Lemurian Gypsy Camp

Pearls strung
On simple string
Strung carefully, one by one
by creative travellers
Gather, forming a
Glorious, glittering necklace
Coveted by bower and magpie
So beautiful that
The powerful all seeing retina must focus to see
The hidden beauty of each single pearl
Gathered along the winding labyrinthine pathways of
The Soul Food Silk Way

OK — Monday will host a party about pearls –
special certainly. I propose a gift of a string
of thirty pearls — poems and stories about pearls,
the formation, soul and value.

I will start if off with a set of Fitzgeralds (55 words each).

I hope others may add to this “story” in the making,
with thoughts of this own. Monday, when I return home,
I will check and add a couple if necessary.
Please forward this challenge/gift to other blogs that
may wish to participate.

Namaste’ faucon

……………………………………………

Birth of a Pearl

PEARL SEED (Fitzgerald)

The crag is unimportant,
save it stood above the sea –
and provided perch for a falcon,
fresh from a bitter task
connected with man’s freedom from the gods.

As it leaped off to split in twain
and become two raven watchers –
a single, needless talon fell off,
to tumble to the waiting
depths of peace.

…………………………………………………………

PEARL GIFT (Fitzgerald)

Tears fall readily to the Goddess Sea –
all do in finality,
and find there solace and nurtured care,
in the womb of song’s creation.

Some are cycled mist,
by way of rain and stream.
others are but dust of man’s frailty
blown by the winds of certainty;

but sometimes there is a gift –
a talon …

…………………………………………………….

PEARL EMBRACE (Fitzgerald)

The sea can be selective,
and even show distain,
for flotsam lost in carelessness
or cast aside in laziness – or pervasive greed;

but all things natural to the cycle of rebirth
are welcomed to the bosom of She,
who sings of lost islands,
and churning currents
bringing children home
to silent peace and simple love.

……………………………………………………………

PEARL PASSAGE (Fitzgerald)

In man’s restricted attention,
sand is distinct only in proportion
to gravel, pebble and boulder,

while the sea knows that all things
have a story to tell.

After a millennium or two,
this talon learned of humility
and became but one
with quartz and coral,
bone and fleck of gold –

and with this gained everything.

……………………………………………………………………

PEARL JOURNEY (Fitzgerald)

One day by chance,
if you believe in coincidence,
a grain of sand was caught up
in a bit of wood drifting by –
a heroic chunk Spanish Main,
and carried to a happier spot –
where it could hear the whales sing.

Oysters also were drawn to this festive place,
and they tried to sing along,
but …

………………………………………………………….

PEARL CONNECTION (Fitzgerald)

It stood open in awe and wonder,
unafraid and innocent,
not aware that it was waiting.

One speck of special sand
drifted down in heady swirl
to engender a miracle –
a symbiosis of sorts,
if the grasp of birthing
is too far left
of passion and love
‘neath nacre dreams,
or yearning shard of memory.

……………………………………………………..…………

PEARL HOME (Fitzgerald)

Love at first is unrecognizable, perhaps –
a mere flutter of annoyance –
persistent presence –
a part of self yet distant and alone.

Shake it off! Cast it out!
“I was not ready for this joining.”

Slowly, a blending occurs –
irritation begets affection,
and fear transcends
to comfort and acceptance.

“OK, then let’s together make a home.”

Don’t forget there is a celebration on September 27 for Carol’s 30th wedding anniversary at the Gypsy Camp.The theme is pearls, obviously, and I am hoping everyone will send a greeting, a poem or a picture with a pearly theme. How about dressing up as pearly Kings and Queens? I am sure I spotted some costumes growing at Pandora’s wardrobe.If you want to know more about Pearly Kings and Queens, go to
http://www.pearlysociety.co.uk/

This is story not included in my book about the Gusari,
“Songs of the Gusari.” It is something that the author
Jamic could not have known about, but it does does give
clues of the Gusari not found elsewhere.

The theme line came from a 102 old man in Romania
who had never seen a computer before coming
to speak with me on the internet.

enjoy,

faucon
………………………………………………….

CALLING

The Gusari sat still and silent on the grassy mound. No one was near; yet he was not alone. The weight of a thousand years of shaman tradition bore down on him — but also lifted him up, buoyantly, to mediate against nagging solitude. Kiyan could be hailed by a thousand men. Mothers lulled children to sleep with his stories. Princes, Landgraffs, priests and chieftains trusted him. Yet he had few friends. Young Jamic was now off on his own quest. Brother Aldon had his monastary to look after. Others were dead. There were three others. He needed them now.

It had taken a day to prepare the ayil — as far as he could by himself. The household camp would not be complete until the others arrived. Not only was their presence and spirits essential, but each carried items necessary to complete the khana. Its skeleton and cap was all that Kiyan’s spare weapons and maikhan blanket would allow. A single man might seek protection from the Tengri’s angry lightning and rain with only his felt maikhan thrown over a bush. A tent large enough for all four warriors required that each provide a horse-blanket, as well as personal tent and silk fusta shirt and izmene breeches. That morning he had trimmed a long sapling, fashioning a center-pole with sharp steel nozh point and head of a battle axe, serving as a tamga. The symbolic device would tell all approaching that this was an armed camp. Normally, a tripod formed of spear, staff and sword would provide a rest for stacking weapons. Only a leg-spike was allowed around the fire. Now…

With the heart pole secured by four wind-ropes, Kiyan fashioned the shoulder fingers. Using his own hip as measure, he had cut and trimmed four slender birch rods. These were attached to the pole at the juncture of axe handle and sapling by means of a medallion about the size of a man’s spread hands. It seemed a decorative piece until slipped onto the shaft by the center hole. Four sets of small holes allowed the rods to be thronged securely. These crossed the wind-ropes to point to the great directions of the world. If this were a Mongol camp, each would be marked with the essential color designations. When these rods were secured to the ropes a wheel-spoke arrangement was completed just above head height. Kiyan’s maikhan stretched perfectly from center hole above to the ends of the rods, forming a pyramid cap for the eventual khana. As the others arrived their maikhan would be hung from the rods to extend over the side ropes. Short spears would be inserted in the ground at the ends and secured to form supporting side poles. Silk garments would then be hung to complete the sides, protecting from insects and wandering eyes more than wind or storm. Horse blankets would form ground cover, and smoke from the brassier would happily escape around the edges. Thus it had been formed for three thousand years. Now again — the blending — the pulse.

The completed group tent would have fit in any grouped ayil camp, the yellow maikhan appearing gold in the distance. Only the strung bow, ready arrows and unsheathed sword would seem out of place. The Gusari had not been driven to defend or kill for many years. Despite his age he was prepared. A morning regimen of exercise and chant, based on ancient battle arts and dance, served to keep him fit. His small hand shield and whirling kama sword accompanied his shift of prancing form from stork to snake to tiger and on. Those who only knew him as a wandering merchant performer would never guess at his lethal portent. Those who came to his forest camp for stew and advice would wonder at his stories and never notice how loose his knife was in its hold. He never competed in the frequent matches at the lists or forest glade, though his Turkic recurve could strike at one hundred paces what they impaled at forty. He still practiced when well alone. Fourteen arrows only in his belt quiver. Thumb ring hardly noticed when transferred from its neck thong. Shield held in bow hand together with the end of his lupo cloak. Up close, no one recognized that at a distance the patterned weave would give a false image of his actual form. With practiced breath and whispered rhythmic chant the strella shafts would follow one-on-one in less than a minute space to form rings of three no larger than an apple in several distant trees.

Once, long ago, such archery skill had stopped a charge of a dozen riders and saved the life of a young stricken knight. That is why Wolfram would come.
Kiyan’s stretched bow arm revealed a scar on his forearm; the place where he had deliberately taken a knife thrust to twist and disarm a vicious enemy nokud warrior. Later he had carried the wounded Mongol five leagues to safety and nursed him back to health. Those allies who had attacked the messenger protected under the striped banner he left behind for the carrion birds. Thus Thoregai would come.

The Gusari never liked to think of Ekrem. With his image came the memory of a destroyed village — Kiyan’s family clan only piles of bloody rags — the old shaman beheaded. The young Turkic asker had remained behind in anger — it was to be a raid of plunder only. He was wailing in lament when the Gusari had arrived, and was attempting to scratch out shallow graves along the stony ridge. With no common language shared the warrior rose and stuck his curved sword in the ground. He cast aside his strange scale armor and unwound his protecting silk shirt. He stood with bared chest before the trembling young shaman. Kiyan stared into his lost eyes and learned much of compassion, charity — and then mercy. The Gusari knew that the Marmaluk stranger was now dead — but his son would come.

The Gusari was acknowledged for many mysterious ways and customs; some Christian, some Pagan, some born of instinct and blood. Few would recognize what he now performed. On the small swatch of rabbit fur four stones were arranged, each with a unique history and purpose. In the center was a sliver of aurok horn, tipped with an eagle talon. Incense from the powdered seeds of the five bushes smoldered on the edge of his sword. Blood dripped from his pricked thumb onto the jeweled amulet. The cross on his Tryzub pendant was shrouded in purple thread. He sang out the names of his anda, his sworn brothers-at-arms. The ruddy sun changed to silver moon-beams while he sang. Enough! He collapsed in the ashes of the fire.

Strange dreams caressed three warriors in distant lands. As one they prepared. Days — weeks — a month away. As distant specks on the horizon they would appear. They were called. Though strangers, they would meet and bond without word. Arm to arm and back to back they would stand.

The Gusari has called.

The visit to White Owl Island with my guide Sophia had turned into a meditative time rather than one with any inherent sense of adventure. On return, Sophia dropped me in a shaded grassy patch at Dumwash within sight of the Gypsy Camp which was starting to stir.
“Time to catch up with the revellers” she said. ” Look for Lois and Gail, they will make you welcome.” And so she left me again.

At last I was ready both physically, and in spirit, I had indeed done the “hard yards”, and turned towards the Gypsy Camp. Thus it was that I came to sit with Gail and Tinker alongside her waggon, as she boiled the billy for me..(and indeed there was a hint of gumleaves in the air again.) I listened to her many adventures on the road to Dumwash and the wisdom she had gained on the journey. We were joined by Lois and she too spoke of the courage tempered with understanding which had led her this far. She had survived the pitfalls and unknown terrors along the way. What struck me with both was their sense of joy and eagerness for the adventure and serependity of each tomorrow.

Soon we were chatting like soulmates, and I knew again…as I had so often found through life….the beauty and the gift that is the friendship of fellow travellers. In their presence I had found the essence of friendship….finding someone less scared than you are to share the journey!

Friends walk part of the path with you,
Pitch your tent and see you through.
Laugh when your days are sunny and long,
Cry when all your dreams go wrong.
Hope for your future. Bring you flowers.
Sit by your side through the long dark hours.
Give you a hoist when the goings tough,
Boil the billy when you’ve had enough!

Several posts here have been about Tarot, Astrology, and other forms of psychic connection. In conjunction with my study of the Gusari, the Alan and Mongolian Shamanism, I have reconstructed some different forms of divination that predate all of those. These work quite well face-to-face, especially in helping people make decisions under complexity. I am willing to try these methods in a ‘distant’ format, though it will require several levels of communication. I have set up a chat room for that purpose.

For those interested, please join “Gusari Mystique” by messaging symbol_logic@comcast.net

You will hopefully then write about your experience with ‘Kiyan the Gusari’, though all details will be confidential.

Gusari stories and history can be found on Lemurian Mysteries, Strum of the Gusli and this blog.

faucon

Work of the Trees

The children came to dance beneath the trees,
to laugh and tumble in the rusting leaves,
and learn of simple life by Nature’s touch.

Then they grew tall, broad and long of hair,
and knowledge was seized like a stolen pear
while the wisdom of flowers was trampled.

As men and women they forgot to sing,
of such natural truths that wonders bring,
and their spirits withered in sad decay.

Yet some still heard the laughing leaves of dawn
and became shaman, wizard, seer and crone,
and rekindled the spark of innocence.

They live where what was, is what now will be,
nurturing powers drawn from memory,
for within yourself is rebirthing Light.

Living challenge will dictate ‘what to do’,
but ‘how to do’ must be found within you,
each by each to wonder where ever when.

faucon