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The Last Dragon

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  • Papa The Poet
    The Last Dragon By George Papa G. Papathepoet@houston.rr.com Asleep. Sailing on the winds of dreams to come, I landed. Ashore, upon a sandy beach. Hot black
    Message 1 of 1 , Nov 29, 2002
      The Last Dragon

      By George "Papa" G.


      Asleep. Sailing on the winds of dreams

      to come, I landed. Ashore, upon a sandy beach.

      Hot black sand burned my bare feet,

      cool ocean breezes blew alee,

      swaying palms waved, as if to say stay away, stay away.

      Poseidon surfs the sea, smooth as glass, perched upon a porpoise,

      followed by sea nymphs swimming with dolphins three.

      A fleet of pike playfully harassed the God king of the sea.

      He, laughing with glee, waved a simple greeting to me.

      Awakened within this fantasy, by a scream.

      I ran, swiftly as I can.

      A Skyclad woman, tan and tall, hollered again and again.

      A banshee, alone and lost.

      In need of a friend. But, as I approached,

      she ran away, along the bay.

      Scared of the ink and scars.

      A judging Xian lass was she.

      Decreed by speeches from preachers far away

      never to trust those different than us, she ran and ran, alone.

      Another stone thrown.

      Hated before I was known.


      Alas, alas.

      Will anyone ever see the real me? The man, I truly be?

      Loved? Questions asked by lonely men, contemplated by sages

      and, answered by poets. But, I for one just do not know.

      Walking. Talking to myself, pacing fast.

      Trees along the shore, a path, towards the jungle.

      The contrast amazing. The beach, a black expanse,

      the jungle, a vast sea of green.

      Pan played between the ferns, seen at times,

      yet his flute could always be heard, as the green man danced.

      A volcano smoked in the distance; ahead.

      Going nowhere, being led by instinct and

      the inner voices. Remembering life's choices, I strolled.

      The need to keep moving was unbearable, and yet.

      Higher and higher it became,

      cooler and cooler too.

      Minor Gods played, hid and watched.

      Diana hung in the dying blue, shining away.

      Apollo, settled into the bay, leaving glowing colors;

      oranges and reds, reflecting off the sea, for all to see.

      A singing thrush flew bush to bush.

      Wailing old Willie songs, I tried too to sing along.

      Flying low, and slow almost hovering

      He said, "Come with me, a friend to meet".

      I said "No". I will not go.

      So poems he rattled for a while,

      then when quoting Keats, a "yes" did I spout.

      I had to go. Why? I do not know.

      The ground got rockier.

      Trees less full, the cooler the air got.

      To rest I needed, so I sat.

      My singing fowl sat too, and spoke.

      A voice like a fairytale, smooth, but not quite real.

      Ya know?

      I am "Thrush" he said. "A Thrush too, I am.

      Famous since time began.

      Middle Earth Tales told of me, Bilbo knew.

      Poe did too, called me a Raven, he never did have a clue.

      Drank a bit ya see. I flew over Moby, as he swam threw the sea, white and full of hate.

      I rode on Hemmingway's shoulder as he ran from those bulls, bourbon on his breath.

      The last I brought here was Yates way back when; what a realist.

      Can you relate?

      A friend of them all, I was and am.

      Each a last of their kind.

      Like you. Like me. Like Himmmm."

      "Him?" I asked.

      "Our King" "The Last" said Old Thrush sadly.

      "An old poet and sage trapped in a cage of flesh and vice.

      Unable to reach the souls of men. Never given he the chance.

      Appearance means too much in Caesars world."

      "Men of science fear too easy, what their rules can not explain."

      So spit the bird of song and tales, as he did a sidewards dance.

      And, this was a sight, I will tell ya true.

      "Soon you shall see. And, hear."

      Sang the Thrush, sounding blue; as, he took off again into flight.

      Lost in the night, my path confused in the dark.

      One step at a time, reciting old words to fight

      back the fears.

      Yellow pools boiled; slupher spas.

      My senses filled with rotten eggs.

      I did not even notice the cave, until the Thrush

      flew straight into it. As I entered this damp hole in the ground,

      half expecting a dwarf to challenge me, I was amazed. Awed.

      Gold and brass, and shiny things abound.

      The ultimate in treasures, complete with bones.

      Eight warriors, bravely stood guard even in death.

      Dressed in white, red crosses upon their chest,

      a skull crossed with thighbones hung on the wall.

      A broadsword in each mans hand, fists tightly clenched. Heroes.

      "Come!!!" screamed the noisy, pesky bird.

      The tale of these mate's fate I will relate at a later date,

      so just wait, my friends. walk on with me, and read .

      Around the bend, to a chamber as large as an castle,

      must be "his" estate I thought to myself.

      Confused by the obvious.

      He was so large I could not see him.

      My mind would not accept, too surreal.

      Thrush squealed. Laughter boomed!

      So loud, genteel and full of Love, but so damn loud.

      Confused even more, I stared.

      As I began to know, to see,

      that there were eyes staring back at me. I wept.

      Tears for all the things I never believed in,

      my poet dreams. Magick's needs, hopes, and loves.

      "Him". A Dragon.

      My God, a Dragon, I whispered, whimpered really.

      Am I a fool?

      Am I food? I asked as fear swept over me.

      Scales, like halved clam shells stacked partial upon each other,

      shimmered in the firelight.

      Colors reflected and absorbed light. Magick.

      Bits, pieces, of gold things stuck between the scales;

      adding sparkling lights to this eerie sight, this nights delights.

      He spoke. To me he spoke. In a voice as deep as a titan's dream,

      a bit of whistle to it too. Reassuring, and pure, like an Angels bass harp.

      Calming my fears, by wiping away way my tears,

      with a smooth movement of his tail.

      "Fear not, sage. I am a fan. The internet allows me to know you well."

      "My name is Siempre. The first and it seems the last."

      "Time to talk, and listen is at hand"

      An Elf walked by, ringing a silver bell,

      a bow and quiver strung across his back.

      "Come, 'tis time to eat" said "Him" over his shoulders.

      Moving, gliding through the piles of gold and wool,

      away from me.

      He circled himself, three times, and boy did I laugh at this.

      He roared with laugher at me comparing "Him" to a dog.

      The pit before me, between us, glowed hot with coals

      of an age-old fire.

      Seven servant girls each carrying plates of food,

      danced and sang.

      For me living greens.

      For "Him" a sheep and a hog.

      The sheep still alive, bloody and raw. The pork roasted.

      Even across the rising smoke I could smell his breathe,

      reminding me of a Texas BBQ restaurant.

      As I watched these girls carried seven steaming cups to "Him".

      I noticed each was in different clothes, from different eras.

      "Virgins!" he sighed, "Given to me as sacrifices over the years.

      Now, my caretakers and my friends."

      This beautiful child, in a long white gown (Greek?)

      Brought me a bottle of Jim Beam.

      I had a drink, warm; neat.

      How did you know? I asked.

      Your words are known here my dearest biker brother, whispered my host.

      What do you drink old one? I begged to know.

      "Blood Wine" he responded kindly.

      Fermented blood, served almost boiling.

      Want some? He giggled. A sound very much like a freight train on the wrong track.

      I declined, with facial expressions that again made Him roar with laughter.

      As he picked his teeth with a rib bone,

      He stated it was time to work; to talk, thus teach.

      Lighting his pipe with those short little arms, was a sight out

      of a comedy, on that you can surely bet.

      Oh Papa! How you are loved, here on this island of dying dreams.

      Here the last two Unicorns play; the brothers "Hope"

      The Old Gods make shift play and sing. Did you see them, with our poet's eyes? "Your eyes of green?"

      We fade. We die, for no one remembers us. No one dreams of us any more.

      Help us Papa. Write for us. Forget about your search for gold.

      Ignore the science and dream; and, write.

      Oh Papa! You have placed your self in a prison for crimes even you do not remember.

      Free yourself. Have faith in your dreams; in the voices. You are lonely in your life, because you have forgotten us. You seek happiness in gold and material things.

      Love exists not there. His words had truth's ring to them.

      So, pick up your bow and pen, My Biker friend.

      Write and play, ride the roads of dream undreamt,

      sail in the winds of music unplayed.

      Sing songs of a young mans dream, and keep us alive.

      Let not science win.

      Caesar can go to hell.

      Play Papa Play.

      His case stated, he settled back, staring at me.

      Deep eyes of yellow and red.

      A goblin brought me a fiddle,

      long not played. The bow prepped.

      As I drew the bow back,

      the massive room filled with life.

      Creatures of dreams and stories old,

      sitting on piles of gold, watching me; waiting for me to play.

      An old Hank tune, one of a lost highway,

      I played as a chorus of Elves sang along.

      Gnomes beat upon simple drums.

      Fairies danced. My dragon friend flicked his tail to the beat.

      As these folk sang and swang,

      The dragon and I took a walk.

      To see the stars.

      "Tis time for you to go", said my smelly friend.

      With a wave of his little arm, Keats appeared,

      as did a path of silver. A road to the moon, reaching high in to the sky.

      "Ride home Poet. Tell the story."

      Not wanting to go, I begged to stay.

      "No, dear son go write, keep us alive with tales and prose."

      With tears I pushed the button.

      Keats roared to life.

      As I released the clutch, rolling toward the sky,

      he unfurled his wings and hurled himself into the world of the star filled night.

      "With each dream back you will come" screeched the last Dragon.

      What if dragons still lived upon this earth and the only reason we
      could not see them was because we had forgotten how to believe in
      magic and thus they had become invisible to us.

      Tis true I knew, that if I pursued my dream to write tales for my boys to read,

      here again I would be. Xian taboos of magic tales be damned, dragons will fly anew!

      No longer will I conceal my trips to this world of Gods and man, but to reveal

      the appeal of the true zoo men should see.

      So ride with me upon my sled of dreams

      to lands where unicorns race

      and Inca warriors climb mountains in Peru.

      Screw the narrow minded fools who have no clue,

      say adieu to Caesar and his world of gold.

      Ride with me, let us remind the Dragon to believe in us.

      Thank You, thank you.

      Papa © Dec, 2001.

      [Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
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