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Lane O Sep 12
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.
Jordan Gee Aug 2
I foot the ladder
I called upon the wheat
I called upon the spaces where only an ibex can stand
I called upon the swollen silence, the space between the keys
I called upon the distended bulb of awkward air that is my usher unto
the people of this world.
I called upon God to change my purpose for me
but all I saw were white shapes in the darkness.
he had sent his heralds with the long horns and bugles
the thrones and cherubim suspended like a women’s pearls about the neck
but i was too deaf and hard of seeing
on what was happening in my day to day
in my aloneness
in my facebook messages
in my bank account.
I thought the die was cast and so
I rode their mercy like an uncut Arabian steed.
I was young and my shadow was a
bad foretelling -
like worms drowning on the pavement-
like an empty soul factory in the bathroom stall.
but I’m on borrowed time like a black cat dream on
the narrows and the cobblestones.
like how a broken broom breaks all gypsy curses,
black cat dreams are never wrong, and
in the deep statecraft of my undoing I’m almost sorry for
what I asked for.
See, there are two of me and they are crowing
I know not which one bodes the ill intent and which one wields the cyanide.
but both are mostly indolent in their listening
to the building of the gallows.
Every breath is a fatality
Every hand full of dirt is a genesis
and I can hear the hangman at the gallows.
Let Justice Be Done, Though The Heavens Fall
and i’ll go see my brother on the water.
halfway up the sky he’ll build eternity outside of time,
and I will foot the ladder.
birds of hollow bone they herald my undoing,
planting white lilies in my heart.
by the building of the gallows I will foot the ladder
sometimes there are only hammers
sometimes all I see are nails.
where is the healing balm in this dreamscape that I invented?
he’s holding sulfur in his death hand.
I looked up and asked him for a bright lantern
I asked him to keep this pen alive and to fix me to his liking
I asked him for a bamboo raft worthy of the rapids.
I told him that when I was in California I was so sad I couldn't see the ocean.
I asked him that if I were to give penance
could he take these tumors in his hands.
all i saw were reflections of him smiling
like long eclipses on comanche moons.
I heard the gears of the clock all grinding but the hands were spinning loose.
I wanted to be home then, but he said I already was. And then he told me:
You are the gallows and the hammers
You are the black cat and broken brooms
You are the pavement and the worms and
the drowning and the nails
You are the lilies and the wheat
You are your brother and his dreaming
You are the cyanide and the birds.
but i’ve so much invested already in the crawling
in and out of beds
that all there is left to do is
foot the ladder till I'm no longer deaf to the horse's mouth,
to the screaming of the diad in their forgetting of their
Of their Atonement
Of their dreaming of the dream.
She cometh from afar,
Chanting words of magic.
Singing beautiful songs
Calling out to the spirits

Her powers so glaring
Her voodoo doll by the window
The crystal ball of life
Cards of the future laid in the table

Looking into her eyes,
Seeing the communing of the spirits.
The owl on her roof,
Making scary sounds welcoming the spirits.

Piercing into my soul
A telling of the past and the present
Her reading of fortunes
A telling of the future

The enchantment in the room
The conjuring of spirits
Her performance of black magic
A force of good and evil

Written by Tosan Oluwakemi Thompson
This poem describes a voodoo gypsy.
K-ROB May 16
Its nice 2 have someone to care.
You don't just find that anywhere.
You are so kind and sweet,
God meant 4 us 2 meet,
at this moment and time,
and 4 us 2 share our little rhymes.
We will see each other again and when we don't you will always be my friend.
I feel your soul when you speak,
don't hesitate to call if you are feeling weak.
I will be there for you,
for you are one of the many few,
who accepted me for me and
who understands how people really need to be.
Great person, we will hang again - hopefully soon!!!  I think SC is calling my name!
This Distance Between Us
by Michael R. Burch

This distance between us,
this vast gulf of remembrance
void of understanding,
sets us apart.

You are so far,
lost child,
weeping for consolation,
so dear to my heart.

Once near to my heart,
though seldom to touch,
now you are foreign,
now you grow faint . . .

like the wayward light of a vagabond star—
obscure, enigmatic.
Is the reveling gypsy
becoming a saint?

Now loneliness,
a broad expanse
—barren, forbidding—
whispers my name.

I, too, am a traveler
down this dark path,
unsure of the footing,
cursing the rain.

I, too, have felt pain,
pain and the ache of passion unfulfilled,
remorse, grief, and all the terrors
of the night.

And how very black
and how bleak my despair . . .
O, where are you, where are you
shining tonight?

Keywords/Tags: distance, gulf, apart, divide, foreign, faint, gypsy, saint, loneliness, broad, expanse, barren, dark, path, black, light, shining
annh Nov 2019
My misgivings hide among the shadows,
In the tangle of long grass along the hedgerow
Between your wide open fields and my cultivated lawn.

Unspoken truths crowd out the spring bulbs,
Now snarled with weeds and thorned with blackberry,
The cobbled pathway which once linked my hope with your promise.

Will you meet me at the gate by the old sycamore tree?
If yes, then bring your dreams, untethered, and the dappled autumn sunshine,
I will bring my careful notions and the soft spring rain.

Prim roses and wild lilac; a velvet ash and sweet chestnuts,
Your gypsy summer, my redbud winter,
Our season, one garden.

‘Nothing is all bad. There are very beautiful flowers in the desert amidst the spikes and thorns. Just don't let them take over. In the garden of love there is little room for prickly things.'
- Kate McGahan
ALesiach Jul 2019
Gypsy sits under the twinkling starlight,
of a fierce love she sings into the night,
but never a lover is in sight.
Will you be her lover?

Gypsy fades to a gentle slumber.
Will her dreams be light or thunder?
Will they dwell on life's duress
or a lover's sweet caress?
Will you be her lover?

Gypsy can freeze you, put you on ice
or she can take you to paradise.
Do not forget to hold on tight
or into the abyss you will slip at twilight.
Will you be her lover?

Gypsy stirs in the morning light,
her dreams are gone like mist in sunlight.
Did you read the message in her eyes?
She will be waiting in the night.
Will you be her lover?

ALesiach © 09/19/2014
James Study Jul 2019
I remember the two story frame house
surrounded by a gold sea of wheat
and the summer morning before the heat
the sounds from the creek would be my rouse

the sound of water running over rocks
held no fascination as it ran
it was the clinking sound of a tin can
that made me run to the door with no locks

the sound that came drifting up from the creek
the sound of voices of just a few
a kitchen match being struck on a shoe
in the summer maybe just a week

where do they come from and where do they go
they don't live in a house like I've known
they don't eat at a table in a home
I don't question for fear they don't know

I sit and listen for name of a town
and highway numbers I hear them say
and names of rivers a new one today
I know there is much more to be found

lying on our backs we watch clouds roll by
they seem to be more like puffs of steam
going the same direction as the stream
these people move like clouds in the sky

suddenly I would stir and look about
hearing my mother calling my name
and just as before I've always came
then one day so distant my mothers shout
Aniron Nov 2018
her solid feet still travel
the lonesome barren land
the vast savage grounds
she holds in her heart like fire.

with pride she walks and dances
through the dark, through the flame
she leaves her mark but never lingers
oh, she is only with the wind to stay
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