Lemurian Gypsy Camp

Many new friends are arriving at the Gypsy Camp,
and all are invited to stand in the flickering shadows
to sing or tell a ballad or story or prayer –
these give more warmth than the glowing embers.

I will start things off — not a Bard for naught –
and will tell you something of my home and haven
at Sakin’el. Sung in two voices

faucon
……………………………………………………………….

Sakin’el Hush

And the Bard sang by the fire bright …

“If you will do this in trust and love
then Sakin’el will live anew,
and at each splendid sunset kiss
you will hear the faint ‘Silent Breeze’
of ever profound inner peace.”

“but what will I hear,” asked the maiden faire,
with teasing eyes and coquettish aire?

“draw close to the flowers with petaled dew
and look at the reflection there,
while gentle bees caress the wind
and hum of sweet nectared dreams
soon lost to age and vanity.”

“how loud is the sound,” mused the withered crone,
with vacant eyes who slept alone?

“the trees will thunder and the stones will shout
if you stand as one ‘pon the path;
while holding hands can mute the din
and change the music to quiet song
best heard from the lips of a friend.”

“do they tell stories,” requested the youth
with wand’ring spirit searching truth?

“brave soldiers on horseback beat steady drums
and dragons breathe through piercing flutes
and Viking ships sound a longing horn,
calling to arms companions true
to follow a quest most daring.”

“are they ever hushed,” sighed the tonsured priest
whose fervant prayers never ceased.

“if one can be silent they sing the same
and echo spirit’s harmony
to a song of Light and knowing,
where heart strings are plucked
b y an angelic choir in love.”

“can I sing along,” laughed the little elf
with innocent mirth beside himself.

“if you sing ‘belong’ and soon join right in
and dance a lick and whistle now,
then birds chirp in and clouds applaud
the music of humanity,
gifted by the morning dawn.”

“can I then just sit and watch,” cried the child
with remembered touch beguiled.”

“to live life is to surly embrace life
and conduct an orchestra grand,
where you will coax your soul to sing
and blend with whispers of Tegsh
as she accomp’nies even me.”

More snow, all last night, and all day today, it just kept falling, a clean white sound suffocating blanket of fresh snow. Few wandered out. It not being walker or cane friendly weather, I stayed in at gazed at it through the window, although briefly I did go out to walk my dog. I negotiated with extra cookies to get him to come back in. He could have played in it hours longer. The city is ill prepared for so much snow, and most stayed home. It is lovely thought, especially in the pre dawn hours, then to walk the dog is ideal, acres of virgin snow and just us and the stars out in it. The sound of the city dampened and my happy Belvedere making like a snow plough with his nose.

I thought you might like to come along

Please read each poem separately,
then together with each line joined as one
……………………………………………

Found a glade where………. Sought in heart today
Fresh water springs ………. recycled Godess tears
Where shady trees ………… speak in shadowed mirth
stretch their arms …………. tapping Mother Earth
over the water’s edge……… in a pool of silent birh.
Found a place where ……… there’s found in place
You and I can sit and talk……….. souls touch and grace
of times past…………… mem’ries of tomorrow
Times to come ………. caressed in yesterday,
And other irrelevancies………… not related but as one.
Found a quiet spot ……………….Looking between the leaves
where we can lay ………………….and spirits overlay
down our arms………………… around and bound
Let the battle travel …………in rest bequest
on for a spell. …………………..foretold as dream.
From Lavengro……………… by the Gusari

She Was But a Barn

She stood forlorn in a worn out field,
an aging, wrinkled crone.
Though unsung,
she rivaled the classic architecture of old Europe.

There were no signs or souvenirs,
no mention in a guide book.
No tourists flocked to view her—
she was but a barn.
Her history was hardly grandiose.
She was but a simple monument to the brave
but ordinary folk
who settled hereabouts.

Each winter, snow lay heavy on her roof,
each spring she sagged a little more.
How many seasons could she have stood to tell
that some humble pioneer homesteaded here?

One morning when I walked that way,
I saw the sign, new and brightly coloured,
it proclaimed development—
Eighty homes, a strip mall, and a filling station
would replace my piece of history.

With swimming eyes, I climbed the fence
and walked through the dry and crackling grass.
I entered through the double doors,
one hung precariously, the other one was down
and molding into dust.
Once inside I stood in silent homage
to what soon would be no more.
Weeds grew through the floor,
surviving despite the gloom.
Old straw had crumpled into dust
in stalls where once horses rested.
Swallows in darkened corners
would nest here no more,
nor would they make music in the rafters.
Blue sky shone through gaps while
Dust filled God beams
searched mouse tracks below.

She was alive that day, my barn, old friend.
Her timbers creaked and groaned
as I sat, my back against a crumbling stall,
and whispered my good bye.

I left that day with heavy heart.
She had been a friend so long,
watching me, each day as I walked by
in rain or shine, snow or freezing cold.
I took one last long look, then turned my back.
There was nothing I could do to help her.
She had no historic value,
Only architectural charm.
She was but a simple barn
Built by gnarled hands and sweat.

I walk that way no longer
Now that my friend has gone.

Vi Jones
©November 23, 2006

I might just sit by the fire a bit and litsen to other tell stories,
though a few dancing girls are always in order –
but I do have a story to tell of the hospital.

The doctor said I could not go home until my blood pressure
dropped to a more normal lever (then at 155/85)
I asked what was acceptable seeing that my norm is 126/78.

He said that 130 would be incredible. So I told him to return in a half hour,
and imagined myself by the Gypsy fire with friends and ‘forced’ my figures down
to 124/76 — and am now home.

papa

I slip between the veils of two worlds,
‘twixt sleep and dreaming,
between memory and anticipation
drifting on the current of mist rising from the fields in the early mornings,
in the sun’s rays, on a leaf being carried down the stream,
caught in an occasional eddy
where I spiral uncontrollably until,
snagged on a hook of rock, I’m cast forth once again.
I drift upwards in the smoke of an autumn bonfire,
bright sparks flowering golden against the night sky,
a flower that lasts but a few seconds, withers and dies.
On a vapour from a pot of stew I rise,
tantalising the nostrils of the gypsy bent over the fire,
sparks of light flashing off her golden earrings and from the lights in her eyes.