thegypsy-v1

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,

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.

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 lov

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 suret

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.

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

The ___ is profound An echoing chord of ___ Between the wind chimes

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

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 Christma