Big Sky
Big sky, how you fill
with hope mid-ocean
mid-prairie, mid-uplands.
Mountain tops recall
ferocious winds worthy
of note.
They sing the one note
in the roof rack, the one
whistled tree downed
in clover leaf overpass
last tumbles of median
debris on shoulders.
At sunset, grey, wind
jammed clouds yellow
at the furthur edge
distant speckles called
to the wall of day’s end.
An amassed scramble
of cumulus conflagrate
at the horizon.
The earth’s mechanic
makes adjustments
seals hope in the breathless
rush that tomorrow will
break whisked again – fresh.
Dreams of Lyra Glockenspiel
Dream #070
Lyra Glockenspiel wears
an ankle length white
peignoir that sways
in the breeze of the rooftop
patio. She is also taking
pictures of herself
from a chair as she tosses
her long hair off her shoulder.
A large mirror stands next
to the chair. The mirror reflects
Lyra as she was when she
was thirteen.
Her reflection steps out of
the mirror and takes flight.
The young Lyra gently slips
into the sky and sails over
the town, the airport,
the river to the hills filled
with wild horses. She laughs.
She smiles as she rides
one of the horses. She sees
blood on her gown. Her face
breaks into a wide grin.
Dream #071
Lyra’s skin tightens over her small boned frame
tightens in the spring sun that bloats the field/
meadow of buttercups who whisper off melodies
in soft breezes that bloat/swell her heart.
In the small of her slender back, as she gravitates/
turns into high noon, she warms in dark places
on the run of herself. This is a dream she reminds
herself, a dream from my adolescence. The acorn
colored horse wades the rippling yellow flowers
up to her quilt. The horse drops his head
to nuzzle into the umbrella of Lyra’s breath.
He nudges her cheek.
She rises/swings onto his warm back. The horse trots
as she straddles until trespassing the dark wood
where the fresh branch tips rove softly at her passing.
The woods break at the canyon’s edge where her body
dissolves into the horse. From within her arms
stretch out through the hide becoming wings/racks
of feather stacked into the shafts of air rising from
the canyon’s deep. Lyra and the horse lift in the draft.
Weightless, she awakes.
Dream #701
The Widow Lyra Glockenspiel,
Bathed in Debussy,
scrubbed in Ducoudray,
showered by dreams.
The short mallet strikes.
Feathers in my uniform
cap and hers at the back
of the marching band.
Flags flutter.
A flatbed trailer float before;
Legion of Veterans behind,
“y’er left……y’er left…..
y’er left, right, left”
up the hill into the sun.
Solo we dance the light beams.
My right arm around her waist.
Her gold tassels shimmy.
Her notes sparkle in the outdoor cafe.
Magic wands bright the end of the bar,
a flashing model of La Tour Eiffel.
She nuzzles into my side.
She chortles,
the Widow Layra Glockenspiel.
Forever rattling on the cob stones,
pushcarts of flowers.
Dream #710
TV Show: Community Auditions
Star of the day, who will it be?
The ice cream truck speakers
shake with the TV show jingle.
Lyra Glockenspiel’s balcony
curtains sway.
Two dogs chomp the edges
of a four by seven foot Foamcore
check for $20,000.00.
The TV crew, a dozen dancers
and a rotund suited man with
black lacquered hair mill the front
yard licking orange popsicles.
A whipped cream wind pulls Lyra
behind the Rose of Sharon bush.
The Mexican dress dances to:
Star of the day, who will it be?
Lyra Glockenspiel becomes
the Rose of Sharon opening
with the sun closing with
the moon.
Dream #711
The Lyra Glockenspiel factory huffs and puffs
a six part collection of poetry in Rheims.
Huffs and puffs an epic poem set to selected
music an honorific for a national politico.
Huffs and puffs to witness the crowning death
of a friend. Puffs and puffs a hospital stay from
cat attack. Huffs and huffs as editor of the magic
poetry review, a flock of pigeons that refuse to roost.
Add to production the prognosis of her only child’s
prolonged affliction cut in stone on a sunny day by
a shaman who spills the dry bones in the field near
the grave. The Lyra Glockenspiel factory steam
whistle blows but no one breaks, no one exits
the churning.
Craig Edward Flaherty; Grandfather trained at Andover, Everett High, Boston University and Eden Seminary. Lifelong church musician. Published poet in all the joys of discovery.
Featured image “U S Marines and Sailors attend Finnish Swedish Heritage Day Parade” in this post is by Sgt. Makayla Elizalde, and released by the United States Marine Corpe to be licensed via creative commons 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons.
