Lemurian Gypsy Camp

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FAUCON: May your day be filled with love, hugs, and tons of good wishes. And may your year, and all the years that follow be filled with all that is good and all that you wish for yourself. Hugs, Vi

Have a fantastic day!

copyright Imogen Crest 2006.

Click on the image to see it full size – love, Gail

On the Hole of it

Roasting a hole
is a conundrum of sorts,
akin to drinking an ulum;
i.e., the part that’s gone
or never was.

Perhaps it is like the soul,
unseen – but known
by the spiraling circle
of spiritual yearning
and human frailty –
but tasty none the less…

but, hopefully never roasted;
unless Source likes it that way.

SOULMATES

Other worlds in deep of space
Orbit other suns in silent motion;
On another shore I touched your face
And stood with you beside another ocean.

We are old friends, somewhere
Beaneath a distant star that moved
In stately arcs through alien sky,
We met before and even then we loved.

You were mine before this earth was born,
Twin souls handfast in ancient rite.
Our children walked into the first primeval dawn,
Our children will see the last exploding night.

On other worlds, in other times, we met…
And then we loved, and never will forget.

I think of the old days,
Remember the old ways
As I join the crush on the train.

I still hear the wheels creak,
Still hear the wind speak
As I wait for the bus in the rain.

I still smell the wood smoke.
Still touch the wild oak,
As I trudge up the company stairs.

I still sing the old tunes
dream of the full moon,
As I sit in my hard office chair.

Another day in the rat race,
Another hour at the coal face,
Will wither my spirit to ash.

So its throw off this load for me,
Back to the road for me,
I’ll not trade my freedom for cash.

The man from Tennessee has rung the bell
Gather around he has chimmed
Tell stories of wonder and dreams
Talk in the language of forebears of
days and times that have long gone
try to reminis in a world moving so quickly

Not so easy man from Tennessee,
as we struggle to keep ahead
of what the days bring
Do we try to help ,to do our bit
and question ,if it is enough.
And if not,why not ?

Perhaps it is good to dream
and remember back to times long gone,
Fantasise ,take our thoughts far far away
After all isn’t this what camp fires are about
Chatter – not of the serious kind
but of light and humourous happenings
Much much laughter
as we look into the flames and see what
it is that makes us dream

I can do that, man from Tennessee
Not every day
but when the call is made
I can,and will oblige
and enjoy the experience
of being taken out of the
seriousness of my thoughts

So skip I will and look
for Gail ,as she might like
some company and good friends
to make the day complete
I’m on my way ……

Lois ( Muse of the Sea) 18.9.06

the continuation of the story below

……………………………………………………………………

Bye ‘n bye he starts in askin’ questions. “Yer leanin’ agin a roof post – tell me ‘bout it – what makes it special?” “On the path up ya heard the tinklin’ song of a waterfall – what did it say to ya?” “In a bit of a glade behind the house some of my kin are buried – how many, ‘n how as they died?” and more … Some answers came easy as I was mountain born and kin ta the forest – leastwise always thought so. Never bathed ‘cept in a stream ‘re rain barrel. Always et some gift of the meadow every day: berries, wild onions, nettle root, ‘re cress – just like mom dun tol’ me. Never kilt nuthin’ I didn’t plan ta eat and could tickle trout …

Tellin’ of things I’d never seen was different, but I spoke right out. On my first try I was jest faerie guessin’ and Grandie called me up right quick. “Be startin’ with what ya know fer sure. Then ‘low yerself to be in my shoes and look fer the balance of things – knowin’ what be right fer peace and utility.” He never told me if’n I be right or no, but I began to sense a kinda glow ‘bout him when I ventured some ‘extension’ – leastwise that’s what Grandie called em. As I be readin’ these as indicators of true er close guessin’, I began to describe things small first ‘stead o’ tryin’ to grasp the whole imagine. When I sensed the glow – better with my eyes closed – I built on that. When his “truth reflectin’” sang low ‘re quiet, I tried agin with no fear atall. Thirsty work, though – cider mostly gone. Grandie’s jug was down ta dribble too.

“I talk better walkin’,” he mumbled while creakin’ outa that rockin’ chair. We drifted gentle through the woods, pacin’ some old trails and discoverin’ new – passed a mossy busted still and ‘nother cabin burnt down. He told me stories ‘bout these ‘n other glimpses of past folk gone long. Some were not fer believin’ but fer makin’ a point. Others seemed to have no meanin’ atall but ta be anchors like fer other mem’ries and musin’. All the while he was a movin’ his hands and shiftin’ his feet peculiar like ‘til I caught on. His body kinda moved ahead of what he was sayin’, pointin’ where his thoughts were goin’, and whether he was plannin’ to feed me some dream tea. Then we came upon this broken bridge never fixed, as a log fall now served fer one ‘n carts never came by no mo’. Ole Grandie wandered around a bit, but din’t say nuthin’. My turn.

I started in tellin’ a story ‘bou why the bridge had been built, and by what folk, and how it came to be broke up, ‘n the tragedy of the place and what lessons were to be learned. I took clues from where he had stood, ‘n how his hands twitched while a ‘memberin’ how it had been. When I didn’t get any glow clues I talked about little things I saw – knew to be true like a patch of wild flowers ‘re the way a tree had been chopped – ‘til I found a bit of truth to grow on – then I storied what I thought up seemed ta fit the flow o’ things. He didn’t say nuthin’ durin’ the tellin’, nor move from the stump ‘cept fer puffin’ on his pipe. Finally, I just kinda ran out a thinks ta tell.

“No body coulda saved her, you know. Twasn’t yer fault none.” You’d a thought me the old man and him but fourteen from the tellin’ it sok,90hcjk,90hcj. We chatted some there by the tumbly rocks with both of us aged somewhere in between – jest friend ta friend, ya know. I won’t tell ya where he picked up a new jug, or how I knew who had left it fer him. Ya already be quessin’ that this twisty walkin’ stick I use be the one he gifted me that day, ‘re that it took him twenty years to carve it. ‘re that it was meant fer his son. It isn’t magickal to know such things.

All it takes is bein’ alive – and knowin’ that ya are, and learnin’ to listen to heart ‘n hands – and a watchin’ fer the soul glow.

——————————————————————

Now, you don’t have to be a ’seer’ to know that I

wrote this story for Lorijayne, promted by her

divination (dousing) exploration. and I will make

a ‘presentiment’.

You will practice your ‘art’ for fun and amazement,

but will feel self-conscious when doing it in front of others –

and your success rate will be sporatic. Then you will realize

that ‘for others’ is the whole point, and that your ‘gift’

works best when done selflessly to help others. This you will do,

full knowing that the pain will balance the joy,

but will do it ‘because you can and therefore must’.

May it always ‘flow though’ and caress your spirit

faucon the Gusari