The Thorn of Neptune

by Christina Murphy

A surfeit of cold waves marks the twilight
with strains of silence and endurance;
random particles beset by harm
move closer to the gritty space between
heaven and the imagination;
the shadows of air conclude with praise—
broken music, pure and wild, and obscure beginnings
near the despair of a ragged moon
The changeling appears as long bones laid out in winter,
the thorn of Neptune rising as an eagle, longing for the shore,
cryptic runes as pure as lilies in the serpent’s embrace;
rivers blossoming on a stem, and far, far away,
the edge of northern skies inexpertly drawn,
the broken images of stars in the dark time,
returning home with mystical emptiness;
here in the moon-shadows by the roadway
nothing from something is revealed—
the constant fool in purgatory wishing the fields
were butterflies in moonlight, not the sad panorama
of dark woods alive with soft mocking

Hermes' Dream

by Christina Murphy

Hermes was a clever baby god stealing his brother Apollo’s cattle and
     hiding them in an Arcadian cave
Apollo seeking revenge took Hermes before Zeus for judgment, but Hermes
     even so young placated
He offered a tortoise shell and leather strips as a lyre to Apollo who
     recognized the music within 
 
Apollo the Sun God and Hermes the infant god created music from a theft
     and a deception
Hermes understood and Apollo agreed that the earth was the place for song
     so filled with promise and sorrows
So they asked Iris, daughter of Electra and creature of celestial energy, to create 
     the rainbow and fill the clouds with light
 
Iris, running with the wind, knew in her heart that the stars and the earth were
     one with the music of the lyre
So she placed the rainbow in the sky above the earthly broken dreams
     of humankind— 
The rainbow to split the clouds and free the songs of the heavens as 
     rain fell and rose from the earth
 
In appreciation for the gift of the lyre, Apollo gave Hermes a golden rod,
     the sign of the peace maker
Asleep in his cradle in a cave on Mount Cyllene, Hermes dreamed the
     dream of rainbows and stars
As Iris, the night for her companion, kept watch in the heavens, filling
     the sky with light before the dawn 

Chrome Nights in Heavenly Hills

by Christina Murphy

Every town once had a place like this. A lover’s lane, overlooking a vista of city lights and bright stars. Perhaps there are mountains laced with streams or hillsides radiantly green. Perhaps it is winter or summer. It doesn’t matter. The music, sweet music, unites the moment. In the distance a car radio is playing songs of love lost. The notes move through the night like the wings of migratory birds, marking the paths of endless searches. Somewhere, someone must hear that song and remember the tender lies that made a love affair possible.

It is the era of large-finned cars sleek in the night, challenging the wind for speed and the stars for brilliance. Chrome, like a fierce and cold brightness in the hills, glittering in even the darkest of nights as the moon calls out to the stars: behold—nothing is lost. Chrome, like a phantom, haunting the hills—so right for songs of love lost and love found, of broken hearts and hearts just taking flight.

The heavenly hills with stars aflame made escape possible. It was a search for perfection—like the beauty of ocean to sky in azure light unbroken. The music could lift hearts as passion freed or broke them. The songs were seas in which hearts could swim to unknown shores—looking behind, waving to the past, seeing it all in one flash—chrome, brilliant like heaven, and love, soft as the nascent green of springtime hills. How many loves were found or lost in cars on hillsides as songs played the hopes and heartbreaks of life? Do you remember lover’s lane? Like Narcissus, in images of time’s creative making, can you see your own reflection in the chrome?