Jeanne Murray Walker is the award-winning author of 8
volumes of poetry and one memoir as well as a number of
plays which have been performed in theaters across
the country and in London. She serves as a poetry mentor
in The Seattle Pacific MFA Program. From her home
outside Philadelphia she blogs about her own journey toward
stillness, the troubling politics of our time, fake news,
reading and writing, the weirdness of giving a graduation
speech that isn’t hackneyed —and other concerns and
surprises along the way. She travels widely to speak and
read in places ranging from The Library of Congress to
Romania, from Italy to Texas Canyon Country. You can
find her papers and letters archived at Wheaton College’s
Buswell Library and at The University of Delaware’s Morris
Library. Jeanne has appeared on PBS television and is
frequently interviewed on the radio.

A Note from Jeanne

I’m delighted you’ve stopped by. Please linger a while to browse. Read some poems. Check out my blog and speaking schedule.  If you’re near an event where I’ll be speaking, feel free to attend. If you’d like to read my blog click here.  We can join forces to work for a more thoughtful world.

Jeanne Murray Walker


                                                                –for Don Murdoch
This is the end of the world, slow motion, this burning,
             burning till earth is parched, the cypress crisping,
                          cactus brown, brown grass, brown horizon.
Through the Cathedral hands of the faithful pass a candle.
             Feel the pull of prayer in the hot dark.
                          Tell God nothing can live without water,
water, which is 70% of what you’re praying with,
             rivers longing through you for more water.
                          That’s when it comes to you:
in prayer lies prayer’s answer.  In the calling out,
             the visitation.  In the arrow lives the target’s eye.
                          So water rises from its knees, believing water
will come.  When rain starts, a fat drop
             joined by her sisters, the sound of dripping like
                          a shy nun sneezing, your heart stops with pleasure
and you pick up the cantaloupe you’ll have for dinner                                                      
             to shake it.  The promise inside:  flesh
                          the color of sunset, the slosh of a whole ocean.