Crown

 

When that gypsy grew old and her wagon decayed
the world as she knew it had nothing to say
so she breathed in the air and looked here and there
to find that illusive crown of contentment.
 
When the search was complete her eyes lifted up.
Perhaps way up high beyond her eyesight
or buried maybe in the bowels of the earth
and then the tears fell from that gypsy grown old.
 
She can’t travel high, she can’t travel low,
and she can’t resurrect the sadly decayed
and she wondered how to ever give up
her quest for that most amazing crown.
 
But the sound of silence had plenty to say
and she listened like gypsies are prone to do
until finally, finally, the words “make your own”
cavorted and danced demanding attention.
 
So she settled in with needle and thread
and a pattern made up with the years of her life
and she knew that soon, maybe sooner than then,
she would wear her own crown of contentment!

Time

 

In the silence of these times

a gypsy’s mind travels far

looking, looking, somewhere there

for what she know exists.

 

But she is known to misconstrue

the signs she sees along the way

which cause her to veer off course

from her core belief.

 

She doubles back to start again

but to no avail she humbly sits

and tries with all her might to be

well implanted in these times.

 

And so it worked for years and years

but how she longs to walk the trail

in search again for what she knows

is waiting, waiting, waiting.

 

But she smiles again like gypsy’s do

to fight off all the tears inside

that flood her being with … woefulness

because she knows she won’t succeed.

 

She tried back then and tried again

but now she merely waits and waits

because she knows she can’t be right

if the timing isn’t so.

 

Time, dear time, when is your time

to shine your goodness down?

"Here"

 

So she made a mistake and ended up “here”

where sunflowers have taken their leave

and no roses grow all vibrantly red

in soil deprived of nourishment.

 

Sometimes the sun beats fiercely down

and sometimes the rain pools in disdain

here in that place called “here”

that always sings out of tune.

 

But she can still hear the call of the wild

emanating from deep memory stores

that uplifts and places her way over there

away from that place called “here”.

 

So there, over there, is where she goes

to find the true and meaningful

that always sustains and fortifies

while living in that place called “here”.

 

She goes and returns again, again,

but comes back refreshed and renewed

and always gives thanks again, again

for that beautiful place over there.

 

And it truly is beautiful!

Up and Out

And as her mind fills up, up, up,
with evil not ere known before
she knows to do a nightly scrub
and flush the knowledge out, out, out. 

But of the flush is it enough
to ensure no remnant there remains
to taint the essence of her being
and make her be as she is not? 

Although she ponders she well knows
she is today as she was then
and tomorrow she will be again
how she’s always been. 

There is no changing the true self
but sometimes pretence reigns supreme
and little signs along the way
are discarded from mind’s reservoir. 

But the day will come when evil says,
“To hell with this, I’m going out”
and she will see and then believe
all those discarded signs.
 

Too late, too late, she should have known
but the scrub and flush left her unarmed
to face the full import
of evil’s many wiles. 

So keep the signs within the mind
to be prepared and ready for
the time when people change
from what you thought was good and true!

WORDS

The words that once were free at ease

recline beneath a willow tree

wishing so to climb, climb, climb,

to escape the evil on the ground. 

That evil is a devil thing that stabs

and stabs, stabs, stabs again,

till nought but “mush” remains to speak

of love and peace and harmony. 

And that “mush” sends up an ardent plea

to grow, grow, grow and grow some more,

to knock at last on heaven’s door

and ask, and ask, why, why, why, why. 

For now mere silence filters down

and words listen, listen more,

but nothing penetrates the shell

that survival put in place. 

But they know, of course, they know

because heaven speaks out loud

when the channel free of dirt and grime

picked up from that filthy ground. 

But how to make the channel free

for more than minutes in a day

and words ponder, ponder, ponder more,

until claimed by exhaustive sleep. 

You’ll see them there beneath the tree

but don’t disturb their reverie

because they will have to start again

from beginning till the end. 

How long it’s been, how long will be,

but I can’t tell you till I know

they’ve up and walked away

to regain their rightful place. 

And their rightful place a page of course

or three or four or more and more and more!

The sea today

 

Wind whips at the sea and she crests in anger
at the will of the life force that puts her on edge
for placed of nature she'd much rather flow
straight to the shore like a woman adored.

No friend the wind to pierce through her heart
and bleed her frustrated womanhood feel
into the rough of an unsettled life
like a figment created for picturesque worth
and not for the using, the feeling, tasting.

Sea sprays her ire right up to the sky
but it crashes back down into her mass
swallowed and swallowed so she can begin
making slow rolls towards calm repose.

Night hastens to come and relieve the sun
for the sentry of day no help in the fray
and the sea bids the night be her lover
to still the frenzy within.

Night settles at last on the sea’s many fears
the promise of peace still yet to be
and the sea believes like the seer in me
that everything comes to he who believes.

Meanwhile the rain and just so you know
tomorrow the wind will blow yet again!

Missing

 

And as that gypsy emerged
from her bubble of silence
she wondered what happened that day
when life stole her earthly voice.
 
Was it the rain that washed it out,
the wind that blew it away,
or simply the evil of humankind
that burnt to ash each/every word?
 
It matters not; what’s gone is gone
but that gypsy knows to search the terrain
because the entrenched that’s missing today
not yet dead and buried.
 
If found could she then still verbalize
the intent of goodness, mercy, kindness,
and speak to the deaf of forever love
and belief in the everlasting?
 
Meanwhile the days relentless march on
while she struggles to remain undeterred
from the battle to retain her core beliefs
in a world so intent on evil.
 
She searches today, she struggles today,
but evil, that dastardly thing called “evil”,
attaches itself to her every day
and relentlessly marches on and on and on!