I used to be a drummer, nearly had a record deal...went south though. Used to do clubs and pubs playing 50's and 60's stuff. Also used to play golf, enjoyed it. But my disability caught up and witha bad back, arms, hands and shoulders both these had to go. Hence why I started getting back into modelling, it keeps me active and helps my hands.
I have written two books, published via POD. One is a war book, not available any more, and the other is murder mystery. I also used to write poetry with a few pieces published.
Here is an old poem about men getting shot for cowardice in the first war.
As dawn
dispels
the dark-
it lays to
rest the
nightmarish
ghouls
that invaded
my mind.
I’m more
alive now-
this
morning
this
moment.
Stupid as
that may
seem, my
eyes
take in
a world
afresh.
Grass,
so lush.
Dew,
so wet.
Scents of
the earth,
fill me
as if
newborn.
As the
resonance
of six men
surround
me…
…I weep.
Not for
my fate-
but for
the birds
that will
bear witness.
© Picture & Poem Simon Murphy 2007.
This piece may sound like the brave young man going to his death, but in truth, many where given Morphine or alcohol a few hours before. This is still a sore point amongst the British Legion regarding pardons, some young men shot were rogues-repeat offenders, but many were just shell-shocked frightened boys.
Dedicated to all the fallen, and again, I can only hope that mankind will one day sort out his differences and live in peace.
PAINTING THE TARN RED.
A soldiers death.
This piece has been accepted for display at Eden Camp, a WWII POW camp that is now a museum.
It has also been accepted for publication in a Remembrance book published by Poetry Now.
Dishevelled and grimy a tramp of the fields
Cursing gasps as torn, muddy hands grope
Orange glimmer silhouettes abode in ruins
Starlight erupts and drifts lazily in blackness
Tranquil in form awaiting the blanket of night
Now unchained to move, scurrying like a rat
Nearly there…hope in a weary heart
A few more steps to shattered village life
Nearly there…a smile on cracked lips
Eyes catch Sweet Lavender, spikes reaching high
Nearly there...nearly home
He heard no sound as projectile whistled his way
Its merry tune of death finding its mark
Nearly there...so nearly there
Faltering and swooning in Grim reaper’s embrace
A flashback to times sat with friends long gone
Where summer Fairy Moss danced with Dragonfly hunter
As life now spills and flows into inky pool of memories
He is saluted by the Water Soldiers who guard this place
© SIMON MURPHY 2005
Si
