Poetry
The dream was clean freedom and
Pancakes served up sweetly without dirt flecks from the spring
Street cleaners lifting up the dust
Before the flowers opened
A Wind sock made from plastic
Can holders that
Become a geometric healing beast
Floating in the breeze from the east
Flown and created by the bearded
Man of small violins
The broken candle shrine of glass diamonds interlocking becomes
The soul riding and rising into the joy
As the arrow enters the lotus
Of the light
He wanted everyone to strike one note and one word
On the page and the string that
Brought healing to the deranged
And lost causes
He said this was Important while
You live, to help
The ones that drifted between
Imaginary families
Eternal orphans of the lonely
Ghosts
The sun crept upon the cracked
Pavement and they found his
Body and written pages
Strewn in a gutter of mud
The small violin and the tiny flute
That looked like a whale at his side
When they all saw with his beard
Shaved away
He was no longer a slave
Now being Laid to rest in the hope chest
That once housed
Blankets of the rich
The other homeless stranger
Stood at the podium and mused
At their dream to clean up
And see a movie
To sit in the societal
Throne
This next scene is not shot by a drone over woods or mountain stones
Now his story lifted between
The tails of kites
His unbound spirit dancing
And the clouds broke more gently
Then before
When they remembered the one
Struck note
Played for all by one
In a million.
Francis A Willey
Jan 5th 2017
8:30PM
From a dream