Memories of the Dragon

3:02 AM

I walk alone, holding hands with the ghost of what has been.
The bridge beneath my feet is missing rungs.
I can't look or I might plummet.
But if I fall, a winged dragon will catch me.
I'll fly away
And the daylight will kiss my eyelids
And the moonlight will fade into the lakes below
Where I watch my shadows, dancing gaily
Like mermaids beneath the surface of the sea:
Playful companions, gesturing.

They want me to join them
But if I lose my breath then it will not return
And if I use my wishes, the genie will be gone
And I'll find myself imprisoned in a palace
With stones in my pockets where coins used to be
And my arms wrapped around the skeleton of a lover
Who left me his body and took his soul away to paradise.

There is a skylight above, painting flowers that skip across the sun
But I don't want to take part in such happiness.
I'd rather languish, and let the tears run
And the laughter echo
And the memories of the dragon drive me sane
Until sleep at last has found me.


In Memory

10:13 PM

It seems that I am unable to fully process any emotion, come to grips with reality, or find peace with life until I write about it. 

Writing eases things.

I'm writing tonight to ease something. A pain, a sense of loss, and a deep regret over a childhood friend who passed tragically. 

I grew up with this person. We lived in the same building for a number of years, attended the same church, classes, the list goes on. We were babies, toddlers and children together, and I told him that we were going to be married when we grew up. He should have argued, but he didn't.

Life shifted. His family moved away. We rarely saw each other. The last time, we were in the awkwardness of fourteen, and there wasn't much to connect over, except for the silent acknowledgement of a history, when we had been childhood companions.

It's strange how a shared youth connects you permanently to others. Over the years I have sporadically reconnected with some friends of my past, and wondered where the others went, what they're doing for a career, and if they have children. This one friend I felt the occasional need to stalk on Facebook, and more recently I was considering reaching out, if only with a simple, "Hey! Remember me? How's life?"

I missed that opportunity.

It's strange how the passing of someone I haven't seen in over 10 years affects me, even when we weren't truly close. Just that past, the shared history, is enough. And the fact that only afterwards I hear about the suffering, the struggle, and the things I've fought against myself. 

It is then that I feel the regret. 

Regret that I didn't reach out, that I didn't know, that I wasn't there to share my own pain, to listen, and to support in the midst of darkness. 

Now I hear about the good things too. That this person, with whom I thought I had nothing in common but childhood, also loved poetry. We could have shared that. 

And I know it's not my fault, that the plan is bigger than I can see and that, for whatever reason, the burden was not mine to bear. Still, I regret. 

I don't want it to be in vain. 

I want to be the one that will listen, weep, and rejoice with anyone who might need me. I want others to feel my love, support, and comfort, because I have felt the same ache. I want the world to know that I am here.

And so I write, in hopes that a hurting world will feel my presence. And to speak for those who speak no more.

Someone who has been lost deserves to be remembered. But though the stories are told, our words and memories fade, unless we write them down.

I write to preserve. It is the least that I can do.



The Call

10:56 PM

I believe we all have a calling.

Some callings we know from birth.
Some callings take a lifetime to discover.

I am meant to be a writer. I have known it for as long as I can remember.
I do not consider myself a genius, extraordinarily gifted or talented.
All I have known is that I am called to write, to share my words.

It brings me joy when others find their callings.
I particularly love to see other writers share their words.

I believe that, as a writer, I have been given power.
I believe that power is to be used for good.
To open imaginations and quicken hearts. To share joy and sorrow.
To paint the good and the bad. To weigh right and wrong.
To inspire and empower. To make the world a more beautiful place.

Whether you are a writer or not, this is your calling, too.
You have words. You have actions. You have love to give.
You have the ability to listen. You have the ability to speak.
You can speak for those who cannot speak for themselves.

Without getting too controversial...
Please, show your love to a hurting world.
Spread peace. Share joy.

I am worthy of my calling.
So is she.
So is he.

So are you.





8:07 PM

Let me but live my life from year to year,
With forward face and unreluctant soul;
Not hurrying to, nor turning from the goal;
Not mourning for the things that disappear
In the dim past, nor holding back in fear
From what the future veils; but with a whole
And happy heart, that pays its toll
To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer.

So let the way wind up the hill or down,
O'er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy:
Still seeking what I sought when but a boy,
New friendship, high adventure, and a crown,
My heart will keep the courage of the quest,
And hope the road's last turn will be the best.

-Henry van Dyke


6:32 PM

Be kind

Give thanks

Live life on my own terms

Develop a healthy state of mind

Put myself first when I am weak

Put others first when I am strong

"Unfollow" social media

Read more poetry

Fear not