Dang it, dream girl.

Last night, I met the girl of my dreams. Unfortunately, I woke up to find that last statement literal. Humorous and disheartening. I barely got to spend any time with her, and I’ve already forgotten some of that. What I do remember is that she enjoyed the  rain and splashing in puddles. She had long semi-curly brown hair (then again, it was raining, so maybe it was just frizzy, doesn’t really matter to me) and an infectious smile with dimples. 

When I was a kid, I occasionally had dreams that I thought came true. Nothing terribly dramatic, I don’t think. Or maybe they were just déjà vu and I just didn’t understand what that was at the time. Childhood memories are terribly unreliable, as are remembered dreams. 

If my life was a movie, at least I could probably presume she would come to life so I could have a real conversation with her. Then I’d probably full in love, and then she would decide that I wasn’t her dream man. And I would wish I’d never had that dream. 

I’ll keep my eyes peeled anyway. 




“Oh it’s true I’d do anything to have you back,

So long as I can return with my pride in tact”

Oh the look upon Your face as an answer You return

“You’ve still got a lot of lessons left to learn,

Because without humility, you will never yearn;

Don’t you see, my son, that’s what you must learn,

Until I AM all you have, all else, yes, everything, must burn.

We’ll gather all the ashes, and place them in an urn,

Along with all your dead ideals like ‘love is something earned.’

You can write your name on an ivory plaque,

Your own epitaph: No Turning Back.”

“But, but, but…” I say—and you reply “away

With your excuses; they’re none of my concern.

My child, I watched you go astray,

But you are mine, and I shall have you return.”

I say “if you want me God, you’re in for a fight;

If you want me take me; wrestle me tonight.

“Do what You must do,” I said, in a final undefiant act.

I need to know if you are real and more than just abstract

You touched Jacob’s hip, and I feel you take me back.




It’s better to be broken and Yours than wholly my own

A grace I’ve never known before; to the world it must be shown.



(c)2011, jsm




Desperately, he seeks approval

For removal of his helplessness

Yet incredulous, he can’t accept

That he won’t be swept under your rug

A hug might be the spark plug

The caffeine in his coffee mug

The first shovel that has ever dug

Into his drug addled heart




(this was gonna be four lines, but they were running a buy one get one free special, so you get eight)


Late Julys

Red hair, greenish eyes

Lighting up like fireflies

Together watch as daylight dies

And I go against what I’d advise

A kiss to baptize the fiery skies

A kiss which now ties two lives

Was it unwise, that night’s surprise?

No, for the memory is a prize

And given the chance, I’d likely reprise

Another taste of late July

Muse(ings) 5

Muse(ings) 5

I’m embarking on a new chapter in my life, a new frontier that intimidates me. See, the next few pages of my life story are mostly out of my control, and I don’t know how they’ll be written. Will the climax that has been building for the last few years be resolved in the way I’ve hoped for so long or will I have to move along into an unknown, if more realistic, alternative? I suppose I’ll find out soon enough—knowing that resolution is on the way is almost bittersweet in a manner I can’t quite explain. In my head, a soundtrack of songs of wanting play on and on.

I suppose the romance element of a story is indeed only part, but it’s funny how it can be so integral to everything else. It’s the potential merging of two stories in a crossover that is ever so unpredictable. It’s two adventures becoming one, complicating the character development, enriching the plot, and doubling the drama. It’s good, but it’s heavy and not for the faint of heart.

So, as the plot unfurls, the setting alters a bit too—I’m a couple months into my new apartment, once again living with my roommate of the past two years. My room is clean for the first time all summer. I can’t say the same for my heart.

Two more years of graduate school—I’m going to be 25, nearly 26 by the time I’m done with my Master’s degree; I can’t wait that long to start my life—life begins here and now.

Muse(ings) 2

It’s funny what music can do to you. It drove me from my favorite coffee shop tonight and to another across town. For at The Muse, I saw girl pants on guys, and brightly colored hair and t-shirts—I thought to myself, I love this scene so often, but not tonight. I had gone to relax and to read and to think, and perhaps even to write. After all, Muse(ings) II is quite due. I pondered my course of action in the parallel parking space for a few minutes. This is my place… why are other people whom I didn’t approve here. I do suppose I can’t in fact make the world work my way.

I have another place I do enjoy, as much for the richness of the building as the coffee, and that is The White Hart. History oozes from the walls of this 1800’s downtown Lynchburg building. ‘twas not always a coffee shop, but must have always longed to be a riverhead of many a man’s thoughts. I read my novel and music begins to play… I left The Muse because of the music… I want to drown in words tonight, not in notes. A rhythm sets in. No, a cacophony. This is awful. I love folk, but they have no cohesion, everything is grating. A voice begins, with clarity and strength—a woman’s voice swimming against the current of a musical river. The voice itself changes the course of the current and the music begins to gel. I appreciate it. The dragon in my book is angered, but villains lie slain.

I’ve written something already on this day, and I know it has been read by the most important of readers. The response is withheld as yet, but my arrows have not yet scared the target into running away.

My mind sings along, we’ve got to come together right now, over me…. Stop hey, what’s that sound… don’t you want somebody to love. I love it. Americana renditions of classics. Perhaps my story will be a modern retelling of classic love stories. Is this a Shakespearean comedy or a tragedy? The tragedy would be to never know.

(The above is part of a series of posts inspired by times at my favorite coffee shop… in this one however, I have cheated a bit… it was written with Muse inspiration but from my bedroom.)


Dearest, your shadow has more beauty
Than the form of all the others I know
And your form contains beauty untold
Your spirit harmonizes with your form
Your soul harmonizes with your spirit
Strum the strings of the instrument
Beautiful melodies
Beautiful medleys
Your shadow reaches 2,000 miles
And music fills the air in between you and me
Can I hear your voice?
Can I see your face?
Your shadow is better than all else I know
But I want to want to know better than your shadow
I want to know you

(c) 2009, Joshua Murray

P.S: This is four in a row for you, if your counting. I said I’d write a song for you, but you can have as many as you like 🙂 you know who you are.

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