The Last Dragon

October 29, 2007 at 8:59 am (Poetry) (, , )

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The great Chimère raised his regal head

And mourned the last of his children who lay dead

At his clawed feet, their beauty and perfection a thing to grieve

If only for a moment before it was time

To raise his massive wings to leave

This place he’d shared with his lifelong mate

Whose body was gone, her slaughter their kind’s fate.

Wherever the Beautiful One lay with her broken crimson scales

Chimère’s own heart couldn’t help but stay

For all of time without end.

The Drako would give his heart to only one

Until the far distant death of the galaxy’s sun.


The blue of his scales matched the sky

Giving no reason to look up, no reason to ask why

The massive eloquent beast should fly overhead unheard,

Not a beat of wing, not a whispered word,

Only the drop of tears that fell from blue skies,

From his beautiful lavender-blue catlike eyes.


He’d had friends who were human

In towns nearer Loch Lomond

But he was a prince of his kind

The nine black ridges along his spine left no doubt

To any who knew this obvious sign of royalty.

He could never live in fear

And the bottomless Loch Ness was near,

Its darkness suited him well.


The lake’s surface was as smooth as glass

It shimmered for a moment as Chimère Drako’s mass

Broke the surface and he swam below

In elegant movements, swanlike and slow

Like a dance to the depths, his gills suddenly filled.

He would stay there forever; no more dragon blood would be spilled.

His royal blue scales have long ago turned black

The ridges now soft along his once strong back

Mankind now thinks of Chimère Drako on rare occasions

When tourists take shadowed pictures during their vacations

At Loch Ness to catch a glimpse of the lizard illusion

We call a monster of mad delusion.

© 2007 C. Harter Amos

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Here’s to Sean

October 26, 2007 at 5:42 pm (RefleXions) ()



     My grandfather was a planter during the last days when cotton was king in the lower South.  He owned a mercantile store filled with things you see in museums and antique stores, but he also took trips by train to Texas to buy horses he then shipped back to South Carolina to train and sell. My Mom always laughed that she’d named me right to name me after him since I seem to have his “natural way” with animals.  I really consider my first baby to be my first horse, Sean.  He was a black quarter-horse with one white stocking and a white blaze; a gift from an aunt three days before he was born. We were more than “owner and horse”.  I don’t know how to describe the connection. I have Indian blood, though you can’t tell it to look at me and maybe it’s that part of me that “communes” with Nature so well.  Sean trusted me enough to do whatever I asked of him, and sometimes it seemed he had radar where my wants were concerned.  Then again, I trusted this huge animal not to hurt me and he obviously went out of his way to try not to. 

     I trained him myself the way I was told to: very easily and slowly, one non-traumatic step at a time over months. Then I sent him to Blanchard Poole, one of the finest “cowboys” you could ever meet.  Blanchard & his wife Debbie became good friends during those two months.  They said Sean was a blast to work with because the work was essentially done and Sean had such an easy way of wanting to learn whatever you asked of him.  He came home knowing tricks that I’d only seen Alsatians do. 

     When I went off to college, I began to look for places to board him. Partying was priority and what was the hurry? I never expected the call that told me Sean was dead.  He was diagnosed with Brucellosis.  His death was harsh and brutal, he grew weaker & weaker until he simply couldn’t get up.  They didn’t tell me he was sick until he was already gone, and I never forgave myself for leaving him behind.  After spending every day with me for hours morning and night, he must have thought I’d abandoned him forever.  It’s the one fault I find with animals; you can’t explain things to them like a sudden absence.  You’re simply gone and they can’t fathom why.  They can only “know” in feelings.  Sean must have waited for me to appear each morning, to return each evening, like I always had, until he gave up.

     Sometimes I “visit” Sean in my sleep.  Mainly it’s when life is stressful for some reason and my spirit needs a rest.  Last night I spent my dreamtime with Sean, going into the cold of an early morning in winter to break the ice on his water, to feed him the sweet smelling oats and to pull off clean smelling, green hay from a new bale. The simple pleasure of cleaning his stall while he ate. The steady rhythmic crunching of his contented chewing. It’s almost comical.  Then to ride.  To feel the cold north wind in my hair and the power of this beautiful, sweet baby gathering his muscles and moving beneath me in a oneness of body and spirit you might feel with a lover on the rarest occasions.  To cool him down, to curry him out, brush him, clean his hooves and share his breath.  To watch him running in the pasture with the pure delight of being alive, to put him in his stall at night knowing he’s safe.  To pat him a loving goodbye and hear the soft whinny as you walk away. 

     They say you have only one “special” horse in your lifetime.  It’s like saying you only have one true love in your life.  I don’t believe it’s true.  I’ve fallen in love twice.  But then again it is true, though I’ve owned and cared about other horses, I’ve never had that special relationship with another horse since my first one. Here’s to Sean who died in October 1971.

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The Church of the Who-not What-not

October 25, 2007 at 5:15 am (RefleXions) ()



     My dog plays with his toys by himself, and gives me a plaintive look as if I’ve lost my mind not to at least toss his ball around for an evening romp in the backyard. 

     Blogging.  It implies I should have something profound to say, but the round and round of my thoughts bores even me.  After all, I did this back in the sixties & seventies: this crisis of faith that ends in some mix of Taoism, absolute Capitalism, and I suppose Wicca for lack of a better word.  It’s a mute point, but today I found my Pagan pasts roaming freely through my thoughts.  All the Tao and the parts gleaned from Nietzsche and what-not/who-not all mixed in and not even trying to hide their communal head.  It was like taking one step left and two steps right, doing the “boot-scootin’ boogie” in some sort of insane dance with myself from the past. The surety of atheism that surrounded my teens and early twenties, then the Tao and Nature itself…My Baptist God was spelled with a small g and put to rest back when I was ten. I test the word Nihilist and the absolute apathy and amorality it implies. I have the morals of an Ayn Rand character at my very worst.  If there is no God, I still do unto others as I would have them do unto me.  People question my sincerity because I care.  They make up ulterior motives for my honesty…I still believe that if everyone does their best, the world survives in peace and harmony.  “Imagine”, John, wherever you are.  Flash that light in the distance…But then you did, didn’t you. 


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It Can’t Be True

October 24, 2007 at 6:12 pm (Poetry) (, , )


I lay my head in hand
and went blank with tears that slid slowly down to burgundy sheets.

Somewhere near, in my memories,
The fog lay its chords down like fingers
On the neck of a good guitar.
Feel it cool and smooth in my hand
Worn in familiar ways like a friend,
The lone survivor of the war.

So much of my life is nothing more than a simplistic soundtrack
stretching backward in lost faded pictures
and home movies that ended up in someone else’s trash.
I know…You keep your memories in your heart
and hope you memorized the lines well enough to recite them
with truth and conviction, no additions or subtractions
without outside addictions or distractions.

Where will I go when I raise my head?
There, in someone else’s town,
I’ll learn to forget
And echo children’s smiles until the morning comes
Without fog and the music is mine again.
I’ll sing your song, remember your smile
Under the full moon of a new year come to stay.

© 2007 C. Harter Amos

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Writer’s Block

October 21, 2007 at 5:30 am (Poetry) (, , )



How easily my words came

Bean-sprouting from my brain


They river-flow with smooth agility over rocks,

Passing fish in the rapids as they go

Pressing against the spider webs of mental blocks

Or unmoving, stand with word-weapons drawn,

With foolish demonstrations

Of angst or love

Needing to say what I feel

Like a sensation-word junky,

A would be fantasy fool,

My sanity hiding in a corner and near-never intact.



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