Greg Patrick's poem "Traveler"

A dual citizen of Ireland and the states, Greg Patrick is an Irish Armenian traveler poet and the 

son of a Navy man. Greg spent his youth in the South Pacific and Europe and currently resides

in Galway, Krakow, and sometimes the states. He now writes and travels. 

"Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armour yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.” ― George R.R. Martin, Tyrion Lannister, A Game of Thrones

Call no man “stranger” who knows his own heart. 

The caravan fires burn like pyres to the day’s dreams, red dreams in which one looks so intently 

as to be lost in the silence of one’s own thoughts as each strays from the song played before all. 

The ashen daydreams brought by each one like an offering to cast to the flames and betrayed in a 

gleaming behind the depth of eyes alone. Not a reflection of the circle’s fire like starlight 

microcosmed but one’s own nomad fire, as much birthright as the road, which burns so long as 

heart beats to its own desire and in time with one’s own song and story.

A path concourse to fate, like walking against the fall of rain and man.

Like an endearment bespoke by gaze alone heard across a crowded room.

Though the guitarist begins the old songs, each is soloist to their own song.

Like the first arachnid chords of a dreamcatcher strung to ensnare an escaping dream. 

Journeyer of one’s own path and stranger at threshold, strangers called to the fire song like stray 

stories at the harpist’s beckoning touch at the string.

Dreams rekindled like embers; dormant memories awoken even as sleep flutters at the fire-cast 

eyes.

Fire screams red with shadow like an ancestral memory and we remember why we travel the 

storm-swept roads in the footsteps of ghosts, another “trail of tears.” 

Eyes close to dream like a harpist’s eyes shutting to all but the gleam that answers the stars in 

duet, not from the eyes but unfathomed depths of one’s heart, so lost and yet found again in 

words and songs.

Before dreams like a dark horse awaiting that has thrown each successive rider and champion the 

nomad approaches with but one before expectant eyes. 

Knowing there are roads that once undertaken cannot be walked again as the same

person nor retrace one’s steps and really go back.

In pursuit of aspiration like a falcon at the wrist, the falconer’s gaze uplifted

and fixed farther than he can see. And the falcon’s far gaze locks on the huntsman’s eyes, a look 

that says.

“Let me go huntsman for that, I cannot bear you up after me anymore than weight of earth or sky 

can be borne. Let us both go.”

Earthbound one seeks new worlds from the shore. Horizon and hills pivoted away from with the 

same movement by which one turns by the fire in the age-old dance. Ageless exile becomes 

wanderlust.

Homeland-like castles built palatially of clouds by the eyes. Expressive gaze beholding and 

bespoke visual poetry. Memory crying out to lost dreams like a shepherd to a strayed flock

as night befalls and past revisits.

© 2022 Greg Patrick