Greg Patrick










Lady of the Silver Helm



A story of Jeanne d’Arc, Amazon of the Hundred Years War and her Chevalier Paladin Gilles D’Rais



” I am not afraid… I was born to do this”. – Jeanne d’Arc


“Though much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”- Alfred Tennyson




She did not appear suddenly but was beheld and comprehended as a beauty that had always been present yet had no name to glorify it nor the eyes prepared to behold it anymore than the gaze of a liberated prisoner confined to an  oubliette who says of the stars… »I forgot how radiant you were ». To the knight who commanded the last army of the Dauphin with an impassivity that seemed cloven from the stone itself. As a squire he often espied her among the trees like the flash of a vulpine pelt by twilight, like the trees that marked the passage of seasons she appeared in similar aspects, red -gowned with Autumn and the dwindling sun fire, emerald in spring’s Renaissance, selenite glory by winter like an apparitional doe’s siren call of Breton legend yet always she was his lady of the forest. He knew she found solace as he did among the oaken boughs so he did not trouble her nor betray her presence to others for when he beheld her no more he would cease to know himself by the wraith mirrored in the moonlit pool. In sequestered glade. A salve to disenchanted eyes.


And he the “illegitimate son” who was driven to seek refuge in the forest from the barbs of ridicule he knew so that the heresy of the heart she inspired was not faithless. It was then he trained in swordsmanship among the living shrine of trees as if bestowed some accolade or sword of a rightful prince in exile to reclaim his honour. In a land of enlightenment and revolution, of weak kings cowering behind towering walls of stone but strong meritocracy of heart in battlefields of human harvest reaped by peasant soldier. She proved honour was not a birthright and he would remember the lesson ever.


She came as a revelation upon them more a presence than mortal girl her sonorous voice was not just rejuvenating but the essence of life. The promise of renewal to hearts beset in winter and despairing of the Renaissance of spring for her inspiration could render animate the stone. Just as one awaken an Elvish princess with a kiss and a barracks warrior to the dawn of battle with a cuff to the ear. The dormancy of their vitality was roused by ferocious heraldry the call to arms and chivalrous inspiration in turns. When once they shuffled a broken army now they strode as if Charlemagne himself was among them. In a time when the residual darkness lingered in an already haunted land the knights who advanced along the old  Roman road, their banners like the canvases of tempest-ravaged galleons, seeking harbor, were borne like winter trees divested of their leaves, they marched like somnambulists like shadows yielding before the dawn, their stiffened limbs, rendering them an eldritch presence a ghostly army enhanced by the wisps of mist like a phantom nocturne caress beckoning them onwards.


Then she appeared the raiment’s of her vibrant gossamer surcoat aflow trailing dawn as if ushering in morning to banish man-made night in her retinue with each stride, the thunder-clap of iron shod hooves struck sparks from the flagstones and smote the ancient ruins as if to awaken the kings and warriors of old to hearken to they who were about to surpass their feats of armies beyond the hyperbole of song. By the languid sway of lantern light which cast eerie goblin dance shadows upon the ash-tarnished walls. That had once rang with the forging of great blades their wielders now legendary. Their valor no longer comprehended nor aspired to. He who toiled long into the night prepared arms and armor befitting one who would surpass them all. Each spark-showering blow of his hammer blazing in his gaze like balefire in a tiger’s glaze. It is said that poverty does not know itself until it stares into the face of opulence and though he had hoarded plunder about him so as to compensate for the stars obscured by the fires of war, he now realized he knew nothing of true glory and splendour still he had beheld Joan. He had strode with the swagger of a free-booter, helm rakishly a-tilt through many a palatial hall eyed many a fairly-gowned lady.


Yet it was she who both humbled and inspired him in turns. Berserker as well as tactician he could not place or define his feelings for her save for the one he dreaded the most. A star be she human or of the heavens is by its nature unattainable. He was a man of the sword not the harp nor the pen. If he took up the cross or the cowl it would be of a sanguinary red emblazoned upon a shield and gripped in the hilt of his sword and a hood of chain mail. To wage war on other lands and peoples only to find there blood was as red as those shed in his own land. As red as his own.


Like a monastic scribe a Celtic nobleman who like the lion though shorn of his mane was no less a lion even more so for a fire of suppressed rage was ignited for he who looked for the stars of the plains and saw only the circus tent, conjured illuminated angels from a gilded palette of honeyed resplendence for he could not behold those glories who danced at the spring revels so he paid tribute to beauty fair. Because he lamented of their absence their remembrance of their beauty amplified so when he finally beheld one that seemed as distant as storied as the Elvish kind she was to his gaze what the sun is to a prisoner long confined in absolute darkness a blinding revelation. Even to he who had not seen since their own Guenivere passed into legend. He cast aside his cleaver of men, to pay tribute to one who unhorsed him in mid-stride without a blow of steel, yet did not unman him. Cursing himself, for the fighting man’s heresy he smote the steel before him with thunderous percussion.


On the eve of battle he approached with the solemnity in which one enters the threshold of the sacred, with the coltish temerity that was thus far his an thesis, of a shepherd paying court to his rustic lass, cursing inwardly. « Joan- a gift » he hastily, almost shoved it at her, the realized he was one who had strode with leonine panache always breaking from wavering ranks to launch upon the enemy. He that prided himself on being an anachronism of the dark ages, a Viking among foppish chevalier, cast a look that would have blanched an ogre upon his snickering army, who choked back their laughter.


Not with a courtly bow towards queen enthroned but veneration befitting an angel enshrined. What does one say to others if they knew it to be their last day on earth. In contemporary terms: One can only understand the radiance of light only by its contrast. Perpetual night and oblivion without the promise of spring. From a descending plane on a September morning centuries hence or on field of battle when the wounds were still young… the trinity of three words… “Jeanne… I …” “Know ” she finished. « No shame in it and no arrogance either.” One only has so much time and so many words to offer the one. He felt a new immediacy to tenderness. If value is measured in scarcity a tender gesture in that time and place was priceless. He doffed his helm. To be smitten is quite literally to be struck with substantial force, in a time when the field of battle was a gladiatorial contact sport he who sustained blows that could fell an oxen as if they were mere trifles. Felt here soul-delving gaze upon him and the subsequent chaste kiss was everything he dreaded it would be pivotal.


He attended the mandatory masses with dragging feet, snickering at the Romans that his Germanic forebearers stomped upon reduced from gladius-wielding legions to chanters of psalms. Inwardly snickering of how some of their warriors had shed their armor for wool upon a divine visitation. That will never happen to me and it did not. As the dawn lit the sky, he astride his scarlet caparisoned Andalusian and burnished plate armor seemed to preside over the field of battle like a deity of war. An equestrian triumph cast in russet bronze in fire-encrimsoned malevolence.


The castle that loomed from the soaring yet barren cliff seemed like a pellucid funerary crown upon a sepulchered king. The archers ominously arrayed upon the dawn-silhouetted battlements prepared to unleash yet another deluge of their arrows upon the quixotic French knights with the cold detachment of a human stomping upon ants. A cross bowmen pointed a him beckoning. That one’s mine he said leveling an armour-piercing arrow and waiting for the charge. A silence ensued as if in expectation of the imminent deluge. Their hearts as taught as the strings that drew back arrows to unleash. Then she was among them.


” Why doth the dawn rise from the west today?” one of the archers wondered. As if swathed in a cascade of gilded volcanism in armor that seemed forged from fires stolen from the heavens, the sun ascendant lent its splendour or rather deferred to a radiance greater than ever it had blazed nor aspire to reach in its zenith the apotheosis of her standard-bearer.


Just as nightmare is banished by a tender voice at dawn the army snapped to attention yet not with the precision inspired by a harshly barked order but to those beheld some unfathomed wonder. In demeanor she had something of the Valkyrie but more so of the angel, the two converged and when she came to his side she was all goddess. The sun blazed upon her with a sudden intensity in fiery lavishment.


Like a knight enveloped in dragon’s fire and yet almost savouring it bathed in liquid fire. It was said that he who gazes from the heights upon the vastness stretched before him is the lord of all he sees. Aloft his castellated aerie he like his like the falcon of the heights does not waver on the brink of the void anymore than the warhorse at the charge before launching into the flight. In her presence he felt juxtaposed with the archers to point of stepping upon them with the detachment of a deity their arrows dismissive trifles in comparison to the prospect of fighting at her side.

With a thespian flourish he brandished his stave and the banner unfurled like a serpentine tendril with the coquettish sweep of a gypsy dancer’s ribbon. When in one is love the world dissolves before him save for her, she becomes the radiance of the dawn and silver splendour of the moon. He all but roared in a sonorous adulation, “My lady”… “You’re looking the wrong way” she said firmly, her gaze glacial the gleam in her eyes as distant as the stars. “There is but one lady to hail today and I am not she. Do not coronate me with thine eyes the queen of battles for we are both mortal”. Such a feeling of dejection pervaded his soul that he seemed to be as far away from her as the voids between the stars, banishment from the light being synonymous with hell. As rivulets of the dawn fire wavered over her in parting lavishment as if loath resign her to the shadow. As she doffed her helm so as to rally her warriors her helm though smoldering with dawn fire was as nothing to bio-luminescence of her face.


Like the moon blazing forth from the obscurity of parting clouds she was glorious to behold the reginal with a pixilated the reginal cascade of her hair spilt like wine from a chalice no words for her army for those was no bard sired of mortals who could surpass that visual inspiration nor artist who can render its image upon canvas without profaning its splendor. For one who was emissary of angels her was a beauty that was celestial its own right. Her only words whispered so softly so as to be almost lost upon the lamenting sigh of the breeze that undulated the molten gold of her hair a knightly banner. « Come inferno or flood, be I consigned to flames or lost in the tides of battle. Remember me for that ».


« And to you always, my fair warrior of the angels. Hail to thee my lady of the flowers. My eyes sing for you alone. You are the tears of angels and bane of dragons. We always have the stars. Be not afraid radiant one. »


The glow of dawn that had rosened his varnished helm was as naught as that which burnt upon his cheeks. His eyes beseeching hers like votive candles. The shadow that passed across her face was literal, he instinctively turned casting himself in front of her as if to hold a lion at bay. A volley of arrows struck him his shield upturned the dragon emblazoned upon it screaming red in reply with resounding heraldry. Like the rain battering the dome of a cathedral the candles sheltered did not so much as falter. Like a gargoylian sentinel his personal insignia that of the dragon kept the deluge at bay and roared in silence to the heavens.


She must be of the heavens surely he thought and eyes told her so with tacit eloquence. This is no world for her. One day she will leave behind this chrysalis of armor that confines her as the falcon on a tether despairs of not ascending the heights. She must look to those visions like a caged wren seeing her brethren revel in the skies about her with beseeching eyes. when I can join you, when I will be free? Soon child. It was if creatures who dwelt in the depths were showered by the splendour doubloons and Aztec jewels from a cannon-struck galleon, slowly, languidly descending blazing fiercely red by the fires and pallid gold in turns in myriad interplay. The knight and his lady lingered beneath his shield. For her he would hold against the flames of this life as well as the next. Perhaps she was a witch indeed he thought wistfully for I am very much enchanted and he knew that though there time together was all too finite even for its tenacity in her absence. For its brevity it was all the more meaningful. For in that country love was a heresy As if a torrent of oceanic silver sought to submerge the land, with the unbridled fury of a Nordic maelstrom the armies surged against the castle like a seismic fury, the arrows gleamed in reply cutting swathes in a medieval artillery barrage that were quickly replenished by more silver-helmed warriors the blows inflicted only. It would have been unnerving enough if the arrows added to their fury, the wounded lion roaring in agony is always the most dangerous yet it was her armies seeming indifference and resilience to the once dreaded bowmen that terrified them. Tearing out shafts by their teeth in mid-charge or ignoring multiple shafts entirely. The infamous long bowmen so self-assured of their supremacy battle abandoned the wall in panic. The cross bowmen tried to rally them but to no avail. With grim finality he brought his crossbow to bear aiming with cold precision upon the red knight.


Destroy the commander of a regimented is like beheading a serpent, it deaths throes avail it nothing. Yet on impulse aimed instead for their very inspiration. The armies heart. Joan was struck down. The army sighed in collective agony. With a triumphant roar he yelled for his archers to return for he had gloated that he had killed the witch. Her army recoiled began to flee. Yet her knight lingered at her side cradling her tenderly as her light and the radiance it instilled within him began to dwindle. Oblivious the arrows that delivered a parting salvo to speed retreating army on its way fell all around them. Like a merciless tempest unsympathetic to those battered amid their waves. He covered her with his mantle wondering if there was really a heaven. For a kindness once showed him he would have waited at her table humbly to end of time, he yearned to escort to those shining gates often spoke to those who wavered between life and its contrast their eyes gleaming in wondrous apprehension before yielding to shadow. It was this tangible emphasis to the finality of all life’s dulcet pleasures many in that land had all but forgotten till Joan came.


Laughter and spring revels amid emerald tapestried trees had almost becomes as legendary to people as unicorns. Because of precocity in the arts of war there were for years was no knight in Christendom who would dare to cross blades with him. In the courts of love there was none to equal her. Looking at her he remembered as a child in the countryside he had gazed upon the rare vision of a swan as if graced by an angelic visitation only to hear a horn sound and as she took flight his eyes pleading for her safety an arrow struck his lady of the lake. The tears of many years past came unashamed to his eyes. Joan had that effect on him. His beautiful Joan. Desecration.


He looked up suddenly, the archer about the deliver coup de grace. The look he gave staid his hand no mortal in this life had ever envisioned such basilisk fury that contorted and transfigured his features in a masque of pure hate. The arrow loosed by a crossbow much like a contemporary bullet cannot be traced by the eye in its velocity. As doubly-armed with broad axe and sword he charged towards his assailants like a jet of dragon’s flame, he struck aside the arrow, meant for his Joan. And vaulted over the wall to close with the enemy with Homeric fury.





Raven’s Hour 


Like a breathless emissary of night, haggard after a long journey to bear tidings the dark poet faltered at last swaying like a pendulum tolling the hour, yet commenced his shuffling walk. Like a soloist by a solitary gaslamp’s apparitional spotlight packing his case for the profitless walk back home. It was as if the restless shadows were granted form and face to mingle with the passerby. The gaunt apparition that once commanded striking presence in the centre of candle-lit readings with the mystique of a famed conjurer or illusionist now reduced to disheveled emaciation. He seemed strayed from the haunted pages of his stories. Raven hair maned a lion’s stare. A bard’s eyes like the lion’s vision transcending the dark. His enigmatic profile seemed to hold watch over the night, a guardian of shepherdless dream and holding sway over nightmares as shadows thronged him like an admiring public after the end of his story.


He was Atlas when the day broke and Orion when the night cast it’s dark spell left to songs only the midnight scribe will dare tell. Huntsman’s return, bard’s sojourn, like a ghost march till dawn. His hand of the nightscribe likewise beckoned at the few stars yet visible through the citylights like a pilgrim asking for an enlightenment just beyond his reach, as if snatching at their vigil candles, claw-like, talon-like some falling raptor that could not seize the bright quarry in the water far below but could not stop his falling for it. Now hovering between worlds, like the voyage of a ghost vessel drifting between shores. Snow fell around him in ethereal splendour, like frozen tears or the hailing of a dark prince, a rightful heir of shadow returned, in a crystalline tribute, the frost glistening in the dark mane of his hair, like an ethereal crown.

He seemed like the apprentice of a sage or something wild pacing a night cage, one who revisits his master after being sent on a search for wisdom and was poised the question what have you learned then in your travels of wisdom or foolishness?


The forbidding urban labyrinth with such evident squalour seemed an eerie dreamscape. The towering structures like misshapen sculptures glowered like dark idolatry. And to a sleepless brightness like the stars themselves and restless mind the stream of consciousness and words flowed like the night tides stirred by the moon.He seemed to glide rather than stride, with the air of a penniless prince humbled by circumstance, his ragged coat hems whispering on the stones like a flightless falcon crutching on broken wings though casting a shadow before him of a falcon soaring in slow motion as if guided by an elusive dream of restoration. Sleep walker though profoundly conscious of the restless dreamscapes of the heart. The squalor of the slums he roamed like the ruins of a lost city, were unnerving to behold. The Sunken-cheeked begged for alms in the shadow of the dilapidated soot-tarnished walls. It’s uncouth denizens that congregated in circles by the patches of lights now when night fell laughed in crude mirth as if to keep the dark and foreboding at bay as he passed them like a dark rumour whispered between them… a shadow of their own world passing them by. He staggered blinking into the beams of street lamps, through the intervals of spectral light and shadow like a dream transcending the chords of a dream catcher unhindered. The beams like moonlight filtering through the dark canopy of a petrified jungle. Like a spectre drifting through worlds and a succession of dark thresholds. A bewitchingly composed nocturne slipping through the harpstrings. He seemed a dark tear of midnight wavering against the moon. It was the voids but the fulfilment that made him seek the solace of the night. Every author leaves with a story untold and his soulful gaze like a dwindling candle flame seemed to delve the surrounding darkness for some image like listening to an endearment whispered to the night.


And the beginnings of poems unwritten rise like dark waves rose in 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 miraged 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.

He couldn’t remember when he first heard the word beauty anymore than the first moment as a child he knew the stars by name… but he would always be inspired to a sigh at the unforgettable moment he 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 outerspace for it seems there is so much fulfilment in that great void to call it by the place-name heaven… and if it had an anthem it’s song title goes by her 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…




Ulysses and Ithaca


An illuminated lyre formed centrepiece of a dark room in solitary splendour awaiting the bard’s words and touch…

Though blind he had vision…remembered it for in another writer’s words: “even were he blind he would know her for what she was”… even in perpetual dark he knew light once and it would not be unsung… centuries before a man who cured the blind was hung… Nailed to a tree he sang songs of a fair face over the vast sea…

The smile that was like a song one could not get out of one’s head as fine a poetry as ever read like a poetry from lips read by the deaf.

A smile that was silence set to music so that of an eve without her the night itself sang.

Like waves of night to a distant shore.

How many nights more… between waves…

… are we kept apart ?

Ulysses paces the shore with a lion’s heart.

So many wakes behind and dividing seas between. Too many battles fought to lose a queen.

Two unfulfilled chairs by a silver screen. Like two empty thrones before the sea waiting for the quiet bard to sing after a phone that will never ring.

Raise the shell to hear the sea. Look to the muse-blinded eyes to behold the sea’s voluminous depth in the imagery of song, even if my star-crossed way was wrong.

The artist walks away for another inspiration to find… but it was always a dream and image sought by the blind.

Muse smoldering red into dreams searingly like that of a warrior’s nightmares.

Like the pollen of a tropical flower that haunts with beautific dream the warrior and

explorer’s bower, vexes the composer in his tower.

Makes astrologer out of astronomer. Believer of the faithless.

Infected by it’s dulcet fever and for nights after it’s thrall and dreamer.

Away from tired desks lined in a row as the desire for quest grow and Arthur calls for his sword and Ulysses at last returns to his bow.

The suitors see the storm of sea in his eye and against dream-differed nightmares die, gods hear at last an exiled voyager’s cry

and recited words not my own and to speak my words is to know no home.

Gladiator at heart before there was a Rome.

I don’t leave you on voyages of a restless heart and defiant soul must make but it’s their

spell and wonder that I take as far as the horizon goes, the sigh is a wordless expression of

one name, on horizon’s

verge where the seas break over the heart of the castaway, gone overboard, swept away once and never


I remember that name to the stars let the sea wash away with purging salt so many scars, of tropic nights when sigh is all that is left of battlecry, the waves it’s distant echo of so many nights and aimless fights.

The moonlight’s flame has dwindled the tide has gone yet I linger like Yeats thinking of Maud Gonne.

The tides rise and fall. There the ghost of a never child holding a doll as we are playthings to as many shores and closed doors. Her hand extends like past to present… So many presents…

‘Daddy will you walk the night shore with me.. .was it really Santa or you who left the doll by the tree ?

Do reindeer fly daddy. Tell me honestly ?”

He smiles in that dreamy way he so often looked to the a rebel would through the bars… In answer he lifts her up suddenly high…”I’ll make you fly…”

The way she made me feel walking in air…You have her hair…

Making her entrance like the dawn…

I know it’s not polite to stare… but the moment was ours and even if the gods warned I hadn’t cared…

Now the horizon awaits to be dared.

Why do you go it is asked. Dangers await in the depths and in the sky.

A sigh to the east that doesn’t lie. There’s no reason to stay and cry…

The traveler will stand the stones and hearts of stone only when he dies. The

horizon beckons and so too the skies.







Horizon and Mirage


Nathaniel Hawthorne had once wrote that “moonlight is sculpture” and so it was an apparitional mirage of a poet nomads imagery recreated in dream’s own image from the desert of isolation.

Like a lone sculptor who molds the divine from stone or the soloist who steps free of the strings to speak the words, the composer pacing with the lion in the music

notes till he casts open the window of his hermitage just to see the stars… for there are no kindred spirits below who remember and are heirs to that entrusted song.

Conjuring the vision of goddess. Huntress to the huntsman from the stuff of dream’s image reconstructing in fast forward, bygone castle towers awaiting homecoming of a rightful prince, take form as if before an exiled soldier returning to a homefront in ruins.

The citylights with their gaudy displays seem like distant minarets with a tempter gesturing around to the loftier idealist, the sad prince on pilgrimage… all this can be yours..?  He gestures grandly.

But no he has his own way through that painted desert…

For golden age is not a gilded cage that he disdains…

By moonlight alone where dreams seem credible, tangible as a ghost’s caress

the vision takes shape.

Long into the eve the soloist cythera-player caressed forth

bewitching strains  lulling his restless heart to repose.

It’s silvery chords like the ripples of a long dead sea.

Sighing over the desert sands.

His attendants soothed him from long journeys with rare

frankincense and myrrh.

He closed his eyes thinking of home.

Like a somnambulist walking a surreal dreamscape he strode the

encampment as the

sultry winds like a ghost’s roar undulated the frayed banners and the walls of

the pavilions shuddered and heaved.The campfires tendrils writhed and sighed like charmed serpents.On a sultry eve when the moon would light the pallor of finely-grained sands in apparitional splendour and he stood in wordless rapture basking in the spectral pyre’s immolation. Sands shifted like the balance of power. Rising and falling.The receding sands hissed like a vast dormant serpent. His heavy sigh as one with the night…

Haunted by the words  left unspoken to those left behind… words that even if whispered softly as waves to the shore like depth serenading the shallow were

battlecry too resounding to be anything but soundless to the crowds and passerby but for the

cry of the heart  alone like a mute composer’s and blind bard’s song.

Though the soul can live by muse alone it is not the heart’s sustenance but it’s craving

like a desert lion at the oasis.

And by the lyre and campfire the nomad croons by the light of a lifetime’s moons:

Serpent trails across the sands and a sieve of sand through nomad’s hands 

in stormswept lands 

where nightmares hide 

till dreams awake by the moon of the corsair tide 

and the Magi beckoned by the star doth ride 

for the Emperor’s word will not abide 

until the desert lion strays from it’s pride 

and songs anew begin by the fireside..   

“Moonlight is sculpture” as a midnight scribe wrote… Like a gambler’s fraily balanced card castle for those

who dare against the odds, dreams

built of moonbeams for those who walked the dreamscapes of the heart till dawn without substance.











Author’s Bio


A dual citizen of Ireland and the states, Greg Patrick is an Irish/Armenian traveler poet and the son of a Navy enlisted man.  He is also a former Humanitarian aid worker who worked with great horses for years and loves the wilds of Connemara and Galway in the rain where’s he written many stories. Greg spent his youth in the South Pacific and Europe and currently resides in Galway, Ireland and sometimes the states.

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