Onomatopoetic

Onomatopoetic

In my present state,
I love to say the word
“ferocious,”
feeling the way each phoneme combines to create
a word whose meaning matches my mood like
an emotional onomatopoeia. Starting on the lips,
the deep “o” comes from behind and grabs the “f” and “r”
down into the gutter
where they all churn with the “cious.”

2.13.12

A Poem Is Like a Naked Song

A Poem Is Like a Naked Song

A poem is like a naked song
With nothing to cover the words

Song lyrics may be cruddy or inane,
But if the melody is catchy enough
Nobody cares

A poem stands alone

Huh
I am like a poem
Fiercely independent
With no pretenses

I am good at flying solo

But, oh, good music moves my soul
Perhaps more than just the lyrics
So how will it be
When I find my melody?

9.23.11

Love Poem for Public Radio

Love Poem for Public Radio

A veces* I get stuck

in my car
Nothing mechanical―
melodious, actually
I’m being seduced

by the voices I’ve grown to love
like Kai Risdal
Melissa Block and Meshelle Norris
Steve Inskeep and
Terri Gross with “Fresh Air!” ♦

I’m not sure how to spell their names
I’ve never seen them in print
or watched the faces of the ones
fueling this love affair
binding me spellbound
de temps en temps*
stuck in my car

Enriching, expansive, I feel
a little more informed
(I try to understand)
but presented with so many concepts
I might never have conceived
approaches overwhelming
and makes me less opinionated, if anything

NPR has taught me
to consume critically
to consider all sides of the story
and, ironically, to listen―
once in a while―
to another station, for variety in views
But before long I am back,
entertained and
sometimes even enraged
by the disturbing things I hear;
yet still I keep the dial
tuned to the station that I love

There’s surely more to come,

My love poem doesn’t feel complete

I mean, a friend just introduced me to Radio Lab

And there’s not time enough to consume the podcasts

I have other things to do too, you know

So uneori* I get stuck in my car

laughing with the Click and Clack from Cartalk
or soaking up those distinctive,
mysterious voices
feeding my hungry mind
and, somehow, stealing my indecisive heart

that must choose satisfaction with what I have now

That’s all for today, folks, so
thanks for joining me,
April Murdock,
in “Love Poem for Public Radio”

8.23.2011 / 1.8.12
 

* translation: “sometimes” in Spanish, French, and Romanian, respectively

♦ I love how Terri says her intro with such professional pizzazz.

Ten Days Left

Ten Days Left


When I get back to the U.S., I’m going swing dancing.
I will go camping, and spend quality time with my geographically scattered family. We’ll go boating, play games and stay up late talking.
And I will eat spinach instead of banana leaves, which I will probably miss.

I will miss the delicious cuisine, but not the dripping nose and sweating face from spiciness.
I will miss the freedom from sweets and mirrors, which have lost some of their grip on me in this locale.
Shopping will be a shock to my wallet, I know, from which I will never fully recover.

I will miss dark skin and saris, and I will miss seeing people walking on the sides of the roads.
I might even miss the honking cars—once in a while—and surely driving at home will be quite monotonous.

I confess, sometimes I will miss the open attention from foreign men and curious children, who find me to be a novelty or something; I haven’t figured it out.
In turn, I will miss the novelty of journeying solo in an ancient culture, the adventure of treading into new territory.

Within myself I have journeyed anew. Pain, a daily companion, I have considered with a sort of appreciation.
Those “leprous” parts of myself, the ones I wish not to own, I realize are equally important to my being.

Already I miss visiting the leprosy colonies, but I don’t dwell on that;
I will miss the teachers and staff at Rising Star,
but most of all I will miss the childrens.

Those children have left an indelible impression on me—
literally, with their small hands firmly pulling mine to see something,
but it is their voices and phrases filling the internal conversation in my mind that I can’t leave behind.
I hear their voices, the syntax of those new to English, clothed in a singsong tone accompanied by the frequent headbobble.

The essence of India cannot be captured in a bottle, a book, or a photo album. Even my heart doesn’t accurately contain it.

A month of extensions later, I’ve had my confirmation that it’s okay to go.
In eleven days I will say, “Yesterday, when I was in India…”

6.15.11

Mrs. Sunshine (If It Doesn't Feel Like Sunshine, It's Not Love)

Love is sunshine on my body,
warming my bones and bronzing my skin,
filling my heart with mmm, mmm good
If it doesn't feel like sunshine,
then it's not love

Love is holding a sweet baby,
cuddling with a child,
wrapped in that full, safe and warm
comfort in the chest and belly

Love is hearing one of my favorite songs come on,
and I’m sure it is a love note from God
because He knows it would make my moment

Love is almost like eating ice cream
which is ohhh, so good
but that’s probably just a chemical thing

Love is talking to a dear friend,
the kind with so many “remember whens”
and having a real connection
even though you haven’t talked in months
or maybe just yesterday

Love is kneeling in prayer,
anytime, anywhere
and pouring out my heart in whatever state it’s in—
and knowing God knows it already
and holds it carefully

Love is choosing to respond with an open and loving heart
even when I want to close shop
and give up for a while because “this just is not working.”

Love is seeing beauty in the clouds
when what I wanted was sunshine
Being stood up on a "hot date"
is always a disappointment
but it’s easy to forgive the sun
I know he’s always there
and the clouds won’t last forever

1.17.11

I’m Not Mother Teresa (but I Am a Latter-day Saint)

Sometimes it’s so hard to love myself
My potential for self-destruction scares me
I see it
I know it
And I fight it
Should I make a friend or an enemy with my shadow?

When I am disgusted with and fear myself
my heart is closed and I’m not loving others
Rather, I compare myself—fall into the trap—
and there can never find satisfaction

Judging others I do only because I am
judging myself
I know this
I judge myself for judging
And sink deeper into the trap

While a youth, I discovered a beautiful antidote in service
Losing myself by helping others
is when I am happiest and feel my best
and puts me on the path to achieving my positive potential

There are many questions I ask myself
to be clear in my motives
Truly helping is doing what needs to be done for that person or group
Not because I have something to prove
And sometimes it is saying “No”
or doing the hard thing with a soft heart

Can I do this for myself?
And still hold loving space within
when I don’t?

I’m not seeking admiration, just love and understanding
I’m not Mother Teresa
(but I am a Latter-day Saint)
And when you pedestalize me, I’m sure it’s out of respect
though sometimes with a little resentment
and it feels divisive,
doing nothing to bring us closer.
I’m not out to save the world
I can’t even save myself

As with all things there is a season,
so it is with giving and receiving.
Sometimes it is a service to receive
So someone else has opportunity to give.

The greatest blessing is to know
I’ve been a blessing to another—
Not as an unreachable Mother Teresa,
but as your loving friend
Sometimes I need to ask for help
humble myself
and give you opportunity for more blessings

I see choices between paths to potentials
The one of service or that of self-destruction
Both are familiar
And I sometimes walk them simultaneously
I’m no Mother Teresa
but I am a Latter-day Saint
I just want love and understanding—and respect

1.29.11

Whose Fault Is It Anyway?

Whose Fault Is It Anyway?

I didn’t ask to like him
Wasn’t in my plan
Life was moving splendidly
Without a distracting man

Sure, I was open-minded
To something beautiful unfolding
Respectful of each one’s agency
And all in the Lord’s timing

This new thing was going well, I felt
Loving every interaction
Certainly the feelings were mutual
And I know there was attraction

Green flags left and right
Told me to keep on going
What a lovely surprise it was
But never really knowing
If this was real
Or, rather, would keep on growing

Staying present was my best defense
But defense is not the word
Because in all of these matters
Of timing and agency
Self-protection must balance with risk

So onward I went---
Then suddenly it fizzed out
Somehow my feelings preceded logic
But surety followed doubt

Whatever happened,
I may always wonder
Twas a lovely chapter in my life
Until it went asunder

Wonder turned to disappointment
Which in turn became anger
What was the point of feeling that hope
If we were only to become strangers?

Funny thing is,
I’m not sure who I’m mad at—
Was it my fault? Maybe his?
Blame it on God; He knows what's what

I didn't ask to like him
Wasn't in my plan
Life was moving splendidly
Without a distracting man

But life goes on
As it always does
These chapters are interesting
And self-synonymous

Another will come along
Gives me substance for a poem
So whose fault is it, anyway?
The question's answer stays anonymous

12.19.10

Today My Journal Entry Is a Poem—
Under Shade

Numb
Non-tingling sneeze
Pressed under blanket-like pile
Coming up my throat
needs a break-through
Breathe

Contentious
Shaky legs
Wobbling
Sickly churning stomach
And eyebrows woven together
With a stamp between my eyes
Breathe

Anxious
Constricted belly
Mouth open
Forced yawn
Chest lifted
Gasping, sucking in air
Quiet urgency that I can maintain but
I can’t breathe

Resistance
Got a massage
Felt wonderful on the table
Soon as I got off,
couldn’t tell a difference
I’m a piece of work
and my work
is to do this for others
Breathe

Shame
Public and private selves
aren’t really talking
No one keeps track
but I know
Almost every bite
I feel I shouldn’t
Like my body in massage,
my mouth is happy
only while I’m feeding it
but my stomach is full
This is the gross blanket
I pile on myself
Breathe

Unworthy
He’s beautiful
and just taught English
in Thailand for a year
Loves to laugh and exercise
and wants me to be myself
(We’ve never met)
He represents what I want
and feel so far removed from
Breathe

God and Me
Having good intentions
Doing the right things
Going through the motions
What do You think of me?
“Bringing in the nutrients”
but “assimilation” is poor
I’m not getting much out of this
Breathe

9.1.10

To My Shadow

To My Shadow

Several times a day
people ask me how I am doing
To which I reply
authentically

I’m living the human experience
Interested in life
Practicing gratitude
Fighting the fight
Battling the demons
(we are evenly matched)

I’m aware of the Shadow

Peter Pan tried to catch his
So elusive
Fleeting
Transient and
Tricky

IPSB showed me mine
in my dreams
storytelling
myth and art

Through my body
my Shadow speaks to me
So elusive
Fleeting
Transient
and Tricky

How do I sing a Shadow?
I can dance it
Can I hold you?
Would you let me?

The Shadow is the
Other Side of All Things

Those parts of me
I wish not to own
Doing those things
I wish not to do

That which is never satisfied
And wants to destroy

Do I credit my Shadow
with too much?
Or need to give you more tribute?
You demand respect
And find a way
To make your voice heard

[It seems like
I’ve written this before]

My poetry is easy
Words on a page
are simple to put down
but the feeling,
the presence
that got me here
is what I try to capture
or tap into
because I know it’s there
somewhere
and in the complexities
of my mind
I take detours and
complicate matters
until I’m thoroughly frustrated
and blocked

My poetry is easy
Flowing and raw,
unprocessed—
organic, you could say
no filters here
but they are just words
that I birth
with smooth labor
And if it’s easy,
am I really feeling it?
Really processing?

I want to move through
Go deep
Transform
Can words take me there?
Words are the first part of the picture
and must include also,
ironically,
a picture
music,
movement

I wrote in Metapoem
that I hear my heart
I paint my mind
I mold my soul
I dance on a page
with the words that build my poems

Words, you have been
faithful friends
and for this,
I thank you

As dear friends sometimes must part
I feel that we
must separate
to embark on another journey
in a different realm

And ah, my Shadow
I will make Thee a Friend

Chocolate is chocolate
Because there’s a vanilla
And even more so because
There’s a strawberry

The Shadow
wouldn’t exist
without the sun
But at sun’s peak
there is no shadow
The sun runs its course
like seasons and
even when clouds
obscure the view,
the sun is always there

The Shadow
wouldn’t exist
without the sun
But at sun’s peak
there is no shadow
The sun runs its course
like seasons and
even when clouds
obscure the view,
the sun is always there

8.26.2010

Jetlag

Jetlag

My body tells me it’s 4 p.m. tomorrow, and somehow I lived Monday twice
I watched a record five and a quarter inspiring movies—
a befitting way to end the peace conference zeitgeist
One long LA layover lunch with a friend
Then rushed off to class for the night
My body tells me it’s 4 p.m. tomorrow, and somehow I lived Monday twice

Connection

Connection

I.
On paper you make sense
We like the same things, both
get excited and passionate about life,
learning and service
We explore and adventure the world,
talk for hours about everything
have similar circles of friends
and in my head, we go together
Are you what I need?

II.
Pleasing to the eye,
your face is beautiful
Like Mayer said, "Your body is a wonderland"
I'm drawn to you
and fear you too
My eyes don't know how to trust
the mirror

III.
Deep as the ocean
Wide as the Nile
Burning like lava
Cold as floor tile
Through the varied seasons of my heart
you know how to reach me,
nearly complete me
Your goodness and honesty
inspire and move me
But my heart is walled off
and I hold back
waiting to see if we
connect on all levels

IV.
What is soul? Where is mine,
where is yours?
Together we meet sometime,
somewhere on our journeys
Timing and agency are key

The walls melt down
This feels right
My mind likes you
I like you with my eyes
My heart likes you
My soul likes you too
So this is connection of mind, body and heart
growing for eternity
Is this for real?

2.18.10

A Night of Poetry and Guitar Invite

A Night of Poetry and Guitar Invite

You don’t have to rhyme
You don’t have to be funny
You needn’t be deep
or even give money

Just enjoy good company
And if you can, well, then
give a little something
to help a sibling in Haiti

Leave better than you came—it’s a noble goal

Whether you share your own works or those of a beloved griot
from 7:30 to 10 we'll be jammin' so congruously
that you’ll want to sneak in when you can—albeit inconspicuously

Whaddya say? This night of poetry and guitar is prob’ly your first;
Don’t make it your last since the muse inside is itching to burst

(If you think this is corny
Realize that it's late at night
I've had fun in my writing
and Pandora radio listening)

1.26.10

Patiently Active

Patiently Active

Sometimes the tears come
when I don’t want them
but they wash over me
spilling from red-rimmed eyes
nearly swollen shut from heartache
that somehow found its way
from my belly to my mouth
with my sobs and salty tears

I said I didn’t want to cry
unless it was productive

I promised the Lord I would give Him my heart
I know He wants me to marry
but I’ve been convinced that my fate
is to continue my heartache and crying
so I choose to avoid close relationships
and alone find relative peace—
rather than accept the inevitable pain
with its fairy-tale promise of joy

Thus I’ve been deceived
wrapped in my tight cocoon
avoiding all that I fear
But as any cocoon will someday realize
that into a butterfly it will metamorphize
so too will I branch out into the sky
and to fly I must stretch my wings

I don’t know if my tears built my cocoon
or if now they are melting it down
while patiently active I’m learning to be
even happy in this in-between state

8.21.09

“Spiders Don’t Need Ladders”

(a.k.a. “That’s All I Got, and All I Got Is Good,” “Intuition on High” and “Inner Guide”

This poem came from my Dreamwork class at IPSB, in which I incorporated the titles my classmates gave me upon hearing my dream Aug. 5: “Always Preparing,” “History Repeating Itself,” “Dusting off My Intuition,” and “It’s Okay, Mom”)

Mom’s worried for me,
always preparing
and doing her best
to give me everything

“It’s okay, Mom,” I comfort her
easing her mind
She’s given me much
and been very kind

As great as she is,
Mom can’t do all
The cobwebs are mine
They make me stand tall

When I cannot reach them,
a ladder I climb
to the places concealed
from the sun’s shine

Intuition sits there
high on the shelf
Some dust it has gathered,
covering its wealth

Eagerly I brush
the cobwebs aside
discovering riches
in my inner guide

How the cobwebs arrived
I really don’t know
History repeats itself
when all’s status quo

For a time forgotten?
Or purposely lost?
Whatever the reason,
hiding’s not worth the cost
My wisdom tells me now
how obvious that it is—
Spiders don’t need ladders
But they can use them if they wish

August 7, 2009

Metapoem

Metapoem

Where do I start?
The title came to me and
I thought it was near brilliant
Do I have the words to qualify?

I can’t force a poem
They are their own creations
that somehow find their way into my heart and mind

For some it is a melody
For others it is a color, a pencil, a palette, a canvas
Or a carving, a sculpture, a molding, a mixture
Movement, rhythm and body create dance
Wood, stone, glass and bricks build a home
I hear my heart
I paint my mind
I mold my soul
I dance on a page
with the words that build my poems

Capture a moment I may never experience again
I discover myself in my poems
I create myself in them too
They are not mine only
They are meant to be shared

April Murdock
10.8.06

Letting Dragon Swamp

Letting Dragon Swamp


Old, familiar feeling
you protected me for so long
I’ve nurtured you carefully
Carefully like a loving mother
tenderly nurses her infant
who depends on her for everything

You grew and invaded
Overtook me like a weed infests the soil
You deceived me, saying I need you,
I need more, to feel good
To be happy
To survive
You’re never satisfied
You don’t give up

Turned into a monster
Demanding, selfish and mean
Showing up uninvited, unannounced
then suddenly retreating like a dream
Going back to your warm, throbbing,
pulsing putrid swamp

Subtle and sneaky, your strong tendrils crawl out far
But when unmasked I feel your marred figure,
you storm in powerfully
making your presence known,
and why?

Lest I forget you are there?
Afraid you’ve been neglected,
and are wasting away?

I’ve hated you
Wanted to annihilate you
Suffocate and drown you
Ignore the shadows of myself

But then whom could I blame
for not achieving perfection now?
Who else would have protected me
from maybe, possibly, someday
fully loving myself and therefore another?

Who else would have given me excuse
to avoid so successfully entering the unknown
and risk being hurt?

Carefully I nurtured you all of my life
but I see you now
You’ve been exposed.

Old familiar feeling,
you are not welcome here
I am pulling up your weeds
as quickly as they grow
I have been digging for years,
and I’m approaching your root

I won’t hate you forever
I know that I nurtured and enabled you
But it is without regret that I say goodbye,
for I know better now

I embrace my shadows without the shame
You are nothing but a fleeting whisper
that has no home and blows in the breeze
May the sun swallow your swamp
and leave you with satisfying beams

April Murdock
5.14.09

If I Were an Insect, I'd Be an Ant

If I Were an Insect, I’d Be an Ant

If I were an insect,
I’d be an ant
Sugar I’d find
Don’t tell me I can’t

You think you hid it well
but I will prevail
through packages,
wrappers, cracks to no fail

Sticky, icky, gooey and sweet
Such is my trap
on the side of the street

Picnics, kitchens, gardens and farms
Magnifying glasses
Pants with alarm
All over the world
my kind may be found
Hot or cold, wet or mold
Way up high, in the ground

We may all look the same
in our little bodies
but if you look closely
you will see we are hotties

Yes, if I were an insect
an ant I would be
Strong and so tough
Don’t be fooled ’cause I’m tiny

Please don’t mind the smell
when one of us is squished
A little bit of soap
and again you’re delish

Some may not like me
but I pay no mind
Searching, adventuring,
with uniqueness I abound

So although I’m unique
and I can go solo
I enjoy good company
with my fabulous fellows

Ants never rest
Did you ever think of that?
Constantly moving
That’s why we’re not fat

Sometimes we bite—
I do apologize.
Never unprovoked
This to realize would be wise

So while you may not like me
Please leave your magnifying glass home
I also love the sun
but torturous play I don’t condone

Don’t hate me because
my love for sugar is a mess
If it means anything to you
I help aerate your grass!

“If I were,” I’ve said
But an insect I am not
Analogies are fun but
truth cannot be bought

(I wanted to rhyme
Nevermind if it made sense
I can experiment freely
with some literary license)

Perseverance, industry
unity and frugality
organization, intelligence
service and consistency

These values I support
through my actions every day
Seek all creatures to respect—
my simple motto is the way

April Murdock
4.22.09

Broccoli

Broccoli

Broccoli is like a
little tree that fits
so nicely
in
my
mouth

April Murdock
4.22.09

Luxury of Trauma

The title for this one came when I was at the Museum of Photographic Art at Balboa Park in San Diego with some friends. We had just viewed an exhibit of colorful photos from India and were discussing the hardships that so many in the world face.

Luxury of Trauma

As the bathtub fills with hot water
My heart fills with gratitude
I’ve lived in countries
that didn’t have such luxuries
But I had the choice to leave

The adventures were fun while they lasted
And I didn’t mind fetching water
To take a cold shower.
Besides, the air was hot
And the cool bucket offered relief
After my long sweaty morning runs

I chose to take the 24-hour flight
to live amongst people so
different than myself.
Circumstances vastly different,
yes—but are we so foreign
to not share a common humanity?

Among these ones, abuse is expected
It’s called “discipline,” and “respect for your elders”
“That’s the African way,” they say
It’s rare to know otherwise

Among these ones, young girls succumb
to promises of a smooth sugar daddy
“I’ll pay your school fees,” and
“I’ll treat you right,” he croons

Among these ones, disease and death
are daily dealings
Everyone gets malaria a few times per year
STDs are widespread
and AIDS funerals occur frequently

Among these ones, it’s normal
to have both parents die of AIDS,
a child raising his younger siblings
going to work like a responsible adult
just to eat some porridge each day
lucky to get into school
drop out by age 12

Among these ones, illiteracy
accompanies an empty belly
and trauma is a luxury reserved
for those who can afford it

There is no paid sick day
No health insurance
No psychotherapist
People just wake up each day
and keep going

Do they carry their mourning
with their water cans?
Do they bury it with their seeds?
Or burn it with their trash?

What I might call trauma,
do these ones call “just another day”?
Never do I want to minimize
or misunderstand
Our ways of dealing with life may differ
But do we not all bleed the same color?
Do we not all hope
for peace, love, and a satisfied belly?

Among these ones,
there is much to celebrate and cherish
the family network is extended and strong
there is no “aunt” or “uncle”
all are “mother” or “father,”
and cousins are siblings
One steps in where the others have fallen out

Their humility and generosity
are hard to find among many others,
hardened by their circumstances

I am honored to have been among these ones
My heart is reminiscent, wondering and pensive,
my time with them was short
How have I been bettered
How have my traumas turned to luxuries?

Such are my thoughts
in my full and hot bathtub

April Murdock
1.30.09

Mirror

Mirror

i caught a
glimpse
of hatred
in the mirror
it scared me
made me
uncomfortable
i looked
away

April Murdock
1.10.09