Golden Dragon

Part One – A New Discipline

The dragon is golden.
The sun is the Golden Dragon,
encircled by rays, burning spirits,
cleaning heavens from shadows.

As you know, the world that lets its surface
disguise its inner self, the world of politics —
the art of knowing things,
of reversing the spell. 

Showing care is a farce,
to convince generations
that we could be happy here, 

with all our simple needs,
disciplined by a great amendment
from an old era.

But who sees the essence of time?
Heroes? Rebels? Cowards? Or geniuses?
Who can face time’s limitations?
As you know, time never turns anyone into an enemy.

An undisciplined life does — time reveals nature.
It is a golden dragon, Dragon knows
some people are an enemy by nature, enmity is a prison.
The discipline of the heart makes changes, not mind,
that is why we must not be enemies. 

This new discipline must not break our bonds of affection,
our strings of premonition and memory,
pure by kindness, and mystical by destiny,
they stretch from the birthplace through the battlefield. 

And pass the holy men’s graves, to every living spirit,
every living dream, every living heart —
touched by the essence of time,
as surely as they will be.

Part Two – Mist on the Other Side

Our wishes and expectations created Dragon.
The breath of the Golden Dragon is a river of gilded dust,

coming and going across light years of cosmic hunger,
drifting in the minds of every living generation on Earth.

In times like this, as we flit between
the explosions at dawn, 

the dust curves over us like a wave,
listening to your voice on the other side of silence

gives me the courage to lose sight and swim there,
your voice is hope, trusting the flow. 

It calls me now: we are what we hear,
doubt is deadlier, but fear throbs.

We are not moving toward revenge,
we forgive ourselves — our own loneliness. 

It’s hard to form, and the East River,
dressed for the wedding by all the misty 

reflections of Manhattan,
flows beyond my window. 

On one side, look out
on the anchorage of the Brooklyn Bridge, 

just across the front yard.
The East River saw, centuries ago, 

how we grieved with our whole being,
she knows that sorrow always dwells 

pregnant in the womb of every river,
waiting to be birthed into the ocean.

Part Three – Echoes of Gettysburg

Dragon knows who you are — echo of war,
the walls threw back the drumming of your footsteps,
Dragon knows your history — it still hears the sound.
Echoes are always alive. Dragon sees that Witness Tree from above,
which always tells a story.

120 Federal guns along Cemetery Ridge
and Cemetery Hill, placed by
Henry J. Hunt, dueled with Confederate
gunners at long range. Union infantry sought cover
wherever possible, but how can we count the light years 

between us, if we cannot feel their distance?
What if we sense them as our own breath?
Perhaps impermanence will compel us
to leave memories behind?
To perhaps carry them into the future?

Dragon remembers clearly how the Witness Tree
looked at every eye encircled by the smoke
of gunpowder, it saw the same human beings
with the same hearts — the familiar outlines
of life were clinging to us, 

about two hours into the barrage,
noting that much of the damage done
was ineffectual, Hunt ordered his batteries
to slow their fire to conserve ammunition,
and we, the blades of grass, all shook in fear. 

They all belong deeply to us.
Do they know that they all
deeply belong to the dirt?
Dragon knows who you are,
the walls threw back the echoes.

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Looking for more? Try these from our Mockingowl contributors and authors:

• Battle of Shades and Tints – Poetry on Humanity
• Dandelion Garden – Poetry on Wishes
• Colors – Poetry on Humanity
• Road of Fire – Poetry on Volcanos