Falling in Love with George Strait

Falling in Love with George Strait

One step, two …
Falling in love with you
Deep in the Heart of Texas
You Took My Breath Away.
Dancing, dancin’ … one step, two …
I Just Want to Dance with You.
You, a beatnik from Berkeley,
A Stranger in My Arms.
One step, two …
As the New Kid in Town
Someone Had to Teach You,
But you loved me enough
To one step, two …
At the Silver Dollar
I fell in love with the smile in your eyes.
Just Look at Me,
A Fire I Can’t Put Out.
I’m in Too Deep
As we circled the floor
Week after week.
But it was Amarillo by Morning …
One step, two ….
That is when I knew
I’d spend my life with you.



© 2016 Sandra Fox Murphy. All rights reserved.

Gold Frame

A womanchild.
I think she used to be me,
Cavity of hope,
Harboring pulsating dreams.

How strange she looks.
A paperdoll her mother
Cut out,
Innocence full of doubt.

Someone crushed and
Threw her away.
She was lace –
I am leather.

© 2016 Sandra Fox Murphy. All rights reserved.


Wooden steps creak as piano keys
Playing tunes to tendons aching
From days stretched across lifetimes,
Pulling memories like an old man’s toothless grin
Smiling at me.

Peeling paint curls,
Uncovering pasts
Once buried like bones turned to dust,
Still revealing secrets.
I pull the shades to shut out glaring
Rays of doomed dreams,
Or, to hold in truths that rage like desert winds.

Cradles, empty, of children
now cradled in the grave.
And, children had,
Bled tears from open wounds,
Father never saw.

Cracked linoleum, pleading attention,
Ravishes footsteps seeking solace,
Tripping hope like a tumbleweed
Struggling against barbed wire on the plain.

Bleached sheets on the line against dark skies,
Seeking purity over sins done and undone.
A frayed calico dress hangs blowing in the wind.


Artwork by Sarah (Sally) Lurty
© 2016 Sandra Fox Murphy. All rights reserved.

Wooden Swing


Frayed ropes connecting
Wood to wood,
Splintered board to limb,
Weaving lives of
Little pigtailed girls in smocks,
Gently pushed by mothers’ regrets,
And, boys, in overalls,
Stretching to catch a cloud.

A swing always swings
Empty in the wind
With all the
Children’s whims
And mothers’ dreams,
Back and forth
For years
Since Daddy sawed and sanded
New wood and
Knotted fresh rope,
Back and forth
As each new generation
Begs to be lifted
To push to the sky.

Sandra Fox Murphy

  • © 2016 Sandra Fox Murphy. All rights reserved.

Old Moon in New Moon’s Arms



Embrace me, lift my glow,

Hold me high as I go.

Your arms so bright

Light the night.

Someday soon I’ll be gone

Show no pity in the fading dawn.

For you will spin and gleam

Atop the earth below

As did I not so long ago.

But just for now,

Frame me, display me,

Embrace me in my afterglow.

Sandra Fox Murphy


© 2016 Sandra Fox Murphy. All rights reserved.



Shivering amidst drifting frosted airdrops

Crisp as white linen dried in winter sunlight,

Trees bejeweled with sun-beamed crystals,

I am dressed to greet spring.

Sandra Fox Murphy



It is April. National Poetry Month. Let’s speak in rhymes, in metaphors, create images in movement. Touch hearts.






Photo: Ann Yakimova

© 2016 Sandra Fox Murphy. All rights reserved.




Amidst the trees, within the woods
A brook called to me, the sound of a rill.
It called my name, an ancient word
I had not heard.

Up the bank and through the leaves
Still moist from days of dew and shadows long.
The air was thick and laden well
With the smell
Of rotting wood mixed with rain.
And, through the branches, the brook
I found; it’s water splashing about the ground.
The calmness spread around about
Like fog that wrapped as if in doubt.

I crouched beside the forming pool
Of water clear and smooth.
On peering down, I startled saw
A face that first was foreign, strange,
But transformed slowly to myself, framed,
By ripples, grasses, the forest itself.

Who is this image
shining back? So primitive, yet myself.
It’s God’s reflecting glass that gives me pause
As to who I am and who I was.

But, then, my eye caught the face near me.
Staring back as if to see
What danger lurked. Was he afraid of
My reflection that him might see? And I caught the eye
Mirrored back at me.

He did not move.
He did not blink.
His preservation was at the brink of
Looking through the water blue
Into the eye of my image true.

Who’d move first?
Did he know me,
From a life before, or yet to be?
The time passed slowly, forever it seemed,
Then the otter, he backed away,
So slowly as if not seen;
And was swiftly gone, blending into green.

Sandra Fox Murphy

Photo: Stephan Morris

© 2016 Sandra Fox Murphy. All rights reserved.