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It’s the same since Gypsy women,
It’s the same since all Gypsy men;
it always has been Gypsy blood;
It always will be until then.
For I am humbled by Oral Tradition, thank you my Great-Grandmother…
I know a little secret.
And guess what? It doesn’t go your way…
No need wasting your life being gay…
Never having to watch you,
You’re a hedon building your own grave…
Not even your hags can help you brave…
You know who you are, you rut.
Stalking me will never help you out…
Coming my way, get a curse, no doubt…
Narcissism egregious,
Where can you turn when you quit living?
To be nothing, no more forgiving…
Won’t be me to do you in.
Untold tarot knows death of your grin,
Seek while you can your ****** soul of sin…
Good Riddance, you Rut…
Anais Vionet Jun 2023
There was a homeless lady,
one afternoon, outside the hospital.
Was she homeless? I don’t know.
She had a ladened shopping cart,
which, on TV, is kind of a signature.
We were inside, waiting for an Uber.

She was outside, in chiaroscuro relief.
Dressed in bright, multilayered, mismatched
florals and brocades, she reminded me
of a gypsy. There are still gypsy caravans
in France. Are there gypsies in America?

She wore boots and long strings of beaded jewelry.
They would have had to have been glass, I supposed,
but tinseled with the glitter of those pop spangles,
she looked, en bloc, the richest and the poorest of us.

She wasn’t young and she wasn’t old. She sat alone,
on a short retaining wall, her cart within guarded reach.
I noticed her because every time I glanced over, she
was watching me with the dark unblinking eyes of a bird.

She had an easy confidence, in the wild, sitting safe
and protected by her clam, obstinate shell of boredom.

What must I look like to her - with her tangled hair
and unwashed face? Me in my permanent pressed
hospital wear, diminished by over-washing. A doll
behind glass, whose whole life is patterned by plans?

Our Uber pulled up, the number matched and as Lisa
opened the car door, I gathered my things and looked
back but the gypsy lady was gone, leaving a blank space.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Obstinate: "stubborn people who refuse to change in spite of reason.”

chiaroscuro = an art style using strong contrasts between light and dark
en bloc = at once, both

*I used the term Gypsy because it’s the most instantly recognized. In the UK, Gypsies is a legal term used for their protection act. The French say ‘gitans’ but they are more popularly known as the Romani people or Tinkers, and Travellers. I’ve read that the term “Gypsy” can be used as a slur but not in the context used here.
Mystic Ink Plus Jan 2023
Whoever is
With their insanity

Will become
A freeman

Genre: Observational
Theme: To Whom It May Concern
Author's Note: Let this simple fact poke your thought and vibrate your conscience.
Andrew Dec 2021
The young gypsy girl
Who fell off a cloud
That found peace
When her feet
Touched the ground

She held the sunlight
Which would burn
Golden bright
While watching over you
As you sleep
Throughout the night

Her long red hair
With her stylish dress wear
Flows down the street
Floats on thin air
Pam Wooten-Welsh Mar 2021
She was fierce.
She was wild and night-time.
A heart so gigantic
she could paint a picture world-wide.
Her style was her own.
Her spirit is unchained.
Liberated running away from society
touching the earth with her bare feet,
it embraced her soul,
leaving her breathless and carefree.
A natural and appearing
like a field of flowers,
bright and magical.
She was a kaleidoscope of colors
living enchantingly under the moon at night,
and cheerfully in the sun
with its radiance and light.
CC Feb 2021
The crushed night sky with foliage deep within it seems like a troubled place to sleep underneath
A nomad's roof is bare and unseen with the wasted moon of every earth
Why warily waste away the sweetened caress of each breeze?
Wondering when we will wind up binding our hands around the trees
Freckles on each cheek like stardust upon the brow of Zeus
Sleep is a journey you will reach despite the torrid jungle of your mind
The treasure that you are burying is a breath for each life you have been reincarnated into
Who can say it is a fault to desire less when riches are a foolish goal?
Around you lay a long-haired grass, your feet barely touch the ground
You must think that the woman fears no predator
To sleep so soundly while she roars
Purcy Flaherty Jan 2021
Music is a spiritual tongue,
Find someone to talk to,
Bless us with the revelation,
The sound is huge.

Flying fish fill the sonic space,
A classic romance,
Through and through,
You're beautiful,
You're handsome,
And you're a cad.

Creation has a place for everything,
Life's lesson is surrender, so let it go,
Go with the flow,
Like it as it is,
Push past the fear.

Here we go,
Here we go,
Here we go.

Here we go,
Here we go,
Here we go.
The key to impromptu freestyle music, Writing, art and other things
Lane O Sep 2020
A wildflower bloomed
On the edge of a path.
One scarce of flora,
So I bent down to ask.

"How did you flourish
In soil so lorn?"
Her reply was brief,
But it carried no scorn.

"Oh yes, it's quite odd
To have sprouted here alone,"
Said the gypsy flower,
Amongst gravel and stone.
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