Dream Warrior

Living with ghosts is the natural state of writers. They haunt, cajole, amuse, charm, threaten, and attempt to seduce. Often, they simply pace silently waiting for their turn on the wheel. My first poem at the age of eight was called  Ghosts.  I recall only four lines of it and they may be all I wrote: Ghosts, ghosts, ghosts, Flying through the air, Ghosts, ghosts, ghosts, Everywhere. Perhaps, I was wise beyond my years. But it was many more years before I came to understand those lines. Now, I embrace the ghosts who have taken up permanent residence inside me. I recognize my function as the guardian and custodian of their memory. I also know they are shadows of their former selves and my memory of them is flawed. My imperfect expression represents a pale reflection of who they once were. Still, it is what I have to work with. In the past, I often claimed that creating a work of art is an act of courage. I would go further now and say it is also a ...