Christmas Song

Excerpt from “Too Old for That” — a musical comedy one-act:

"Old Man Diggs:  (singing)

Christmas used to happen in December.

Now the ads are starting in September.

By the time the holiday arrives,

I have come to realize,

I’m Sick to Death of Christmas.

Each year’s the most expensive yet,

I’m drowning in my Christmas debt.

The grandkids don’t appreciate,

that grandpa’s got to pay the freight.

I’m sick to death of Christmas.

Christmas used to be a time resplendent.

With joys and toys and holiness transcendent.

But now I’ve come to realize,

it’s just something to advertise.

I’m sick

to death

of Christmas.”

by Diane Makar Murphy

The London Bridge, Lake Havasu, Arizona
by Diane Makar Murphy

The London Bridge, Lake Havasu, Arizona

by Diane Makar Murphy

Excerpt — “Crazy” — novel in progress

 

      I often wish I were a drug addict.  Or an alcoholic.  Then, I could give up my vices, get myself and my life in order, and everyone would welcome me back — the prodigal daughter, fresh from rehab, having dropped 40 pounds with a new health club membership, firm, foxy, with a new outlook on life. 

      "God, you look mah-velous!  It’s wonderful to have you back, Nan!”  But I’m not an alcoholic, or an addict.  As a matter of fact, my name’s not Nan.  It’s Patricia.  Patricia Miller.

      And what I am is crazy.  No ten-week stay in a clinic, no treadmill, no amount of will power, is ever going to put my life in order.  Some people think it’s because my mother died of breast cancer, leaving me the

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Fish auction, Moraira, Spain
by Diane Makar Murphy

Fish auction, Moraira, Spain

by Diane Makar Murphy

Poland Woods, Ohio
by Diane Makar Murphy

Poland Woods, Ohio

by Diane Makar Murphy

by Diane Makar Murphy

by Diane Makar Murphy

Storybook Dog

Update:  This essay was written seven years ago.  Zeke is now 14 and somewhat more mellow.

         Last night, I sat in front of the TV and massaged the shaggy front paws of my dog, Zeke.  Zeke, who is seven years old, just discovered he likes massages. 

There’s a bit of irony in Zeke lying down next to me like that, because, though he is the sweetest, most wonderful dog in the world… to me… much of the time, the rest of the time, and to most other people, Zeke is a grade A curmudgeon.

          If you tell Zeke “Good Night,” he grunts all the way to his bed, and then, he growls if you pet him. 

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Pilot flying over the Black Hills.
by Diane Makar Murphy

Pilot flying over the Black Hills.

by Diane Makar Murphy

Along the Greenway Trail, Ohio.
by Diane Makar Murphy

Along the Greenway Trail, Ohio.

by Diane Makar Murphy

Moriaria, Spain
by Diane Makar Murphy

Moriaria, Spain

by Diane Makar Murphy

Dusk, late autumn in Ohio
by Diane Makar Murphy

Dusk, late autumn in Ohio

by Diane Makar Murphy

Spain en route to Madrid.
by Diane Makar Murphy

Spain en route to Madrid.

by Diane Makar Murphy

Greenway Trail, Ohio
by Diane Makar Murphy

Greenway Trail, Ohio

by Diane Makar Murphy

Long day — return from Ellis Island
by Diane Makar Murphy

Long day — return from Ellis Island

by Diane Makar Murphy

An Ordinary Day

There are days that are just different by their nature – like a day last summer that inspired me to sit down and write a poem… something I rarely do.  

It was a strange day.  The weather was autumn-like in the middle of July.  The sky was so dark and overcast that the sun didn’t shine at all.  On top of that, I recall a light drizzle from dawn on. 

But what made this day spectacular wasn’t the quirky weather, it was what happened when I took my dog for a walk.

A butterfly started following us.  Zeke, a 45-pound Bearded Collie, noticed it right away.  He started to watch it, and so did I.  The butterfly didn’t care.  The beautiful, yellow and black creature flew along with us for at least a minute, weaving in and out, carried by its wings and the currents of air.

And it followed my dog and me so closely that once,

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