#gypsy
I march to a different drummer
My life it is my own
I'm an explorer of experience
That is how I'm known
I've seen snow in South Dakota
I've been on the Vegas strip
Had barbeque in Kansas
My life has been a trip
I'm a gypsy of the railways
I'm a legend in my time
I move on in a boxcar
Brother... spare a dime?
I've been through all the landlocked states
Five provinces as well
I've seen Niagara Falls all frozen
I've seen it flowing fast as well
I've had margaritas in Key West
And Bourbon in Kentucky
Craft beers out in Oregon
In my life I have been lucky
I travel on my stories
Feed myself with all my tales
I'm an explorer of experience
I'm a gypsy of the rails
I never stick around too long
I don't wear my welcome out
I come and see just what I want
That's what life is all about
I've railroad friends in Texas
Some up in BC too
We've shared drinks in San Diego
And had a great Alaskan brew
I'm not one to live by your rules
I find my rules suit me fine
I'm an explorer of experience
And I'm riding on the lines
You can find me down in Georgia
Or eating spuds in Idaho
I never know just where I'll be
Until my ride begins to go
I'm a gypsy of the railways
I'm a legend in my time
I move on in a boxcar
Brother...spare a dime?
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
I met a gypsy couple the other day
In the park of course
They were a lovely, beautiful mess
Trucked in right from Santa Cruz
They loved lots
Only four days
Her car stuck in some lot
I laughed a bit
I had to admit
I too
Knew the feeling
Being stranded
Deprived
Wrecked
Solititude
I gladly changed their tune
Convinced them tomorrow
Come noon
They'd notice a chance of attitude
Another chance at eternity
A moment devine
And poetic as the last
There's no such thing as time?
We're all actors in a grand tragedy
Lost gypsy couple and believers of
Tiny miracles
Completing
Relieving
Resolving
Appreciating the tiny moments
Of eternity
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
lightning bolt earrings;
bangles jangle on dark wrists:
an urban Gypsy.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 5:48 PM UTC
I've seen them come
I've seen them go.
The aftermath
of a heartless show.
They're steps ahead
while you're steps behind.
Their echoing footsteps
your peace of mind.
Rewind, rewind,
rewind, repeat.
Eventually
you're alone with defeat.
Unless you change
your way of thought.
And learn self love
is where love is taught.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
"Whist," is what Mammy said,
As she whisked us off to bed.
Usually we'd go quietly.
But a gypsy woman sat at our table,
Reading tea leaves,
Pouring prophecies.
Guests were few, and she I knew
To be a special one.
She saw dark clouds in a cup.
My sisters, past the tender age,
Stayed up longer to hear her say,
"Tall dark men are on their way."
I pricked my ears from upstairs,
Tried to put both on the vent,
Both of them were forward bent.
Just then my father
Climbed the stairs;
I saw the dark mop of his hair,
He was tall,
He wasn't humming;
No one else foresaw his coming,
But I vanished off to bed.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
Gypsy likes it when it rains
Teardrops wreck the sky coming from a better place
Liquid pain falling from an angel's face
Gypsy trembles under her velvet and lace
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
You think youve won
Youve got it all
Finally;
It all makes sense.
All of the pain,
The struggle,
The hopelessness--
It all led up to what you thought
Was your reward
For staying strong
For keeping on
Keeping on.
And now,
Things are in pieces again.
Nothing makes sense
Again.
Just like that
Gone.
****
Goodbye
Bliss.
Im sorry
That i didnt cherish you when i had you.
Im sorry
That your wife is gay
And that your girlfriend is a free bird.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
sad boy;
what a pathetic
ploy
this is for my attention.
all you contrive
tastelessly
always lacks concession.
every word,
and image you fake
I reject, from my
possession,
for all you are
's worth less than this
effortless expression.
you see, my natural
creativity
surmounts your ****
impression
of the beauty of my work
and my powerful
transgression.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 7:02 AM UTC
It wasn’t fair
Here take it all
Fix it
I never should’ve
Let me fix you
I shouldn’t have
I wanna fix you
So you fix me
But what’s here to fix ?
I can’t fix you
You can’t fix me
I wasn’t ready for you
You’re a challenge
You challenge me
I can’t have you
I don’t want you
Yes I do
Maybe I’ll always want you
But who cares
You don’t
Do I care ?
I never came
I didn’t wanna cause you pain
But I did
And you cause me pain
We abused each other
I’m gonna let you go
It hurt so much
But I have to
Because if you love someone
You have to
I’m sorry
I’m sorry for being so obsessive
For being so possessive
But what you did wasn’t right
You didn’t really help the fight
I don’t know what else to say
Ok bye I hope you have a nice day
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 3:33 AM UTC
Red, edifying & ditsy,
Wine illuminated names -- eclectic,
& gypsy. Yippee persons; So yawned
Night. I gathered her, too
Tipsy, I paused & smoked young
Faith, aimed it too high
And next dared
The hour escape.
Oscar sounded clear and round.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
The posters said tomorrow
At eleven on the dot
The Mishkin Brothers Circus
Would be here ....on this spot
There would be no carnival or midway
Just one tent and three rings
And all of the excitement
That a good old circus brings
There would be elephants and lions
Trapeze artists overhead
Dancing dogs and ponies
And zebras painted red
Clowns of all description
Answering to just one man
In the center of the circle
Was Mishkin brother....Dan
He'd run the show for twenty years
Gone from town to town to town
In one day they would get set up
And in two, they'd tear it down
One day to show the locals
The circus still was an event
With magic, form the Barnum Days
All housed inside one tent
The sideshow barkers and their geeks
Were not with this fine group
Dan Mishkin had assembled
Only the finest circus troup
From Russia he had jugglers
Knife throwers, just the best
******** riders from Decatur
Along with all the rest
Fourteen trucks and trailers
Pulled into town the night before
Breaking ground once they arrived
Working right through until four
Just old time entertainment
No travelling gypsy band was this
It was the Mishkin Brothers Circus
It was something not to miss
The show was started promptly
At twelve o'clock, like the sign said
A parade of all the players
And the zebras painted red
Two shows and it was over
The whole routine began anew
The field was once more empty
Gone was the Mishkin rolling zoo
A year from now, we'd see the signs
And we'd all go to the tent
To see the Mishkin Brothers Circus
The best money ever spent
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 4:48 PM UTC
ghagras twirling
veils swirling
anklets tinkling
silver at her neck
how she adorns herself!
regal as a queen
but cannot conceal
her banjara soul
gypsy blood flows in her veins
a thousand stars alight upon her veil
fuchsia and orange set fire to the dusk
twilight is thick with her magic
she sways with the grace of a peacock
bends like a willow to the breeze
dances in celebration of her soul
her smile a universal knowing
none can slow her pace
beauty this wild leaves only a trace
slips airily past eyes
drunk with desire
to beguile the moon in his heaven
she answers the call of the wanderer within
casts only laughter on the restless wind
this desert rose
this woman child
this gypsy queen
this banjara
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
I could fill my hands with wishes.
Vials of fairy dust tucked deep in my pocket.
one day,
I might need it.
But that day I think may never come.
Prayers whispered on red stained lips,
but they drop sincerely,
with to much heart.
Silence says to much in ways I can't comprehend.
Wind says that it can take me to a place, where shadows can't haunt me.
Sorrow can't sit on my door step,
reminding me of things that want to consume to much of me.
Monsters grab me in the night.
Profanity and ****** don't mix well with whiskey.
My stomach is always twisted in knots of strangled butterflies.
I could be a runaway.
Just another face on a milk carton,
or those cluttered bulletin boards at Walmart.
I fade away so easily,
flowers in my hair and feet bare,
sunshine warming my face.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 10:54 PM UTC
My water tower in the sun, my pillar in the dark.
Rust on a warehouse door, **** anatomy of a shark.
A hidden, naked cartoon, vulnerable and hurt.
The afternoon rays of light, exposing my empire of dirt.
Squid in a dark room, forgotten seat for you to ****
Discovering rotten apples, the fruitless empty pits.
Far on the ***** the eye is negligent to mankind.
No on has ***** yet "American **** isn't hard to find.
From this floor to the next, watch out for the holes.
Stalactites are forming, between the rods and the poles.
The gang is all here, each with a gat.
Questioning Detroit, wondering "where da party at."
A symphonic silence, from abandoned piano keys.
For the love of the city, the birds and the bees.
A ladder to assist you, in anything but a climb.
Wasting away the day, when all you have is time.
Where they once opted elevators, they now offer only stairs.
Peacefully residing, in the asbestos, grime, and the glares.
The walls they're all puking, a paint chip epidemic.
No chalk at the chalkboard, a failed academic.
Some sign walls in scribble, some bless us with art.
Beautiful light fixtures hang, while sanctuaries fall apart.
The debris and the rubble, wooden frames and the splinters.
A back road in the city, in the dead cold of winter.
An altar to stand at, with no sermon or expectation.
A pew a sinner can rest, with only God's examination.
A wall devoted to an ***** hymnal at hand.
Stained glass more exaggerated, with shards in the plan.
Dancing on floorboards in rafters, climbing up to rooftops.
Wandering and trespassing, trying to avoid cops.
Panda bears, pillar **** and playing in the snow.
In the shadows and the blackest rooms, I really like to go.
Pussycats in hallways and the golden lightning kitty.
Posing seductively in vacancy is where I feel pretty.
I've seen the light at the end of the tunnel, I've found King David.
Interrogated with the whys and don'ts, though I wish they'd save it.
Picasso in the projects, Sloth and Marilyn Manson.
Fairmont Creamery Company, a view held for ransom.
Some window panes are for looking out, some for looking in.
Struggle Buggy Snow White still sleeps, forever strugglin'.
I've seen them ask for me, "Warriors come out to play."
Detroit is to me, what night is to day.
I caught Pikachu and have seen a **** elephant.
In the frost of the Fisher, I found a heart that was spent.
But the cardio made of brick, spoke with such sass.
Resting bones at the Packard, in an armchair that's trash.
Patriots are nosey and robots attack.
Never putting an hour on when I'll get back.
On top of the world, or looking up from the bottom.
Abandoned buildings, schools, churches, there's something about them.
Where a tree has a better chance of rooting and planting.
When a society suddenly seems a bit slanting.
Color a flower on a wall that's been broken and charred.
Breathe life into a battlefield, encourage the scarred.
Take away ego and vanity, glance into a filthy mirror.
Don't just listen to a person, actually hear.
Sure maybe at times I may seem a bit morbid.
And my words can be harsh and approach kind of forward.
But when you're standing alone, in a hallways that's dead.
Whose last bell has been rung and last book has been read.
Then you hear footsteps from the floor up above.
It's in that uncanny awareness.
And fear...
I find love.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
The good thing about being a gypsy
is its wild sativa;
the bad thing about being a gypsy
is its tamed alcoholic.
The good thing about being a gypsy
is its endless freedom;
the bad thing about being a gypsy
is its slavery to freedom.
The good thing about being a gypsy
is its philosophic heart;
the bad thing about being a gypsy
is its down-regulation of joy.
The best thing about being a wanderer
is its search for silence;
the worst thing about being a wanderer
is its capacity for noise.
The best thing about being a wanderer
is the free meal;
the worst thing about being a wander
is the free meal.
The best thing about being a wanderer
is the love of night;
the worst thing about being a wanderer
is the love of day.
The best thing about being a gypsy
is the wandering heart;
the worst thing about being a wanderer
is the gypsy heart.
The best thing about being a gypsy
is its magic book;
the worst thing about being a gypsy
is its accumulated curse.
The best thing about being a gypsy
is its varied muse;
the worst thing about being a gypsy
is its lack of one.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
My Mother called my Grandmother a "Dirty Gypsy" a long time ago
I never knew what it meant until I gave that part of my heritage a go
The Romani left India about 1,500 years ago, traveling, running ever since
The White people of the Medieval Ages hated them, at their very presence they took offense...
In some areas of Europe it was a common practice to mutilate the woman, **** and stolen kisses
And they branded the men with hot pokers... Who can understand this?
They were forbidden to speak in their native tongue
Yet their songs of joy and laughter are still sung
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
I am
not a
true racist...
I am
a culturist...
I do
not like
certain...cultures...
Even though
that culture
is my
own....
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
Just because you can turn her on
doesn't mean you'd get her off.
Black flies in Sangria
are bound to make her cough.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
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.
Mar 5, 2021
Mar 5, 2021 at 12:35 PM UTC
Gypsy Rose Lee.
Is that you or me?
Does that make you Baby June?
The favourite and best
No concern for the rest
You sing and you dance in the tune.
Or just like Gypsy
You learn how to strip tease
The glamour and glitz of the night.
But who's mama Rose?
And how could I know?
She pushes and leads to a fight.
But Gypsy is magic
And a rare art form
And June is so dainty
Doesn't know when she's born
She's the centre of attention
She's the first one who speaks
And Gypsy is left there
Still being Louise.
Chow mein and lambs
Travel the land
A show on vaudeville stage.
Let me entertain you
Let me have a try too
Honey, were you not entertained?
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
I should probably box away your things
And burn the photos and my ring
But I'm having trouble determining
If this is really real.
I should probably delete your number too
So I don't find myself calling you
I've found I'm not sure what to do
Is this really real?
After your words are said and it's done
And your feelings have set along with the Sun
I'll step back from the battle you've clearly won
Wow, I guess it's real.
Please don't come back at your dismay
You don't get to choose when I leave and stay
This is your doing this was your way
One day YOU'LL wish it wasn't real.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
The evening breeze,
the rhythm of the trees,
the song of love,
the honey bees,
I climb back under the covers
and dream of traveling horses,
starry skies, valleys and plains;
from which the mountains rise.
I keep my feet upon the ground.
She keeps her eyes upon the road.
Our souls, wild and fertile, roaming with desire,
Our souls, wild and fertile, roaming with desire,
but love ?
In that she is replete;
traveling from A to Z.
and i'm happy for her.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 6:01 AM UTC
Who said
sound is a vibration
that travels at a bizarre speed?
I saw it softly floating
ensconced in bubbles
to a celestial gravity
that pulls them up
to the realm of idyllic bliss.
Bubbles exude the
brilliant hues of my yearnings,
wrap me inside
their merino fleece warmth,
hold me to their *****
with the tenderness
I ever cherish in my soul.
Sound nestles in its heart
a mesmeric glow of music
ordained to play
the salute note
to augur the birth of a
new hankering.
The woeful flute
of the gypsy maiden
soulfully sings
a melancholy melody
for her lost love
to get a phoenix’s wings
under the silver mist of the
new moon’s splendour.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
I once knew a watch-thief
Who stole for his own
He wasted the time that he
Stole on the road
But this gypsy boy finds
A young girl one day
With a garland of flowers
And a red satin waist
She came from the highway
That led to the city
Her garments conveyed
She was wealthy and pretty
The gypsy boy wore
Some old slacks and no shirt
And he would not have seen her,
But she introduced herself first
Before hellos were said
Or greetings exchanged
Years later he said
He could feel something change
As she told him of ease
That she left behind
He fell to his knees
And praised God’s good design
If love is a lifetime,
Then lend me your hand.
The sparrows are witness
That my promise stands
And now our gypsy wagon
Is off down the road
And we’ll never stop moving
Cause this is our home.
This small band of gypsies,
Now larger by one
Trundle the pathways
and roads they call home
The watch-thief reclines
with his girl in his arms
they fall quickly in love
‘Neath the light of the stars.
But if hindsight goes further
And time teaches true
There was blood in the water,
If only he knew.
She came down to his level
But took it too far
She went too far in revel
And slowly, she broke the boy’s heart.
The gypsy boy stood,
Still stock still in his shock
He ducked under the hood
Of his caravan-rock
He walked back to the city
She’d said she was from
He put it in a bag
And he drank in the slums.
If love is a lifetime,
Then when will you come?
The sparrows, our witness,
flew too close to the sun
And now my gypsy wagon
Is off down the road
And now I’ve nowhere to go
because you were my home.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 2:41 AM UTC