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About Literature / Hobbyist The GypsyMale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 9 Years
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Literature
Ancestors
I will give you a Song... a Song of Passion,
of Hope and Death and Family
of Shared burdens and Shared tears.
A baby is not born with You and Me and Them.
A baby is born with “Us”, that network of family that holds you up
that gives you the strength to find the “You” in “Us”.
1 person – man or woman or something else – 1 unique and living person
Me.  This life comes from two people.  They are my Ancestors.
They are the two people to whom I owe my existence.
Or 3 people.  My uncle saved me from drowning as a child.  So I owe him.
Or 5 people, because I was adopted.
Five people I owe my life to,  that shaped the “Me” from the “We”.
Ancestors whose lives now flow like sunlight through my veins,
who quickened my breath, filled my stomach,
taught me manners and the consequences for not using them.
They helped make Me part of Us.
5 people.  And if they also had 5 in their lives,
feeding them
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Literature
White Knives
Five crescent knives strive to pierce.
Their purpose not to start a flow from the body,
Rather, to stem a flow from the mind.
Pinned in place, the gnawing thoughts can be ignored. For now.
No price too great for sanity.
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Literature
Fear Himself
The old gods are swept away but I remain.
I am Eldest. I am - Fear.
And you love me.
I am the reason you have fire.
I gave you cause to search for its protection.
Your doors are strong. Your weapons are powerful.
Your trust is blessedly diminished.
I can be seen reflected in the gleam of a stranger's eyes.
I can be heard outside your door,
   your window,
   your skin.
Let me massage your shoulders with cold hands.
All things are possible -
The best you can conceive
And the worst you can imagine.
And I shall bring them to you.
I am your Protector.
I shall stand between you and others,
   lest they hurt you,
   lest they love you falsely.
I shall keep the world at bay.
For I shall be with you. Always.
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Literature
Religion
The block ends with a new turn
and a few other choices.
Blocks always end with turns and choices.
I pause beneath an overhang
and ponder the paths ahead.
The ones I can see don't end well.
The ones that are hidden are probably the same.
Up and down the sidewalk other people travel.
Some focus on the blocks ahead,
Peering, worried, uncertain.
Some wander vacant-eyed, texting their friends.
Asking one of the locals for suggestions
always ends in a history lesson
and directions that seldom work.
I have a rough idea of where I want to go.
If it were a smell I could follow it.
Back and forth sometimes with wind
and then with surety of step
to the doorway of a restaraunt or bakery.
It is a feeling, though,
a tingle in the blood stream,
a light that shows up strongest in darkness.
I close my eyes and slowly turn.
Step, step, step towards the light.
The way is slow
with many stumbles,
but sightless
I see the light grows.
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Literature
Daydreaming
An early winter wind tousles my hair,
cleans my face.
The cold air swirls inside my nostrils and I think of
Ice, blue and wet and pure.
And white snow in thick blankets over soft earth.
I and the seedlings daydream.
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Literature
Homeless
How many times do you walk by the homeless people and turn your eyes to avoid theirs? Their hollow hearts cry out for food but you know your coins will stay in your pocket. You can't help but taste the sweets you will buy with them.  Just as you cannot help but think of the meals it would buy those wretches with their hands outstretched.
How many times do you walk by the love-lost and turn your feelings away from them? Their shattered souls cry out for compassion but you know your arms will stay at your side. You cannot help but think of the warm welcomes at your destination.  Just as you can't help but think of the momentary relief it would bring those wretches with their hearts outstretched.
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Hearts Unlocked by thegypsy-v1 Hearts Unlocked :iconthegypsy-v1:thegypsy-v1 4 2
Literature
The Non-word
The ___ is profound
An echoing chord of ___
Between the wind chimes
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Literature
Saturday
I touched the Sun.
Just reached out and touched.
It didn't burn like I thought it would.
Wiggled my fingers to fluff up the clouds.
Waved my hand to push a thermal under a hawk.
As night fell I tried to hold the Sun up.
Just a few more minutes.
It didn't stay. Paused then dropped
Like a scoop of ice cream fallen from a cone.
I licked the sugary orange rays from my fingers.
And now the Moon is up, a soccer ball you cannot headbutt.
Just gaze at. And howl. And long for.
It hurries across the sky like it is avoiding me.
Like it thinks I will headbutt it.
No birds sing.
Just frogs and crickets. And a cool breeze.
It plucks at the corners of my jacket.
Tussles my hair and kisses my cheek.
The breeze will be my lover now the Moon has rejected me.
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Literature
Unseen
It's behind me again, isn't it?
No, don't look directly at it -
It will disappear, and I want to know.
Is it frowning at me
   like people do when I am childish?
Is it sneering at me
   like they do when I want more than I deserve?
I feel it back there, like it is almost touching me.
Almost.
Hot on the back of my neck,
The stench of its breath mingles with my own.
The tips of unseen claws tug ever so gebtly
   on the fabric of my shirt
As they walk a line up my spine
To the nape of my neck and into my hair.
I know how it chortles when I mess up.
I know it is waiting for the right time to strike
To rip me open like a Christmas present
and play with what's inside.
If I walk slowly it stays with me.
If I run, it follows, but starts to drop behind.
Everytime I pause, though, it catches up.
I cannot keep running forever.
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Literature
Timeflow
time moves differently
when we are together.
when we are apart,
the effect is worse.
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Literature
Dandelion Soul
Like a seed from a pod, to slip this mortal shell
And float upon the evening breeze.
To travel towards the tiny lights of stars
And dance on the sound of their chorus.
To bob to their ethereal beat
So far from Earth and Moon and planets.
So far from the pain and the hurt of mortality.
So far... that all there is is stars
On the black velvet ocean of everything.
If as a living person you place your soul there,
You are immortal.
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Literature
Cycle's End
The paint on the brush dries to dust.
Autumnal leaves turn grey.
Brittle the twig once green in the Spring.
Shorter the weak gasps of Day.
Cheese shrinks and hardens.
Wine sours and pales.
Fruit rots and splits.
Love falters and fails.
And in the cold ash of the hearth
the last coal loses its spark.
Cools the shell of phoenix' egg
and leaves us in the dark.
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Literature
The Next Footstep
                Each footstep
takes me farther from (brings me closer to)
                things I love.
                     Each
               sunset (sunrise)
               casts my shadow
             behind me (before me).
              No day (Each day)
               brings me hope.
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Literature
The Backward Path
Weary blades bowed from the weight of
Wet diamonds that dusted the lawn,
Each facet facing heavenward
Mirroring the grey of the newborn morn.
A line of tracks told the story
Of an early adventurer up with the dawn
Where the dew lay disturbed in the shape of
Figure eights grown fat in the middle.
"Here's a fine fellow," I thought,
"Though backwards walking, his footprints lead to
My own door. Dare I say
I must have missed him on my way out."
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Literature
I Stand Now On This Graveyard
I stand now on this graveyard,
The modern barbarian, hair streaming in the wind.
War and long locks never stay long from fashion.
Here, hard packed beneath my feet,
The bones of my fathers lay
Wrapped in mouldering clothes and sweat-stained soil,
Pushed down by roots of trees and skyscrapers alike.
My great-great-grandfather's iron sword, undisturbed for millenia,
Parallels a buried phone line that carries the whispers of lovers.
Unchanged, that: war is set aside for passion.
The next generation marches forward,
Spear and shield against the stylus and notepads of
  Fate's bean counters.
Cars cross the bridge behind me with a steady boom
Like the beating of some giant's drum,
A colossal shaman calling forth spirits
From the rusted remains of yesterday's marvels.
Where chariot once carried soldier and archer
Now runs the mechanical horses
Under hood of car, in locomotive.
Glassy-eyed hobos turn to follow the voice of the iron pukka.
Reaching down I touch the dust
That gathered
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Wishlist

4008 Island Girl Series by artonline 4008 Island Girl Series :iconartonline:artonline 238 16 in my by detail24 in my :icondetail24:detail24 179 26 Stop Hating Smartasses by dinyctis Stop Hating Smartasses :icondinyctis:dinyctis 7,366 888 Left Coast Sunset 005 by hfpierson Left Coast Sunset 005 :iconhfpierson:hfpierson 549 195 unwritten by detail24 unwritten :icondetail24:detail24 230 23 Conversation... by xMEGALOPOLISx Conversation... :iconxmegalopolisx:xMEGALOPOLISx 2,334 210 Sir Wooden Sword by kerembeyit Sir Wooden Sword :iconkerembeyit:kerembeyit 3,370 450 walk with me by werol walk with me :iconwerol:werol 7,083 846
This week I took part in a poetry slam.  This was my first time for that genre.  It was at a pagan gathering, and the cognitive dissonance of a slam for paganism was too appealing to pass up on the opportunity.  Slams are oral performances where the emphasis is higher than normal on how things are said, and usually (at least to me) they are confrontational or transgressional.  A little research online didn't show this in any offical definition, yet the examples I saw on YouTube all seemed to have this.

So I thought, "Why not?"  I have performed a lot but I've never been exposed to this style before.  I took it as a double challenge to come up with a piece that was both transgressional and pagan.  Or maybe a triple challenge in that I was writing poetry for the first time in years.  Really, this was the kicker.  For a long time I have been unable to finish any poem or even start one.

Happily I can say I wrote one, performed it, and got shocked and enthusiastic applause and was told by more than one that they got goosebumps from the performance.

So maybe this is a style I should examine more.  We will see.
  • Listening to: Damh the Bard
  • Reading: Lisanne Norman's Sholan series
  • Watching: floaties in my eyes
  • Drinking: coffee in lethal quantities

deviantID

thegypsy-v1
The Gypsy
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
Current Residence: Above my shoes
Operating System: Linux
Personal Quote: We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit. - Aristotle
Interests

Comments


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:icontriziana:
TriZiana Featured By Owner Feb 14, 2016  Professional Digital Artist
Thank you very much for adding me to your watch!!
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:iconbluefluke:
bluefluke Featured By Owner Nov 29, 2015  Professional General Artist
Hey, thanks for the watch. You are awesome! :meow:
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:iconjdwasabi:
JDWasabi Featured By Owner Oct 17, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Just dropping by to say 'hey'! Because it's been a while! Hope you're well ^_^
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:iconjdwasabi:
JDWasabi Featured By Owner Jan 9, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Tagged! [link]

(How have you been doing anyway?!)
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:iconsinribbon:
sinribbon Featured By Owner May 19, 2011  Professional General Artist
Thank you for the comment and :+fav:!
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:iconlaureloo:
laureloo Featured By Owner Apr 23, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
thanks for the :+fav:!!
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:iconthegypsy-v1:
thegypsy-v1 Featured By Owner Apr 25, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
X is one of those pieces I can reread and find new interpretations each time.
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:iconalecbell:
AlecBell Featured By Owner Feb 3, 2011
Thank you for your faves on Emperor No More and Isaac And Albert

I appreciate your interest very much, Gypsy.
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:iconalecbell:
AlecBell Featured By Owner Jan 18, 2011
I'm pleased you liked Home-coming Prepared and Shades, Gypsy

I appreciate your faves!
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:iconink-in-amber:
Ink-In-Amber Featured By Owner Jan 15, 2011  Hobbyist General Artist
Hearing from you is always a pleasure, Gypsy. Thank you kindly for your latest favourite and lovely comment: much appreciated. :rose: :star: :hug:
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