Worriers of The Sun PDF

Worriers of the Sun
Worriers of the Sun

Flower Song
By
Josehf Lloyd Murchison
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Worriers of the Sun
©Copyright 2012 by Josehf Lloyd Murchison

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without
the prior written permission of the author or the publishers, except by a
reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a
newspaper, magazine, or journal.
First Printing
The publisher has allowed this work to remain exactly as the author
intended verbatim, without editorial input.
ISBN 13: 978-0-9813319-1-1
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Worriers of the Sun
Authors Biography
Born in Cornwall Ontario Canada my family followed my father’s
work construction, to Mississauga and Toronto, Ontario. My father
worked on famous sites as the Cornwall Sea Way, the Commerce
Court, and the CN Tower.
I sometimes like to say I was born under an oriental curse, “May your
life be interesting.”
Josehf is Spanish and Aramaic spelling of Joseph my parents screwed

up the spelling when I was born, people ask me why I don’t change my
name to Joseph. I tell them I don’t in order to irritate my parents. After
all why should I change my name to fix their mistake?
An odd story goes with my name, my grandfather was Joseph Lloyd

Foubert and I was named after my grandfather when he discovered the
spelling mistake my grandfather kidnapped me and had me baptized
Joseph so god would know who I was.
I started writing over thirty years ago when I was in high school,
where I met my wife Mary Anne. We are the proud parents of two sons
Joshua and Michael. I am a published author my novelette “Tails of a
Gay Incubus” and my poetry book “Melodious Verse” both can be
found on the net. I write short stories and poetry for the love of writing.
By
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Introduction
Poetry goes back to before recorded time much of it lost to the ages
and war, book burning; the practice of tyranny, meant to restrict the
passage of ideas must stop. It is up to the poets and philosophers to be
the guardians of the future and save ideas for our youth.
Aztec warriors were called a number of names; jaguar, or eagle

knights, even warriors of the sun god, just to mention a few, poetry in
the Aztec world was known as "flower and song," and this is how I
came to the title of this book of poetry.
To quote the Aztec’s 1400 AD

“The only occupation worthy of a worrier in times of peace is a poet.”
Their poetry survives today.
Much of the poetry in this book is inspired by anger, and some of the
poetry has swearing and very dark thoughts in it, inspired by the world
of today and the evil in it, I vented my anger where it would do the
most good.
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Worriers of the Sun
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Freedom
Freedom isn’t free it is paid for in blood sweat and the lives of the
people willing to give their lives for what they believe in. Soldiers,
Worriers, Writers, Poets and Freedom fighters all give their lives,
blood, words and future to the cause of freedom. With the hopes that
the future will give life to their dreams of justice without tyranny they
give all that they will be to the call of freedom.
Will their sacrifice be remembered or forgotten to the winds of time

like the leaves in a tree come the winter. Forgotten are the reasons for
laws to protect the rights of the individual and replaced with laws that
give power to a few of little scruples. Activists with their hearts in
vengeance or politically correct hate that band together to oppress
those that offend them. Corporations that take advantage of the
indifference of politicians and the courts to control and profit from the
masses that feed their desire for power.
Freedom isn’t lost in one felled swoop it is lost one law at a time. With
amendments to the constitution the rights of all grow smaller until they
no longer exist. With each new law built upon the amendments
freedom is lost to everyone and the sacrifices of the ones that gave
their lives and their futures to the call of freedom is lost and forgotten
to indifference. Is this what they gave their life, their blood and their
future for? To be forgotten, ignored and lost to time.
It is up to us to remember the sacrifices of our forefathers and even the

people they fought against. To read the poems written to the bravery of
the ones that gave their future. To sing the songs of the heroes and the
villains, to remember the stories of the survivors and the fallen in the
battle for freedom, to carry on the fight for freedom and remember the
sacrifices, pain and sorrow, if we do not remember, if we do not carry
on the fight for freedom. We will be lost to the prisons of our own
construction and their dreams, their futures and their sacrifices will
have been for nothing.
By
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Aldorons Doom is in memory of a friend that died at the hands of the

court. Living with Schizophrenia he was harassed and tormented
beyond endurance by the youth in the small town he lived until one
day he drove off his tormentors at the point of a crossbow.
These misguided youth decided they had a right to tease my friend and
in that belief called the Police claiming they were attacked without
provocation.
The Police bound by policy and ignorance, arrested my friend and

held him over for trial.
While in custody and without a comprehensive policy on the treatment

of people in custody with mental health issues he was denied his
medication. It wasn’t long and he became mentally unable to stand
trial. Since he was mentally unable to stand trial he was released into
the custody of his family for treatment.
On the way to the mental health institute, they stopped at their home to
get a fresh change of clothing. He waited in the car as his father was in
the house packing fresh clothing. His father was on the way back to the
car when he heard the gunshot. My friend had taken his own life.
I never knew he lived with Schizophrenia; he never missed taking his

medication. It was his medication that kept him stable enough to live a
normal life. When he was denied his medication by the courts and
custody, they may as well have shot him themselves.
I know a number of people that attempted or committed or suicide for

one reason or another. Whether they lived with manic depression or
schizophrenia, these people never gave themselves or the people
around them a chance to help them with their troubles.
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Aldorons Doom
I stand upon the precipice of eternity,
before me certain doom.
My mind awash of misery,
all dark and filled with gloom.
The world a place of sorrow,
no man a mind of peace.
Life a burden of the sole,
its perils never cease.
I take a step into the void,
it does not end right there.
I hear the wind whistle,
as it passes through my hair.
The ground is growing closer,
I slowly close my eyes.
I feel the earth rising,
there will be no surprise.
By
Copyright © 2007 Josehf Lloyd Murchison
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I know a number of people that took their own life or attempted to

commit suicide, schizophrenia, manic depression, or just unrequited
love, are just some of the reasons they do this to themselves. I wonder
if they realize how much they hurt the ones around them or even care.
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Despair
The inexorable pain of unrequited love within a caring soul, young

dreams dashed upon the rocky shores of despair and in one fleeting
moment all is gone to the loved ones about them.
All the wisdom of the universe between the pages of time at the
fingertip for the asking and the page not turned, the question not asked.
Desperate lives within the worlds of the mind’s creation lost to

obscurity and oblivion inside the single act that cannot be undone.
The sweet experiences of life’s pain and pleasures beyond endurance

squandered by the actions of a harlequin of little forethought as to the
ramifications of this parsimonious act.
The self-destructive self-serving imprudent act of taking one’s own

life in a moment of despair and the anguish of depression.
Suicide is forever.
By
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I knew a chap that used suicide and the threat of suicide to get his way
when he got mad or arrested by police. In the end he drank himself to
death, alone in a one bedroom apartment. He had one friend, me, and I
was abroad when he died.
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Mad Mad
He walks around
an empty head
an empty hand
an empty bead.
He stands around
with hat on head
with glove on hand
with sheets on bead.
He sits around
no words in head
no pen in hand
no one in bead.
He lays around
a hole in head
a gun in hand
a bloody bead.
By
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Bald Headed Christ is inspired by my father, I never heard my father

use a serious swear word until I turned twenty one, when he got mad
he would say Jesus bald headed Christ. He was bald and it was funny
the way he said it.
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Bald Headed Christ
Jesus bald headed Christ he would say.

Where are your brains have they gone away.
You sit in your room all through the day.
Now please go outside to run and play.
When he was pissed off or really mad.

This is what was said by my dear old dad.
Now that he is dead, I am not sad.
I think of him when my kids are bad.
So remember this as time goes by.

The little things you miss when they die.
And don’t waste your time to sit and cry.
Remember to keep love in your eye.
So to my father this I will say.

I hope you're in heaven to this day.
By
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I read and critique poetry for other authors looking to improve their
writing. Many of the critiques are public and I get to read what other
authors have said about the poems they have read. Many of the authors
of the critiques make unkind comments that are just plain cruel to the
author of the poem. So I wrote this Carmen figuratum with a
cryptographic message just for them. Carmen figuratum is a poem that
has a certain shape or pattern formed either by all the words it contains
or just by certain ones therein.
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Be Nice
Don’t be nasty,
don’t be mean.
Don’t use words,
that are obscene.
Don’t be obscure,
please be concise.
Don’t use words,
that are not nice.
Don’t stroke egos,

like a phallus.
Don’t use words,
filled with malice.
Don’t hurt feelings,

when you write.
Critiques are for helping,
so keep it tight.
By
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Worriers of the Sun
I spent a day critiquing poetry that was the most horribly written
poems I have ever read. The authors never gave their poems a title or
paid attention to English structure in any manner and claimed the
poems were free verse. Some of the poems had words structured like a
text message, I think a poem completely in text would be neat but just
one or two words here and there and no title is just a writer being lazy.
It took all my self-control not to say this to the authors.
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That’s Poetry?
They vomit on the paper,

and puke upon the page.
They think they are a writer,
and think they are a sage.
Their words are all a jumble,

and rarely they make sense.
Technique they are not using,
with English on the fence.
They say it is in free verse,

I know this is not right.
For even when in free verse,
the English must be tight.
And when they have a message,

it rarely can be found.
Random thoughts on the paper,
when in a book that’s bound.
Emotions on the paper,

all strewn across the page.
I know they’re not a writer,
I know they’re not a sage.
By
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I was inspired to write this by my dealings with the local police and
the courts. I do not know how they can tell such poor lies or look in the
mirror after saying the things they say.
The ones that make me laugh is when they try to justify what they say
as accurate, turning the first day of the long weekend into almost the
end of the weekend, or placing a person in two places at the same time.
Amazingly the judges know what the police are doing and don’t make
them clean up their act.
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Lies
Don’t feed me that shit, don’t feed me that crap.
Don’t feed me the garbage coming out of your trap.
I’m not a fool and I’m not a dunce.

Don’t feed me the same lie more than once.
You may think you’re clever with what you say.

But I will come back and I’ll make you pray.
I copy all letters pictures and notes.

Take care what you say I check the quotes.
Mistakes don’t have motives or serve a need.

Don’t tell me your lies its evil you breed.
Don’t feed me excuses you know what you do.

The words that you utter you know they’re not true.
By
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Worriers of the Sun
Years ago in a youthful indiscretion I managed to fall and shatter half

the bones in my body, what I did seemed like a good idea at the time. I
couldn’t go to the bathroom by myself and I spent almost a year in
hospital. I had to eat with special utensils, every day was spent
exorcising or in physiotherapy to build up and stretch muscle that
shrunk or nerves that were damaged in the accident.
I had to learn to use my hands to write and I was almost completely

recovered from my injuries when the guidance counselor at my school
asked to see me. She explained to me that I was falling behind the
other students and would be held back. I did have an option available
to me I could go to the local vocational training school. My classmates
would be the same age as me and I could learn a trade, when I graduate
in four years I would be a third year apprentice in a trade I liked. My
father always said get a trade and you will never need to look for work.
I thought about the guidance counselor’s advice and discussed it with
my parents before I accepted the transfer to the trade school.
The next September I attended the trade school and studied to be an

electrician, I was about to start my fourth year when a group of people
had other plans for students like me. They believed vocational schools
were a bad thing that pigeonholed students into a life of blue-collar
work. These so called heroes riding in on their white stallions are going
to rescue me from a job that pays over fifty thousand dollars a year,
thirty seconds after I graduate from trade school.
They think I should lose all the work I have put in over the last three
years just because they think I am being pigeonholed into a trade I was
going to do anyway. I made an intelligent decision to suit my needs
and wants three years earlier not theirs. These heroes riding in on their
white stallions, so called champions of the blue-collar worker,
campaigned to have the vocational schools closed down or changed to
secondary schools. The worst part is the vocational schools were not
preparing the students for college, when these so called heroes got their
way I was screwed.
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You a Fucking Hero
Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

Riding on your great white steed.
You are not a great cowboy hero,
so stop or I’ll make you bleed.

Did you think you are so great?
If you knew what others think of you,
you would leave you whipperbate.

Go and make love to yourself.
You can even use your right hand dude,
pretend that you are an elf.
Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,

and then go play with your friend.
What the fuck do you think that you are;
go fuck each other’s back end.

You are such a stupid ass.
There is one thing you are not hero,
so I think that I will pass.
By
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The Lynching
Oh how it is, to be an oak tree,

one time a nut and now mighty.
One time blooming in the bright sunlight,
now it is tarnished by winter’s blight.
So hideous and putrid the acts of man,

even the vultures dare not perch near the stand.
For a simple man hangs up in the tree,
from a rope laid over a bow and tied tightly.
He was once a boy filled with laughter and cheer,

when as a boy he played here.
The boy loved swinging from the mighty oak tree,
with all the other children, they played with glee.
Long after the sun set for the night,

the stars came out to dazzle so bright.
The boy would sleep beneath that tree,
under the havens and dream of glee.
A child forever he dreamed at night,

of a potential future that shone so bright.
However, the children that played so near,
he loved so much and loved so dear.
Like flowers in a vase of vinegar and spite,

closed their petals in anger and blight.
As the seasons passed and the leaves on the ground,
the children stopped playing and coming around.
They became fewer and fewer to see,

until the only ones left were he and the tree.
Many years later they returned to the stand,
an angry mob with weapons in hand.
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Worriers of the Sun
Dressed in sheets all of white,

they prowl the stand in the night.
They are hunting for an innocent man,
to play a game of hate in the stand.
A simple man hangs in the tree,

if only the tree had a voice like me.
To speak to the children of this tale,
so the next generation will not fail.
Oh how it is, to be an oak tree,

one time a nut and now mighty.
One time blooming in the bright sunlight,
now it is tarnished by winter’s blight.
By
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Curses and Spells are a great poetic device and the use of old English
gives them a more authentic sound. You can express all emotions
within a theme everything from vengeance to love can be expressed
in a spell or a curse, I forget what inspired this poem but I had fun
writing it.
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The Curse
Smitten, battered, beaten, torn,

to this spell, I be sworn.
To strike thee down on this day,
and with thy soul yea shale pay.
To whom that sees thee go insane,

writhe and scream in burning pain.
For all that look upon thy face,
may they chase thee from this place?
Thy ego broken battered by scorn,

and to thy soul justice be born.
See thy self as others do,
for when yea speak none is true.
When once thee thought yea were great,

I bring thee down to seal thy fate.
Thy stench of death shall follow thee,
and yea shall know deaths misery.
An evil deed yea have done,

one thee thinks yea have won.
So to thy deed yea are bound,
until resolution can be found.
For what yea have done now is true,

in every act that yea are due.
The only way to be undone,
thee must act for yea’s the one.
Suffer now I shall not wait,

with this curse I seal thy fate.
Smitten, battered, beaten, torn,
I curse thee now thy pain be born.
By
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This curse in in my short story Blood & Lust, an erotic horror with
Succubus demons. As with every culture there is a different definition
for the convenience demons Succubus and Incubus, to describe all of
the definitions of Succubae would be a book in of its self. If you like
erotic fantasy horror, you will love Blood Lust. Cornelia and her sisters
are Succubae out to avenge the death of Cornelia’s daughter Elaine and
this curse is part of their vengeance.
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Worriers of the Sun
Blood & Lust
To the goddess Moon, the mother Earth, the spirit Wind, the demon
Fire, and the life Water hear my plea.
Stricken, shattered, beaten, torn, to this curse, thee are sworn.
To strike thee down on this day and with thy soul yea shall pay.
Thy stench of death shall follow thee and thou shall know deaths
misery.
An evil deed yea have done, yea must act for yea’s the one.
So to thy deed thee are bound, until they all can be found.
Suffer now I shall not wait, with this curse I seal thy fate.
Stricken, shattered, beaten, torn, I curse, thee now thy pain is born.
By
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Worriers of the Sun
Halloween is a fun time of the year and this poem for everyone to
enjoy on Halloween or any day of the year. I love watching the
children in their costumes running from house to house calling out
trick or treat and watching joy light up there face when they like the
candies they get.
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Sprits of the Night

A witch has cast an evil spell,
and opened up the gates of hell.
Pouring out upon the ground
the ghosts of hell are sprit bound.
Among the stone’s row on row

they rise this night, stand and grow.
Incessant shrills that fill the sky,
in the dark we hear their cry.
Souls so cold and full of fright

spirit wraiths that fly by night.
All, whom dare to wander there,
knows that evil lives out there.
Monsters, Zombies, Ghosts and Ghouls

playing by their own rules.
Hideous creatures of the night
call to the heavens spreading fright.
In the streets, they run and play

trick or treat is what they say.
By
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Worriers of the Sun
In my youth I lived just two hundred yards from Lake Ontario, on cool
nights the mist would roll in of the lake and we would make a fire on
the shore and tell ghost stories. The Curse of the Faceless Woman was
one of the ghost stories we would tell as we sat by the fire. Here I have
written it in the form of a poem, and the events that led to the legend.
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Worriers of the Sun
The Curse of the Faceless Woman
Lost in time, this story is told, about a woman, dark and bold.
She walks the streets on a foggy night, with a hood on her head to hide from
sight.
Her story starts one summer’s eve, beside the lake an evil deed.
A thief stole her daughter’s life, and filled her soul with pain and strife.
On a moonlit night along the shore, two young lovers walked and more.
In each other’s arms that night, they talked of love and held on tight.
In the morning they were found, their hands and feet with rope were bound.
Eyes wide open a vacant stare, their souls are gone and no one’s there.
The police did search for the one, an evil deed to be undone.
In vain, they search to no avail, their efforts weak, lost, and pale.
A mother’s heart broken and splayed, a debt to justice went unpaid.

She walked the streets at night alone, to make the sinners pay and atone.
She searched the shores by day and night, a vain attempt to make things right.
And then one early morning dawn, she was found her spirit gone.
On foggy night’s times untold, she walks the streets dark and bold.
She only walks the streets at night, within the fog to hide her flight.
All clad in black she walks alone, an evil soul she’ll make atone.
She walks among the star-less night, sometimes seen beneath the bright
streetlight.
All children know to be aware, least they see her standing there.
They hurry home at the approach of night, sure that they would die at her sight.
So in the night if you should see, a woman in black, listen to me.

Look not at her face I say, or with your soul you shall pay.
By
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Worriers of the Sun
Homophones are trying to many people and to a writer that writs in

cryptographs; they are easy to miss when proofreading and some word
programs don’t recognize homophones as well as auto corrects can put
the wrong word in instead of marking them spelled wrong. Type Donut
but missing the u and the autocorrect will make it Don’t.
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Worriers of the Sun
Which witch
I’m talking to my darling dear not deer.

It is a constant pain.
Which witch is which what a bitch?
Too many words the same.
Whether you’re talking about the weather.

Or to your love so true.
Which witch is which is spelling?
I don’t know what to do.
Their ball is over there I say.

I think I’m going insane.
Which witch is which it is a bitch?
I say this all again.
Which reed is read oh god my head.

What is a redd in the first place?
Which witch is which?
And what is the colour red.
Are the two of you going to the bar?

And can I go there too?
Which witch is which is a bitch?
And now I have three to do!
By
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This is a narrative ballad about a Canadian serial killer called Robert

William Pickton, (born October 24, 1949) of Port Coquitlam, British
Columbia, Canada is a former pig farmer and serial killer. He was
convicted of the second-degree murders of six women, and is awaiting
trial for twenty more and suspected of a total of forty-nine. It is
believed he cut up the bodies and fed them to pigs as well as put some
of the flesh of his victims in his ground pork and sold or gave it to
friends and family.
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The Ballet of Robert William Picton
Little Willie Pickton the butcher from BC,

killed six and twenty hookers and fed them to family.
He ground them up for sausage and passed the meat around,
he gave it to his family and his friends in town.
He cut their heads open and stuffed their hands inside.

This is what he did when these women died.
In Little Willie’s slaughterhouse, he’d grind the meat each day,
Then he’d add a little pork to make it sweet they say.
A .22 revolver with a silencer was found.

In Little Willie’s trailer lying on the ground,
With a dildo on the barrel tied real tight,
so it can be fired silent in the night.
Little Willie Pickton the butcher from BC,

killed six and twenty hookers and fed them to family.
By
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Worriers of the Sun
I was writing the Ballet of Robert William Pickton and I just wasn’t
happy with how it came out, when I remembered something I heard
once. We remember the serial killer but not the victims. Well the most
forgotten victims of serial killers are the John and Jane Doe’s. And
since women compose the majority of victims I wrote The Sonnet of
Jane Doe.
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Worriers of the Sun
The Sonnet of Jane Doe
Jane Doe, number one four two.

What is your name, what did you do?
Were you a sister a banker or whore?
We want to know what you did before.
Were you a daughter, mother, or aunt?

Without your name we just can’t,
find your family, parents, or home,
and you will lay here dead and alone.
We want to find the ones you did love,

so they can know you’re in heaven above.
You were a person not just a thing,
what is your name so your loved ones can sing.
Jane Doe, number one four two.

What was your name, what did you do?
By
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Worriers of the Sun
I sometimes think publishers don’t know what they want, I go through

hell and high water to prepare a manuscript for a submission and only
after submitting my manuscript they send a rejection letter saying the
submissions are closed or they changed the manuscript criteria.
There is a lot of work preparing a manuscript for submission; some

publishers want a specific dialect of English, font, and double spacing,
no indents or a certain indent at the beginning of paragraphs. It can be
very annoying when they waste my time.
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Worriers of the Sun
Rejection
I must be a masochist this I say,

for I got a rejection slip today.
I sent my story to a magazine;

a nickel a word; it is obscene!!!
As a writer, this I know:

one may say "Yes", but most say "No".
I'm not mad or the least bit blue;

I know just what I am going to do.
To another publisher I shall submit;

I'll not be down or in a pit.
They were not rude or mean to me;

they told me it's not their cup of tea.
So on to the next one I will wait

for the answer that I anticipate.
I don't want to be mean or a brag,

but I don't even read their silly rag.
By
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Worriers of the Sun
I don’t write many love poems, and most of them are written to my
wife Mary Anne, this is an erotic love poem tastefully written without
the graphic words considered inappropriate to say in public.
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Worriers of the Sun
Love in the Moonlight
Clear as in the daylight,

bathed in nothing but moon beams.
Perfection carved in flesh,
the desires of my dreams.
So beautiful a sight,
with skin as pale as the moon.
A beauty to behold,
I hunger to hold you soon.
In my arms I hold you,

your eyes bright stars in the night.
With hair as soft as silk,
naked within the moonlight.
Our bodies will entwine,

within each other’s embrace.
Our flesh will be as one,
making love in this sweet place.
I hold you in my arms;

my dreams are all about you.
My mind filled with your love;
in my heart I will be true.
By
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Worriers of the Sun
I wrote this poem to my wife Mary Anne we met in high school over
thirty five years ago, one night she fell asleep in my arms and I could
not help but write this poem.
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Worriers of the Sun
Goodnight My Love
Hand upon the pillow,

her hair across her face.
I know I am in love,
I see her every place.
She cuddles in my arms,

so quiet in the night.
Gently on my shoulder,
I hold her oh so tight.
A kiss within the dark,

our eyes they cannot see.
I wonder why she is,
so much in love with me.
I stroke her hair gently,

and smile oh so wide.
I’m the one to hold her;
she fills me with such pride.
Goodnight my loves sweet kiss.
By
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Worriers of the Sun
I know I am a baaaad boooy. I stole Edwin Hurdle’s poem and made it

my own, mostly by editing. In reality, I made two poems. They are
kind of, how do I love thee, like poetry. I just could not stop myself.
The first one is simple repetition verse in two stanzas. The second is a
simple repetition verse in six stanzas.
46
Worriers of the Sun
Dictionary #1
You are my definition and meaning.
You are my everything from A to Z.
You are my verbs.
You are my adjectives.
You are my action of love.

You are my character.
You are my love and it is plural.
You are my ways when we are together.
Dictionary #2
You define sugar because,
you are my sweetheart.
You define gold because,

you are my precious.
You define art because,

you are my Van Gogh.
You define mornings because,

you are my sunshine.
You define nights because,

you are my star light.
You define love because,

you are my love life.
By
47
Worriers of the Sun
Sometimes I just like to have fun with my poetry this is an erotic

poem love advice for a mature woman. One of my regular readers a
mature lady loved it.
48
Worriers of the Sun
Old Lady Sonnet
Do not forget what you can do,

and he will fall in love with you.
Make a snare of whisky and beer.
Then pull the string when he is near.
Take your chance at his manhood,

and use your tongue so he’ll be good.
Take out your teeth and then have fun,
and he will smile when you are done.
If you are a real goody,

in no time you have a woody.
Then you can smile oh so wide,
and climb on top to take a ride.
You may be old but your mind is clear,

so if he gets up, feed him more beer.
By
49
Worriers of the Sun
Sometimes I write poems with a message and a little humour in them

like this poem about safe sex no matter your sexuality. It is not just
pregnancy to worry about; sex is not worth dying for.
50
Worriers of the Sun
Bisexuality
Bisexuality, the middle of the road.

You just, can’t, make up, your mind,
which way to blow your load.
The girls are cute and pretty,

and boys are such a slut.
Which way will you turn,
when you crack a nut?
Well listen very closely,

to what I have to say,
always wear a condom,
whichever way you sway.
By
51
Worriers of the Sun
In school a friend of mine was worried about getting his girlfriend

pregnant, apparently he had a latex malfunction. All he could say was
“Oh shit I’m screwed.”
His girlfriend was pregnant and the baby wasn’t his, he thank god for
DNA testing when it came out just in time for him.
52
Worriers of the Sun
Oh Shit
Oh shit.
Oh shit.
What can I do?
The condom broke,
it’s now in two.
Oh shit.
Oh shit.
What can I say?
We were just having fun,
and now I might pay.
Oh shit.
Oh shit.
I’m just seventeen.
Her dad don’t like me,
he’s really mean.
Oh shit.
Oh shit.
What can I do?
The condom broke,
it’s now in two.
By
53
Worriers of the Sun
I come up with some good one liners every once in a while, I was
working with a friend and I was struck with the line, “Child support is
a testimonial to the advantages to self-abuse.”
I told my friend and he laughed and told me to tell it to a co-worker,

when I told the co-worker he laughed so hard he cried. Apparently he
was being sued for child support.
I attached it to a poem and posted on a websight I use for editing and

feedback, one of my regular readers a lady with a teenage son gave a
copy of this to her son as a warning.
54
Worriers of the Sun
The Condom Broke
The condom broke late one night,

he’s not too sharp she’s not too bright
So if you are going to play,
remember what I have to say.
“Child support is a testimonial to the advantages to self-abuse.”
By
55
Worriers of the Sun
A friend of my son was mad about his parents’ divorce and blamed his
mother for the family’s breakup so I wrote this poem for him. I
explained to him poetry may be viewed by some macho individuals as
wimpy, but it is a good way to express your feelings and work out your
problems.
56
Worriers of the Sun
Divorce
You think I'm moving in with you,

you couldn't be more wrong.
Do whatever you want to do,
just don't expect me along.
You want another chance with me,

I guess that's just too bad.
You are the one that just can’t see,
I’m moving in with dad.
Things will not go the way they were,

it’s really kind of sad.
I will not live my life with her,
it won’t turn out so bad.
I promise that our love will mend,

and I won’t forget you.
But this is something I must send,
my love is always true.
And when I am much older mom,

and you find you are free.
Lay your head upon my shoulder,
when you visit with me.
By
57
Worriers of the Sun
I don’t write many limericks not that the rules are strict. A limerick is
a kind of a witty, humorous, or nonsense poem especially one in five-
line anapestic or amphibrachic meter with a strict rhyme scheme
(AABBA), which is sometimes obscene with humorous intent.
I wrote this one on a challenge and I think it came out OK.
58
Worriers of the Sun
Peter
There once was a man named Peter.

His friends liked to call him Skeeter.
He was a bit of an ass,
because he liked to smoke grass,
and he liked his joints by the meter.
By
59
Worriers of the Sun
As I told my son’s friend, poetry is a good way to work out your

emotions. I am visually impaired and soon to be blind, four years ago I
lost my eyesight to hypertension induced macular degeneration. I made
my living as a truck driver and I traveled all over North America, now
I can’t visit the next town without someone else driving me.
I will miss walking in the deserts of Texas, picking wild cactus fruit
and eating it as I watch the wild life, and the Big Horned Sheep in the
Rockies, or the Antelopes running in the prairies.
I wrote this free verse poem as I was going through multiple

operations on my eyes to see if they could restore my eye sight.
60
Worriers of the Sun
What is Hell?
Dark is the day as each passing moment brings people like me closer
to the time when it will be no more. The sun will not shine for me,
when I no longer see the smiling faces of the innocent children playing
in the park, the flowers in the spring, or a bird in flight.
The sun’s warmth upon my face, or the sweet scent of blossoming

flowers in the spring, shall give no solace to the darkness that envelops
me with each passing minute. Touch shall loose it’s its brilliance
behind a vial of darkness that falls across my eyes.
Not the darkness of a moonless night where the stars cast no shadows,
but a world of shadows on the edge of light. Where in the fog dark
shapes hide in the mists behind your eyes and no matter how hard you
try, seeing the things before you are beyond your perception.
Under the touch of a surgeon’s knife of such brilliance as to silence

the sun, lies the hope that I might see the children playing in the park
or the flowers in the spring. And yet there are no promises, no
guaranties, just the hope that maybe, just maybe the light shall return.
So I endure, awake as the surgeon’s brilliant knife sears its way

through my flesh as I watch time and time again, as he burns away the
dying diseased flesh in the hope and the quest for the light.
As if without fear I pretend not to notice the pain as the brilliant light
of the surgeon’s knife does all he can to give back what life has taken
away and what I fear the most is not the knife or the going blind. It’s
the not knowing; not knowing if all that I endure will halt the
progression of the disease that is taking my sight. Not knowing if I will
regain what I have lost, not knowing how many more times I must
endure the burning light that is the surgeon’s knife.
If ever I am asked what Hell is, I know what to say, not knowing.
By
61
Worriers of the Sun
Military service is not all war and violence, many soldiers never see
bullets and bombs but they do respond to natural disasters. I did a stint
in the military there was a lot of hurry up and wait or boredom until all
hell breaks loose and not everyone comes home. This poem is for the
ones that pay the price of freedom.
62
Worriers of the Sun
Wars Folly
Since you are there and I am here,

have yourself an ice-cold beer.
Raise your glass and sing with cheer,
for all you love is standing near.
This is not the way for me;

I’m on a deck across the sea.
The rolling decks as engines roar,
as in the sky fighters soar.
Barely adult’s young soldiers die,

as their loved ones at home cry.
On the land the sea or air,
loved ones bleeding over there.
With hat in hand their families wait,

for soldiers to come home they anticipate.
The touch of their skin and smiling eyes,
to give hope to their heart and spirits rise.
This is not for all that go,

say the crosses row on row.
For at the point of a gun,
dreams are destroyed and come undone.
Hundreds dead or maimed for life,

filled with sorrow, pain, and strife.
Their mothers look at us and say,
why do our children have to pay?
It matters not to them we won;

their lives are shattered and undone.
By
63
Worriers of the Sun
Haiti is the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere; it has

experienced political violence throughout its history, most recently in
February 2004. No stranger to natural disasters, in addition to
earthquakes Haiti has been struck frequently by tropical cyclones,
which have caused flooding and widespread damage.
In 2010 Haiti was struck by a magnitude 7.0 Mw earthquake, the

catastrophic earthquake occurred at 16:53 local time (21:53 UTC) on
Tuesday, 12 January 2010. By the 24 January, at least 52 aftershocks
measuring 4.5 or greater had been recorded.
An estimated three million people were affected by the quake; the

Haitian government reported that an estimated 316,000 people had
died, 300,000 had been injured and 1,000,000 made homeless. The
government of Haiti also estimated that 250,000 residences and 30,000
commercial buildings had collapsed or were severely damaged.
Other than the donations my family made to the relief funds this is just
me giving a little more.
64
Worriers of the Sun
The Day the Earth Shook
Today a place called Haiti,
weighs heavy on my mind.
A small island Country State,
where life has been unkind.
With little shanty houses,

no food to feed the young.
War and unrest through the years,
a trap to be unstrung.
A seven-point earthquake struck,

it rattled this small place.
Shook it to the very core,
it did not miss a trace.
Children died in the rumble,

the death toll yet unknown.
Please pray for the little ones,
and mercy to be shown.
Let's bring them food and water,

so swiftly to their aid.
And call out to survivors,
so they won’t be afraid.
Offer our hands in friendship,

to aid them in their plight.
Hope in the wake of sorrow,
and light to their dark night.
I think God says unto us,

we know what we must do.
When we open up our hearts,
it shows us what is true.
By
65
Worriers of the Sun
It has been a long time since I was a fresh faced boy fishing on the
river bank near Lake Ontario. Catching frogs and turtles bringing them
home and scaring my mom when they would leap from my hand or
when she was washing my clothing and she would turn my pockets out
to find worms in them. Of course she was the prettiest mom on the
block.
Like my youth she is gone now but not from my heart.
66
Worriers of the Sun
There Was a Time
There was a time so long ago,

when people loved and lived to know.
When kisses meant you really cared,
and loved and lived and braved to dare.
When children laughed and they all knew,

the sun is bright the sky is blue.
The moon comes up within the night;
the stars do shine and twinkle bright.
When melting snow gives life to spring,

when flowers grow and songbirds sing.
In summers sun they run and play,
and while away their youth filled day.
But now the time of this has past,

and childhood will never last.
By
67
Worriers of the Sun
I have seen a lot of death and I write about death, in many of my

stories, I kill my characters to create suspense. Some people think in
my poetry and philosophical muses, I have a way of describing death
like a warm blanket you curl up in on a cold night.
There are times death is an act of mercy, someone dyeing in extreme

pain from cancer or riddled with an incurable horribly disfiguring
disease where they can never live a normal life. This does not mean we
should take that life, it just means sometimes death is merciful.
68
Worriers of the Sun
Tears in God’s Eye
Children of little hope and future are the tears in God’s eye. Who shall
wipe away all the tears that fall from their eyes? God’s angels in
heaven answer not the prayers of the children. For it is in the domain
of men that there shall be no more tears.
Only in death can neither sorrow nor crying neither there be pain or
fear. For the former things are passed away within dying of the body,
and in passing the wishes and prayers of the children of little hope and
future are answered. For now God’s angels in heaven answer the
prayers of the children with open arms.
Darkness is that which brings sorrow to the heart and tears to the eye.
God’s angels carry to the heavens the children of little hope and future.
Heaven, beyond fear, pain, sorrows and death they sleep in the arms of
angels. As baby’s newborn to the world cradled in the arms of their
mother breast they sleep.
By
69
Worriers of the Sun
In Gods Eye is an inspirational Refrain poem, a poem where a line or

phrase that recurs throughout a poem - especially at the end of stanzas.
In my normal life I don’t talk about god or go to church, I believe in

something greater than me so I guess god will do.
70
Worriers of the Sun
In God’s Eye
In God’s eye are the tears of man’s creation.

In God’s eye are the fears of man’s creation.
In God’s eye are the sorrows of man’s creation.
In God’s eye are the pains of man’s creation.
In God’s eye are the deaths of man’s creation.
In God’s eye are the hopes of man’s creation.

In God’s eye are the joys of man’s creation.
In God’s eye are the future of man’s creation.
In God’s eye are the angels here on this earth.
In God’s eye is man.
By
71
Worriers of the Sun
I didn’t go to college until I was forty; my hair and beard were turning
gray and I was in a class filled with young fresh faced youth. Beautiful
young women and young men with their whole life before them filled
with the innocence of inexperience then there was me.
I and my hands, stained with the blood of combat, my eyes tainted by

the light of a sunrise over a battlefield, and my ears filled with the cries
of dyeing men. The task before us is to write about something truly
majestic.
72
Worriers of the Sun
Something Truly Majestic
I have seen the sun rise over the Atlantic Ocean in the morning,
tainting the clouds red, sending a river of fire across the clear blue
waters, as the seabirds mill about in the water and on the beach.
I have watched the sun set over the Pacific Ocean in the evening,
tainting the clouds red, sending a river of fire across the clear blue
waters, as the seabirds mill about in the water and on the beach.
I have stood on a mountaintop and watched the sun light up the valley
chasing the morning mist out into the plains. As Big Horned Sheep
dance upon the rock face as gingerly as a ballerina on the stage.
I have stood in the valley looking up at the snow-capped mountain and

watched as the sun lights up the valley chasing the morning mist out
into the plains. As Eagles soar among the cliffs so close they could
reach out and touch the cliffs with their wingtips as they glide
gracefully by.
I have sat on the riverbank fishing on a bright summer day, listening to

the Titmice, Blackcaps singing as if to serenade the world with the
music of god’s creation. As the tinniest of god’s creatures fly from
flower to flower growing along the riverbank.
I have looked into your eyes, deep blue lucid pools of light to the soul
of innocents. As I stand by your mother’s side I feel useless and
impotent as I hold her hand as you are born. The nurses wash you wrap
you in a blanket and hand you to me. I hold your tinny little body for
the first time as I carry you to your mother, she cries out let me hold
him and I hand you to her. She holds you to her breast and cries as
tears of joy run down her cheeks and you open your eyes only for a
moment for the first time.
Of all that I have seen in my life, none is more majestic than your eyes
for the first time.
By
73
Worriers of the Sun
Index
Authors Biography Page 3
Introduction Page 5
Freedom Page 7
Aldorons Doom Page 9
Despair Page 11
Mad Mad Page 13
Bald Headed Christ Page 15
Be Nice Page 17
That’s Poetry? Page 19
Lies Page 21
You a Fucking Hero Page 23
The Lynching Page 24
The Curse Page 27
Blood & Lust Page 29
Sprits of the Night Page 31
The Curse of the Faceless Woman Page 33
Which Witch Page 35
The Ballet of Robert William Picton Page 37
The Sonnet of Jane Doe Page 39
Rejection Page 41
Love in the Moonlight Page 43
Goodnight My Love Page 45
Old Lady Sonnet Page 47
Dictionary Page 49
Bisexuality Page 51
Oh Shit Page 53
The Condom Broke Page 55
Divorce Page 57
Peter Page 59
What is Hell? Page 61
Wars Folly Page 63
The Day the Earth Shook Page 65
There Was a Time Page 67
Tears in Gods Eye Page 69
In Gods Eye Page 71
Something Truly Majestic Page 73
74

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Worriers of the Sun

Worriers of the Sun

©Copyright 2012 by Josehf Lloyd Murchison

ISBN 13: 978-0-9813319-1-1

Josehf is Spanish and Aramaic spelling of Joseph my parents screwed

An odd story goes with my name, my grandfather was Joseph Lloyd

Aztec warriors were called a number of names; jaguar, or eagle

To quote the Aztec’s 1400 AD

Will their sacrifice be remembered or forgotten to the winds of time

It is up to us to remember the sacrifices of our forefathers and even the

Aldorons Doom is in memory of a friend that died at the hands of the

The Police bound by policy and ignorance, arrested my friend and

While in custody and without a comprehensive policy on the treatment

I never knew he lived with Schizophrenia; he never missed taking his

I know a number of people that attempted or committed or suicide for

Copyright © 2007 Josehf Lloyd Murchison

I know a number of people that took their own life or attempted to

The inexorable pain of unrequited love within a caring soul, young

Desperate lives within the worlds of the mind’s creation lost to

The sweet experiences of life’s pain and pleasures beyond endurance

The self-destructive self-serving imprudent act of taking one’s own

Bald Headed Christ is inspired by my father, I never heard my father

Bald Headed Christ

Jesus bald headed Christ he would say.

When he was pissed off or really mad.

So remember this as time goes by.

So to my father this I will say.

Don’t stroke egos,

Don’t hurt feelings,

They vomit on the paper,

Their words are all a jumble,

They say it is in free verse,

And when they have a message,

Emotions on the paper,

I’m not a fool and I’m not a dunce.

You may think you’re clever with what you say.

I copy all letters pictures and notes.

Mistakes don’t have motives or serve a need.

Don’t feed me excuses you know what you do.

Years ago in a youthful indiscretion I managed to fall and shatter half

I had to learn to use my hands to write and I was almost completely

The next September I attended the trade school and studied to be an

You a Fucking Hero

Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,

Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

Oh how it is, to be an oak tree,

So hideous and putrid the acts of man,

He was once a boy filled with laughter and cheer,

Long after the sun set for the night,

A child forever he dreamed at night,

Like flowers in a vase of vinegar and spite,

They became fewer and fewer to see,

Dressed in sheets all of white,

A simple man hangs in the tree,

Oh how it is, to be an oak tree,

Smitten, battered, beaten, torn,

To whom that sees thee go insane,

Thy ego broken battered by scorn,

When once thee thought yea were great,

An evil deed yea have done,