Common Sense



There's a woodpecker

black, white on a thin trunk

pecking - of course - for bugs

I suppose,

and bright damp

bits of pulp


onto the shell of a large

black beetle in the weeds.



These tiny fliers

have circles to do.

They swing around

the lightbulb

like crazy pinwheels

and drop dead

burnt and dumb.



One cricket's clear tone

creeps out tonight

from a rocky field

to a room with a light -

blesses the pens and books

the pictures on the wall

the black plastic ticking clock.

All poems by Br. Tom Murphy, O. Carm.

My Poems

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