David Murphy – Three Poems

daveDavid Murphy is a relatively new writer. He was born in 1963 in South London. David has lived in Ireland since he was twelve years old. He was a member of the Irish defence forces, worked as a chef, a taxi driver and various other fields before returning to university and is presently enrolled in this year’s MA in writing in NUI Galway. His literary interests are in fiction and poetry.


Crunchy steps
pack powdery snow tightly underfoot.
We trudge along the path,
muffled sound of footsteps
seems like they are someplace else,
not here.

Winter drapes her immaculate whiteness
over nature’s landscape.
Eyes behold a beautiful transformation.
The icy magician, enchanting,
leads us further under her spell.

You’re happy,
I’m pleased.

You speak, but I can’t hear through your laughter.
I laugh at your cloud breath,
then together we become cloud-breathing dragons.

The path winds up the hill.
The silent trees like sentinels witness our ascent,
their bare branches silhouette against silvery-grey light.
“Look” was all you said.
A robin on the branch had taken its rightful place.
Perceived through eagle eyes,
the icing on the cake.

Man in the Attic

Dawn arrives.
A murder of crows on the attic roof,
he stirs alone to the sound of scratching,
crumpled, bent,
on a sofa built for two.

Fearful, he encounters four uninvited hooded horsemen,
despair is their game,
he doesn’t hear,
watches the clock on sky TV.
No movement until it’s time to go.

No blade on skin,
no wash,
no comb pulled through the tangled hair,
no food.
Ten-thirty am,
the only vital thing.

Unsteady, he descends the creaky stair,
Head hung, walks by bottles scattered on the floor.
The dog, his only true companion
wonders when he will return.

Tunnel-vision leads him on his way,
the solitary purpose, to get there quick.
Concerned, the shop assistant pauses,
Then asks the questions he abhors.

With a weary, shaky smile,
he tells her once again
the rehearsed lie:
I’m grand,
I’m cutting down,
Just a few today.

No time to dwell,
Steps outside, bottle in hand,
to a corner where no one can see,
Puts bottle to lips,
sees the sky.

Taxi Driver

Alone in his bedroom with no company,
Stares in the mirror,
‘you talking to me?’
Answers his question,
to mirror draws near,
head to the side,
don’t see no-one else here.
No hero’s welcome, he’s back from the war,
Keep strong, stay together, press-ups on the floor.
He once was that Soldier, who stood straight and tall,
No choice but to answer old Uncle Sams call.

Now he can’t sleep at night, how he longs to be free,
first-hand witness to corruption and untold misery.
Working nights in a taxi,
don’t like what he see,
Withdrawn, alienated, from society.

Oh yellow taxi cab, roll on down Manhattans rainy city street,
Wiper blades keep time to that old jazz beat.
Long hours for doing nuthin,
don’t make no sense to me.
He’s Thinking, I’m only half the man I used to be.

This man’s war is not over;
he walks right outa’ the door.
Porn movies, rejection, four handguns, kill senator, save whore.,

His hurt purple heart is so weary now,
depression kicks in mind goes numb,
Only one last mission left, to rid the streets of scum.

Oh crazy taxi driver,
slow down, you’re going way too fast,
get out of that car, turn around, don’t look back,
if you don’t you aint gonna last.

One last journey to alphabet city, this taxi’s no longer for hire.
Walks up to the brothel, looks across at the pimp,
then calmly opens fire.
Inside the dimly lit corridor now, the bouncer cries out “please don’t shoot.”
Outa Travis’s sleeve rolls a colt 45,
too late, a root a toot toot!!!

His eyes and guns are a blazing now,
as he carries on right down the hall,
searching for little Iris,
to take her away from it all.
No one expected young Travis that night, would come shooting through the door,
in New York it’s not that unusual to see bodies in pools of gore.

Surrounded by death on the sofa now, the cops file in two by two,
With his eyes he says shoot me why don’t ya!
With his fingers goes PSHOO! PSHOO! PSHOO!

Big apples always go rotten, when they’re left to lie on the shelf,
Same’s true of the human condition, Travis Bickle lost touch with himself.

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