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by kckerrie

She enjoyed being a writer

more than anything else

and she took her craft, very seriously.


But occasionally_

she would find herself

randomly pressing keys

on her typewriter

and for no other reason than that

she liked the sounds that

the keys would make.


Tap. Tap. Tap.

Click. Click. Click.

It was like Music.

 submitted by cs murphy


  • Catherine Schmid Murphy
A Moment Of Revelation

A Moment Of Revelation 0

by kckerrie

and then,

a moment-of


came to her-

that chance

and deliberateness

had never been

in competition

with one another



  • Catherine Schmid Murphy
I Write

I Write 0

by kckerrie August 27, 2020


Some people shop, snack,

drink or complain.

I write.


Lamp Post Poetry by kckerrie

kckerrie on handesofawoman

submitted by cs murphy 9-27-2020

  • Catherine Schmid Murphy
I Went Outside In My Yard Today

I Went Outside In My Yard Today 0

by kckerrie

I went outside in my yard today.
or so I thought.
And I chose my spot.
I lowered my body onto that spot - and bending my legs, I closed my eyes and lowered my belly toward the ground.
My head to the green grass and my belly,
to the flat earth.

And there I laid.
Where willfully I surrendered for
a time
and with deliberateness,
I listened.

to the birds
Listening to the squirells jumping, swinging and shimmying.
Listening to the beating of my own heart
from just the other side of my pressed ear and just behind my right eye.

And heard the many sounds the traffic makes, from off and away.
I listened to the trains whistle as they’d move by; mightily, rumbing the earth.

I then yielded completely
as I welcomed the uninvited showings from many other sounds that had been tentative of me or unfamiliar;
all while curled up into a soft pulse of moving and shifting air;
of both highs and lows.

The prickling grass tickled my cheek as my belly grew warm and damp and soft.
All while I listened, still and purposeful.

I acquiesced to it all
as if to a test of my Restoration.

And so in its conclusion ,
having named each and all present and observable sounds — as my now reassuring Companions.


submitted by cs murphy 9-21-20

  • Catherine Schmid Murphy
The Most Important Letter I Ever Wrote

The Most Important Letter I Ever Wrote 0

by kckerrie
_the Most Important Letter I Ever Wrote_ (by kckerrie)

Truthfully, though;
there were two letters. Not one.
Two most Important letters I Ever wrote.
Both Love letters,
written with only two years between them,
written to two different men.
Both of whom have my Heart.

The first most important letter I ever wrote
was written to my loving Father,
a Love letter
written to him a little more than a year before I lost him.
Gifted it to him in Life
and then the letter returned to my possession,after his death.

And the second most important letter I ever wrote,
a Love letter
written to a Man I loved only second to my Father;
the most sturdy and penetrating man I ever came to know.
And once, my lover.
I wrote the second most important letter I ever wrote
less than a year after I had made
that fateful decision.
The decision to leave him;
owing that choice, partly to my own punishing insufficiencies
and derelict judgement.
An avowed and telling letter which has yet to reach him.

Each letter, tailored most delicately.
Each letter written quietly and promisingly
by a somber lite; between the hours of sunset
and sunrise.

In life, I will never see either of these Men again;
one for his death
and the other for
his unforgiveness.

The most important letters I ever wrote
both Love letters
now sitting, each enclosed, back-to-back on a corner table in my home -
next to burnt candle ash, one small flashlight, a memento from my father, one painted rock, a framed picture of Jesus,
a small wooden box of unaccepted apologies
and one silly, flat, plastic toy insect worm.

kckerrie lamp post poetry
submitted by cs murphy
  • Catherine Schmid Murphy
The Precious Wound

The Precious Wound 0

Written 2016 by kckerrie

That Precious Wound.
Do You Remember When...?

Do you Remember When—after 9-11 when ... as a nation, we stood Tall and Proud?
Our pride swelled High
as the Twin Towers themselves.
Do you Remember When we were unapologetically displaying our American flags and in every possible place imaginable?
With swollen chests we Flew our flags in our yards, through our car windows and stuck them on our bumpers.
Remember When we placed flags in our living room windows and on our front doors?
We dressed our children in “I Love America” T-shirts.
Our greeting cards and our playing cards patriotically displayed our pride.
When business owners would showoff their homemade pride in their store front windows…
Or a simple patriotic ceramic candy bowl would sit at the check-in window at your doctor’s office.
The pen they offered us at the bank was red, white and blue.
The grocery store display, was created with Patriotic forethought.
And if you didn’t already own anything with ‘The Red, White and Blue’ on it you felt a sense of regret…and you went right out and bought something.
A blanket for the bed, maybe. A poster, a coffee mug. It didn’t really matter what.
Remember when pick-up truck owners would fasten an Enormous American Flag on the back and then drive down MAIN STREET USA, solely for the purpose of attracting turning heads, waving hands, beeping cars and Unity.
Flags would hang down over highway overpasses and we would have almost a moment of silence until we drove underneath them.
When as a terrorized and frightened nation… our Precious Wound was Shared!
When the accusation of bigotry wasn’t connected to ones Love of Country.
There was a sense of Unity. A palpable one. Compelling.
You would almost swear you could touch it.

Pride flowed through our veins with a Warm rush.
It was a shared wound, a wound that we each claimed, individually and jointly.
A wound - and a heartbreak, So Precious.

In the uniqueness of it all… there was a CONSCIOUSNESS of something Extraordinary.
And IN that consciousness, it made each of us Better.

There was a camaraderie on the street.
Discussions with strangers.
Old friends got in touch.
People went back to church.
People hugged.
We held doors for each other.
We said please and thank you.

Do You Remember that Precious Wound?
I Do!
That wound made me a better Human being and an unapologetic, Stand-Up, Come and Get it, BadAss American.
God help us all, if we EVER FORGET that precious, precious Wound.


  • Catherine Schmid Murphy