Thursday, March 27, 2014

Twists and turns

Forced to look upon a star
that gypsy’s mind wandered far
and trespassed into other lands
beyond the borders of her time. 

But she withdraw in tandem with
the slow downturn of tired eyes
and she was then amazed to find
she found love not on this here land.

She thought to look again up, up,
but how the land twisted, turned,
and she dared not lose her grip
on her perceived true home.

She trundled forth amidst the gloom
and watched the pass of minutes, hours,
till finally she counted years
and then more years and years.

She never found love, no, not ere
upon the straights or corners, bends,
of mother earth’s so hard terrain
that made her twist and turn.

She twists and turns until this day
seeking strength to look again
but stars are hidden by the clouds
that float unbidden into mind.

Or does she call them in, in, in,
to simply block out all she knows
so she can trundle on and on
amidst the gloom of mortal life?

Perhaps she does, perhaps not so,
but who can know a gypsy’s mind
or why she sighs and sometimes cries
in the middle of a twist and turn?

Sunday, March 16, 2014


After I saw it I couldn’t believe
but eyes only see what is there
or do they perhaps, do they really,
see what does not exist?

After I heard it I couldn’t believe
but ears take in every sound
or do they perhaps, do they really,
hear everything that is said?

After I touched it I couldn’t believe
but fingers tell mind what is there
but do they perhaps, do they really,
tell all that there is to know?

And when we feel love can we believe,
it is as it is, does what it does,
and touches us all only to be
well and truly known?

But if I can’t see it, touch, hear it,
how can I say, “I know love”
but I do because and only because
I plain and simply believe!

Friday, March 7, 2014

Sitting there

You’ll find her sitting there
underneath a willow tree
contemplating more
than ere she thought before

She watches how the river flows
free at ease towards the sea
unmindful of the twists and turns
along its lonesome journey.

But gypsies know that rivers don’t
have wagon wheels that crack and break
when rough terrain the only way
to reach that awesome sea. 

They do not pause to re-assess,
they do not stop to rest,
and most of all they do not think
to make mountains out of molehills.

But gypsies know the mountain’s there
looming large and deadly
and she knows she cannot go around
what is meant to be.

She sighs the way all gypsies do;
tomorrow maybe she will move
but content for now she simply waits
for the sun to set.

And she will sleep beneath the stars
protected, yes, until the dawn
when again she looks and shivers some
at that imposing mountain.

Day in/day out you’ll find her there
underneath a willow tree!