in marbled hall.

​

Our bell is silent now;
Our voice diminished across the sphere,
Our orb and sceptre have played their part.
This isle now travels in hope or fear.

​

Our bell is silent now;
For four long years it will draw its breath,
And then exhale when hammer strikes,
To mark the tides of life and death.

​

Our bell is silent now;
Its tone and timbre oft in doubt,
Cracked and flawed like us all.
We’ll all miss its freedom imperfect shout.

​

Our bell is silent now;
Its silence diminishes us all.
As clods are washed away by sea,
Who does the bell toll for?
It tolls for thee.
©Keith Murphy

​

Notre Dame

A finger of fire, pointing accusingly up the heavens,
Like a stuttering short sentence of defiance, 
Topples earthward, its final statement concluded.

​

The Towers remain, stoically solitary, 
Like distant cousins separated by family conflict,
All around charred, exhaling its final breath. 

​

The bells remain, swinging but not speaking,
Like those of us who have no words,
For that which has now been taken from us.  

​

Works of man, have but a short time to live, 
Like blossom fired in the warmth of early sun, 
They fall, but will return to bloom again.

© Keith Murphy
 

​

On the news that Mrs. May had to ring up Mr. Varadkar to apologise for Mr. Raab

​

When your child kicks a wayward ball,
And smashes through the neighbour’s greenhouse wall, 
Ring him up; go on, give him a call. 

​

When your child tramples down the neighbours’ flowers, 
And insults upon him showers, 
Ring him up; go on, it won't take hours. 

​

When your child tells your neighbour an untrue tale, 
And spikes his tyre with tic tack nail, 
Ring him up; go on, let truth prevail.

​

But when your minister of state sings off the page, 
This ringing up’s no good, he's over age.
For no child is he, and your call will ne’er assuage
Your neighbour’s righteous ranting rage.
©Keith Murphy

​

On Ringing the Bells In Coventry

​

The old cathedral sits aloof
With toothy tower and absent roof.
Its nave has puddles brimmed by rain,
And silent walls all cracked with pain.

An open window spans one end,
And sawn off columns to earth descend.
Its bells for Reconciliation ring,
For Peace, not Hate that War doth bring. 

​

Brave they are who sit and stare,
And contemplate the lack of care,
For gentle people forced to fight
And what they lost to save what’s right.

Fought to right those awful wrongs,
And paid the price with moonlight’s bombs.
Its bells for Reconciliation ring,
For Peace, not Hate that War doth bring. 

​

‘Coventried’, goes the name,
When people died from air raid flame.
It marked a turn up of the wick,
To long and bloody, not short and quick.

Rebuilt cities tell the tale
Across the globe, of war’s travail.
I’ve rung those bells, their voices rail
‘Let not War, nor Hate, but Peace prevail.’
©Keith Murphy

​

Our Soldiers’ Muffled Cries

​

I send my handstroke heavenward with a vibrant joyful sound,
But my backstroke sounds not the same,
As the bells are coming round.

I send my handstroke heavenward with the hope of humankind ,
But my backstroke sounds not the same,
As the tenor rings behind.

I send my handstroke heavenward with a strike that’s good and strong,
But my backstroke sounds not the same,
Leading right or wrong.

I send my handstroke heavenward with care both deep and warm,
But my backstroke sounds not the same,
On this November morn.

This backstroke comes from heavens halls,
Our soldiers’ muffled cries,
Answering once more our earthly calls,
As our ring down dies.
©Keith Murphy

​

Playing Chequers

 
Playing Chequers 
Pieces moving,
Brexit deal,
Not improving.

​

Huffing pieces,
Back and fore,
Crowning men,
Brexit’s war.

​

Black and white,
Win or lose,
Best of two,
Or MPs choose?

​

Game not right,
Too naive,
Time now short,
What to believe?

​

Hatches battened,
No deal coming,
Rations stockpiled,
Plan’s not cunning.

​

Pain ahead,
Nation splits,
In or out,
Stupid Brits.

​

No turn back,
Advance now blocked,
Trenchfoot beckons,
By shells I’m shocked.

​

One hundred years,
Not moved on,
Fighting shadows,
Brexit’s wrong.
©Keith Murphy

​

This Isle Doth Smile

​

This isle doth smile
But breath doth draw.
Whilst talk across vast tables, does
See our dignity, destiny and diversity
Slide out one door.

​

This isle doth smile
But furrow its brow.
Whilst a forgotten empire border just
Clothes us as clowns, crooks and charlatans.
So quick to row.

​

This isle doth smile
But rolls its eyes.
As self-inflicted decision and timeframes, just
Paint us as petulant, partisan and parochial;
In our suits and ties.

​

This isle doth smile
But takes the blows.
As the impossible meets the improbable and
Render us ridiculous, redundant and rash
In what we chose.

​

This isle doth smile
But now just wry.
As ineptitude decreases latitude, and
Navigation now nervous, negative and nasty;
Dangerous to try.

​

This Isle will smile
And rise once more.
Its clock will tick, its bell will toll and
Trade in tirades, tribes and trite,
We’ll no more whore.

​

This Isle will smile
And elevate mood.
Preoccupations with our premature demise
Will justly wane, wrinkle and wither.
Life alone refused.

​

This Isle will smile
And beaming wide,
Our sun reflects, our moon rejects
Orbits of odious, outrageous oratory.
Our tears all cried. 

This Isle will smile.
©Keith Murphy

​

Snap Goes Our Election or Stop The Tories

​

Snap goes our election,
Snap, crackle and then a pop.
Snap goes our election,
Seemingly without stop.

​

Thump goes our majority,
Thump the table hard. 
Thump goes our majority,
Thanks to Mastercard.

​

Oh to be in England,
Oh to be in Wales.
Oh to be in Scotland,
Oh, poor Ireland quails. 

​

Publish your manifesto,
Print, promise and predict.
Publish your manifesto,
Prepare for deficit.

​

Take back control they said,
Tell everyone you see.
Take back control they said,
Take what you’d like for free.

​

Hollow out your promises,
Hollow from what we see.
Hollow out your promises,
How shakes that money tree?

​

Every vote’s important,
Even yours and mine.
Every vote’s important,
Even more than that last time.

​

Tell us all a story,
Try us once again.
Tell us all a story,
To help us sooth the pain.

​

Over, under, back and forth
Our electorate has moved.
Over, under, back and forth
Our democracy improved?

​

Radical or Establishment,
Rich, poor, young or old.
Radical or Establishment
Rely on what we’re told.

​

Idealistic or a realist,
It’s difficult to say.
Idealistic or a realist,
It depends how much they pay.

​

Everyone for Everyone,
Every soundbites counts.
Everyone for Everyone,
Election fever mounts.

​

Solutions come in stages,
Sherlock solved them best.
Solutions come in stages,  
Seldom seen such a mess.
©Keith Murphy

​

Sutherland No More – A Proclamation

​

Sutherland Springs from the pages of my media feed,
A story of guns, grief and the need, for no more.
Sutherland no more.
The innocent and the free sitting in their Sunday Pews,
Little thinking they would be the news, on the door.
Sutherland no more.
The white squat steepled church reaches to the sky,
The congregation and world asks why, whilst the tears pour.
Sutherland no more.
‘Fortunately somebody else had a gun’, the saying goes,
That was equalising those bullet flows, from ceiling to floor.  
Sutherland no more.

Freedom to Bear, Freedom to Speak, Freedom to seek
The solution to these nightmares in our sleep.
Guns cause the rift and opinion must shift.
When you’re gone, 
Will you send back a letter from America?
X.
©Keith Murphy

​

Cotswold Air

​

I’ve roamed the ridges, fields and dry stone walls,
I’ve travelled country byways and wide sky views,
Passed through steeples, towers and village halls. 
O breath my Cotswold Air, please infuse.
My silent, muted steps I mostly take,
But as storm doth build, I’ll whistle like I should.
From northern Barcheston, my start I daily make,
Down to Burmington, on hillside proudly stood.
Spread East to Cherington but, remember yet
To turn West again for Wolford twins to fill.
South to Barton and Compton’s lively set;
Eastmost  Whichford ends my daily drill.
   So breathe me in, my Cotswold Air doth charm,
   Music and breath for life; your storms I calm.

©Kit Humphrey 

​

The Day our Big Brother got married

​

The day our big brother got married was back in 69,
Two small brothers we were, intent on just having that good time.
Man had just taken one small step on a far and distant moon,
Flower Power had not yet died, but it was due to expire quite soon.

The Beatles? Well they were at their height,
Sergeant Peppers, Abbey Road and shoulder length hair, what a sight!

Our brother met his wife to be and brought her round for Sunday tea.
We sat up on the downs and didn't say a word, all boys together till then you see!

Still, things moved on and the day was set,
The church was booked all arrangements made and yet,
How could we possibly know that the day of fun,
Would be the first that Crystal Palace would play in League Division One?

​

Our mum she took us both down to C&A's in the town,
Kitted us out in suits and ties and told us not to frown.
30 years has passed since the click, click, click of that cine film recorded the moment when,
Two small boys dressed in suits stuffed confetti down the best man's neck and then,
Waving across the water to summon the craft,
The boatman looked at best man and thought him quite daft.

​

30 years is not so long when memories like this can easily be found 
By sifting the mind for  the sights and the sounds
Of the day our big brother got married. 
©Keith Murphy

​

The Dishwasher’s Loaded

​

The dishwasher’s loaded,
The plates are all used,
The cups are all dirty and the cutlery confused.

​

My clothes are all dirty,
My shoes scuffed and worn,
I’m in need of no revamp to replace all that’s torn.

​

The hoover is silent,
The dusters lie crushed,
The paintwork is cleaned and the TV’s been hushed.

​

My tanks are all empty,
My vehicles SORN’ed,
The MOT’s need an update and insurance informed.

​

My mortgage has run,
My tax is all paid,
My bills have been cleared and ‘For Sale’ signs displayed.

​

The drawers are all empty,
I was running on fumes,
The past is all gone, each bit consumed.

​

You need to reorder,
To restock the shelves,
You need to invest and replenish yourselves.

​

My race has been run,
My round had been played,
I shot level par with four birdies made.

​

No need to cry,
No need to regret,
The world keeps on turning, it does not forget.
©Keith Murphy

​

The Sound of Salzberg

​

This Sound of Salzburg, a do-re- me?
‘Tis symbolic sound of crashing deals,
‘Tis turning of those meshing wheels.

Those meshing wheels will chew you up
‘Spit me out - I’m something good?
Has my deal been understood?’

Step forward now and firmly claim,
That lonely goatherd path as yours,
It leads us to those cliff edge doors.

​

I have confidence in none of this,
It’s curtains for us all,
Uncle Max, just take the stage and stall.

So long, farewell… it’s looking like goodbye,
A deal not reached, no mountain climbed,
To that we’re now resigned.

I hate to have to say it, but I very firmly feel -
Nothing comes from nothing,
Nothing ever could.
©Keith Murphy

​

The Tramp

​

Through wetness and coldness the ill-shod man trudged,
He shouted and swore at the court and the judge.
They locked him away for a year and a day,
And there he did slumber 'till the 15th of May.

​

They released him on Monday and fast he did sink,
By Saturday morning he'd arrived at the brink.
His spirit was broken his money was gone,
And he lived in a world where the sun never shone.

​

He walked and he walked from each town in its turn,
And they all moved him on with no money to earn.
He found his vocation in clearing the streets,
Of the litter from children created by sweets.

​

The year it moved on and the temperature fell,
And not one hot drink did our friend ever smell.
His health took a dive and it began to look bad,
When his cough got the worst  that he'd ever had.

​

He swore at the vicar, the police and the clerk,
The mums at the gate and the kids in the park.
They all turned their heads and silently said,
‘He's only  a Tramp, he's better off dead.’

​

They all had their wish on the next Friday night,
He found his Creator in a back alley fight.
It didn't last long with a quick fisted brut,
Who mugged him and slugged him still dressed in his suit.

​

The next morning it snowed and there he did lay,
And a number of residents were heard to say,
‘That trash by the dustbins looks awfully bad,
If the Council don't move it, I'll have to get mad.’
Keith Murphy©

​

This Is No Mistake

​

This is no mistake, no error made by human hand,
No honest slip twixt cup and lip, or detail missed on messy page.
Nor does incompetence play its competent supporting role.
It’s lying, cheating with malice and her looking glass, all minutely planned.

​

To what do I refer? To what Brexit question does this all relate?
What waves of desperation now break on Blighty’s blighted shores?
Where lies the wreck of our inheritance, our lifeboats of surviving truth?
We’re paired with striding demons, thieves of true debate.

​

Days of lies now outnumber those that truth do speak,
The sun doth break but does not set, till nonsense 
Flicks his forkéd tongue and has his aggravated say.
And as the sun sets once again, like dusky light, our lifeblood leaks. 

​

So cast them off; these knitted lies are not of error stitched.
Overboard these two must go, the tempter and the tempted,
No more to plague our house, no more to wreck that train of thought.
This pair not spared? If not, I ask - are we yet bewitched?
©Keith Murphy

​

When was I born?

​

When was I born? 
Was it before seat belts, E numbers and gum?
Was it before words were typed out on screens or pop stars paraded in sick limousines?
Was it when policeman, teachers and dads cuffed offending ears when we'd been bad?
Was it before lawyers made money from each minor fear and before ice cold lager replaced our warm beer?
Was it before four wheel drives cruised our suburban streets or before England were defeated in qualifying heats?
Yes, that's when I was born.

​

When was I born? 
Was it before pollution, late trains and The Sun?
Was it before soaps came out of the bathroom and onto our screens or books were replaced by computing machines?
Was it before life had to be exciting for every minute of every day or a time before Europe decided your pay?
Was it when literate crossword fiends could be found in every carriage and men and women committed to each other in marriage?
Was it when strangers were friends that you had not met or before people lived on a TV set?
Yes, that's when I was born.

​

When was I born? 
Was it before elm disease, CJD and bought fun?
Was it when adding your money was done in 3 columns or Encyclopaedias came in at least 10 volumes?
Was it when a fountain pen took the place of bubble or laser and the time before the disposable razor?
Was it before the media moguls whipped up the news or people were given their various views?
Was it before attentions spans could outlast an ad or e-mail and texting had made grammar quite sad?
Yes, that's when I was born.
Keith Murphy©

​

We await…

​

The pond awaits the stone,
The calm awaits the storm and as the storm clouds meet,
We’ll wonder, we’ll ask, we’ll regret.

The sail awaits the wind,
The chart awaits its course, and as our way we make,
We’ll wonder, we’ll ask, we’ll regret.

The reader awaits the book,
The plot awaits its twists, and as our pages turn,
We’ll wonder, we’ll ask, we’ll regret.

The play awaits its cast,
The scene awaits its curtain, as our house lights dim,
We’ll wonder, we’ll ask, we’ll regret.

The song awaits its riff,
The singers await their cue, and as the intro dies,
We’ll wonder, we’ll ask, we’ll regret.

The traffic awaits the light,
The bus awaits its stop, and as we all alight,
We’ll wonder, we’ll ask, we’ll regret.

The mouse awaits its click,
The screen awaits its touch, and as our Servers whirr,
We’ll wonder, we’ll ask, we’ll regret.

Our menu awaits its order,
Our food awaits its cook, and as our waiters gather,
We’ll wonder, we’ll ask, we’ll regret.

Our feet await their boots,
Our boots await their path, and as our path is set,
We’ll wonder, we’ll ask, we’ll regret.

Our love awaits our country,
Our country awaits its fate, and as it comes to pass,
We’ll wonder, we’ll ask, we’ll regret.

©Keith Murphy

 

Brexit - We need no more of… end of!

We've had lies on a bus,
We've had things we can't trust,
We've had deals we can't sus,
And we've had an awful lot of parliamentary fuss.

​

We've had deadlines go by,
We've had borders to try,
We’ve had planes that can’t fly,
And we’ve had an awful lot of kissing the truth goodbye.

​

We’ve had Tories rebel,
We’ve had defections as well,
We’ve had places in hell,
And we’ve had an awful lot of deals we can’t possibly sell.

​

We’ve had passports of blue,
We’ve had news that’s untrue,
We’ve had satire that’s true,
And we’ve had an awful lot of things that are good for the few.

​

We’ve had businesses trashed,
We’ve had hopes raised and dashed,
We’ve had ferry deals crashed,
And we’ve had an awful lot of our MPs attacked and harassed.

​

We’ve had Plans marked as A,
We’ve had red lines not stay,
We’ve had assent on the day,
And we’ve had an awful lot of Brexit faff and delay.

​

We’ve had Scots saying no,
We’ve had talks going slow,
We’ve had leaks that do flow,
And we’ve had an awful lot of saying ‘I don’t know’.

​

We’ve had councillors binned,
We’ve had Ministers skinned,
We’ve had promises thinned,
And we’ve had an awful lot of kicking the items once tinned.

​

We’ve had Dover quite lost,
We’ve had plans that have cost,
We’ve had debates she hath quashed,
And we’ve had an awful lot of ‘should we go hard or go soft?’

​

We’ve had leopard skin shoes,
We’ve had red white and blues,
We’ve had nebulous views,
And we’ve had an awful lot of things to mislead and confuse.

​

We’ve had talks from the Queen,
We’ve had parties quite Green,
We’ve had trade deals not seen,
And we’ve had an awful lot of tosh - do yer know what I mean?

​

We need no more of this,
We need no more of that,
We need no more of… end of!

©Keith Murphy

 

I’ve Been Mixing With The Wrong People

​

Those soft, self-assured steps of children
Recently dismounted from their comfort wagons of desire.
Those sweet-smelling parents waltzing down the serried isles
Of desirable goods, premium priced and untouched by austerity’s cruel hand.
Those expectant mothers, and fathers with no trace of anxious fear,
Confident in what is to come, what is to be.
Rain may fall, but no drips can mar their pristine whitewashed clothes,
Can shake their assured grip on all that they possess,
All that they may have half concealed in their bags of superior lineage.
Eyes not watered by excessive pricing; gasps not gasped by outrageous claims
On their worldly wealth, their stockpiled stipends.
O to be numbered in their ranks, to count oneself amongst the rich,
Those unaffected few, those with economic levers to pull
Those shutters down on what is real, what can hurt and what can harm.
So send me off to some exclusive, elaborate school where I can learn
The arts and crafts of wealth, The self-promotion of the self,
The science of entitlement and the preservation of my worldly wealth.
Reserve my place in what comes next what ere may be my final score,
I can waste and while away my time as well as any other,
And with safety net in place, I can fall from the high wire circus act of life
If needs must be, if this is what it takes.
I too can then step lightly through these corridors of life, unaffected, protected 
From the great unwashed unfolding tragedy that I know so little of.    

 ©Keith Murphy
 

 

​