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  November 2018
volume 15 number 1
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Greg Patrick
November 2018
   

 

bio


photo by james barros

    As he was an enlisted man's son, Greg saw something of Europe and the South Pacific/Polynesia and Oceania. His cross-cultural interactions and patronage of museums/historic sites inspired him to writing. He was a student of Anthropology and History. His maternal roots drew him to the Isles of Ireland and Britain to pursue Celtic studies. He is a dual citizen of the U.S.A. and the Republic of Ireland. More so a citizen of the world. He was involved in volunteer efforts on behalf of people and the natural world and would encourage others to do that. It is the world's poetry.

   

 

Gatsby's Dream

The dark waves rose like a toast to the stars, like a procession of black horses passing by in review before a radiant queen envisioned in the moon and across the horizon’s threshold of the ebb tide, the night wind whispered it’s nocturne melodiously through a raven cascade of hair like an endearment whispered in a forbidden sonnet by an angel to a mortal daughter of eve and lost between two worlds. For that which is spoken between man and angel is the oldest long distance relationship ever known?

So many mirages by day leading the nomad ever astray, bewitch the searching gaze with false hope, so many mirage smiles that prove mere painted desert in time…too many dreams mere sandcastles before dead seas but there was never a nomad of the desert true to the identity who couldn’t behold in the solitary beacon of a desert star beckoning him past…like the very nomad fire of his people.

On nights when distances between dreams are measured in the voids between stars and between reuniting of distant hearts. Her smile was like a song composed on face of beauty in a smile that was silence set to music and to leave that selfsame smile sad is like losing the thread of the one song composed in a lifetime that one wants their name next to… a defacement of a priceless art, but the rare moment when her laughter was heard was like that magic instant when the sleepless composer’s eyes light up for he found the first notes of an unforgettable song and if by some dark necromancy of a conjurer’s hand, the vision of so many a night’s craving in a vigil of dreams like offerings to the night the vision of heart’s dream appeared like a painting of dream envisioned on a canvas of sky.

And in that brief interval lent mortal man to either darken or enlighten his world he had composed tribute to a radiance that he wished upon in the silence that was half prayer and half horizon sigh in the presence of one person.

I don’t remember I first heard the word beauty but I will always be inspired to a sigh at the unforgettable moment I saw it defined by a smile as if for the first time. Her gaze was like a voluminous microcosm of depth of sea, tidepooled.

The last sight of her at parting was more a vision against blue of cerulean sky and green of shore against a background of the red horizon. So many mirages vex one by day leading a nomad astray, so rare the oases between journeys and voyages and why call it outer space for it seems there is so much fulfillment in that great void to call it by the place name heaven and if it had an anthem it’s song title goes by your name alone.

He raised his voice to the gods themselves and broke his spear against the mountains until time broke and bowed him in age and a goddess did likewise in youth but in the hushed whisper of a sigh he clutched heart for the first time in a rage and knew then what eluded the sage, the rare moment when the lion steps away from the threshold of a broken cage and his eyes beamed then like the moon on the depth of night sea like a mystery banished by enlightenment and he never returned to that dark place by the sea.

copyright 2018 Greg Patrick