Gray Garden


I pulled out the marker blind

I'd take whatever color came

and any paper would do


The first mark appeared

a quick twisting thing

another and then some shorter ones


What drove my hand became

the next and next mark

the impatient pleasure of making


Something without a name yet

whose future of not unlimited

possibility resembles my own


I worked without a plan I played

artist full of the moment

lost like a boy in a sandbox


The idea arrived at some point

a few strokes confirmed it

announced it named it and finished


Like a bell suddenly silent

tacked up forgotten until

this morning when I saw


The garden not the garden the picture

not of the garden but the garden

that was the picture of my


Hand in motion yesterday making

something unimportant but hungry

something kind of free



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

My Poems

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