"gipsy" poems
His Grandparents were Romany people from his maternal side
In Countries of Eastern Europe they travelled far and wide
But the most basic human right their right to life of them even denied
In Belzec Concentration camp where a million people died.
I never knew my maternal Grandparents with sadness he recall
Due to circumstance of birth and their way of life misfortune them did befall
My gift of music such a marvellous gift to them I feel I owe
In Belzec Concentration Camp they were murdered decades ago.
A tall and handsome man in his early thirties with wavy raven hair
With the marvellous gift of music a great accordion player
In silence we sat and drank our beer as we listened to him play
The beautiful old gipsy tunes from Countries far away.
That all things do come to an end in some cases a lie
In Belzec Concentration camp the gipsy music did not die
But that the gift of music does live on should not come as a surprise
Something that those who commit crimes against humanity seem to fail to realize.
He played at the pub on passing through him I never more may see
But the beauty of his music will live in my memory
His maternal Grandparents who died at Belzec their lives were not in vain
Their music in their Grandchild has come to life again.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 6:09 PM UTC
Your hair was full of roses in the dewfall as we danced,
The sorceress enchanting and the paladin entranced,
In the starlight as we wove us in a web of silk and steel
Immemorial as the marble in the halls of Boabdil,
In the pleasuance of the roses with the fountains and the yews
Where the snowy Sierra soothed us with the breezes and the dews!
In the starlight as we trembled from a laugh to a caress,
And the God came warm upon us in our pagan allegresse.
Was the Baile de la Bona too seductive? Did you feel
Through the silence and the softness all the tension of the steel?
For your hair was full of roses, and my flesh was full of thorns,
And the midnight came upon us worth a million crazy morns.
Ah! my Gipsy, my Gitana, my Saliya! were you fain
For the dance to turn to earnest? - O the sunny land of Spain!
My Gitana, my Saliya! more delicious than a dove!
With your hair aflame with roses and your lips alight with love!
Shall I see you, shall I kiss you once again? I wander far
From the sunny land of summer to the icy Polar Star.
I shall find you, I shall have you! I am coming back again
From the filth and fog to seek you in the sunny land of Spain.
I shall find you, my Gitana, my Saliya! as of old
With your hair aflame with roses and your body gay with gold.
I shall find you, I shall have you, in the summer and the south
With our passion in your body and our love upon your mouth -
With our wonder and our worship be the world aflame anew!
My Gitana, my Saliya! I am coming back to you!
6.6k
We lie amidst Ripe mountain herbs,
The nightingale has just begun its summer trill,
This hymn for golden vocal cords
Composed no owner of a writing quill
So sweet were melodies produced
That I mistook the front row lady’s cheap perfume
For blossoms, above which haunting hornets mused;
For an aroma of our Shakespeare love in bloom.
The serenading cardboard creatures –
Those thieve their voice from birds with no address.
Meanwhile a glass raised in a playhouse features
But colored water, as red as gipsy’s dress.
When the last spectator goes,
Having not found at least one genuine sun,
As actors, we recede into descending roles;
Electric blood in lamps’ capillaries feels numb.
A lovely ladybug, I doubt, I will ever catch,
A lifelike flower, dipped in a painting fusion:
All this, fine artists tenderly attach
To lifeless decorations, for aid they do us in a willful staged illusion.
Three burnt sienna pearls run down your spine
Yet after a big round of applause
These jewels are no longer signs of the divine,
But witches’ marks or, rather, unalluring flaws.
After the play I went to buy a notebook from my shopping list
To store the overgrowing verses, such as these;
A sheet of paper guarantees
To treat them like extinguishing bees
Cashiers ****** the change into my hand,
You purchased hothouse roses with;
And up those pretty useless beauties stand
In someone’s vase, whose name remains a myth.
They give me back those polished dimes
You traded for a pair of shoes.
I’ve seen you marshal through onstage lifetimes,
Yet to disclose personas’ traces the theater walls refuse.
Your chocolate hair has just fallen from the hairdresser’s hand,–
That’s how I know the summer’s coming to a bitter end.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
In whiskey sodden dreams I feel silky bedclothes encompass
my flimsy pretty negligee clad body
Whimsy takes a hold, bold dreams drape my mind
My dimly lit boudour welcomes the vibrancy of the dream
Unblushingly dis inhibited by the sweet sickly whiskey
I feel frisky, risky, risqué
I want the silkiness of the dark dimly lit night to
ignite, I want flimsy, gipsy, filthy, ***** love.
In whiskey sodden dreams I feel my inner *****
in dreams I can open the door.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
Old Meg she was a Gipsy,
And liv'd upon the Moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.
Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants pods o' broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a churchyard tomb.
Her Brothers were the craggy hills,
Her Sisters larchen trees--
Alone with her great family
She liv'd as she did please.
No breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon,
And 'stead of supper she would stare
Full hard against the Moon.
But every morn of woodbine fresh
She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen Yew
She wove, and she would sing.
And with her fingers old and brown
She plaited Mats o' Rushes,
And gave them to the Cottagers
She met among the Bushes.
Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen
And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket cloak she wore;
A chip hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere--
She died full long agone!
2.3k
The Story of Gypsy of Wind
dust has dissipated
When it rained
Gypsy sang
With his guitar, which he inherited from his father ..
The last farewell song ...
As he crosses the Earth
Without thinking of a terminal to reach
...
A fugitive from modernity.
From every paved road ..
Of all the twinkling constellations ..
From the noise of cities ..
From the gloom of government buildings.
The gypsy diverges,
Evading sandy roads.
He meets the boys of the villages ..
He sings and they dance..
He passes near the peasant women with red hair covers.
He plays love tunes for them.
Until their cheeks flush ...
He meets the shepherds ... and avoids them ...
he receives the wide plains
With bright eyes
And on his back
He hung up his guitar, which he inherited from his father.
.....
The gypsy meets the girl of his dreams.
But he leaves her to continue trekking.
Gypsy knows no boundaries ..
He does not know what warm rooms mean.
He does not know what daily work means.
He does not know what school means ..
Because he does not want to learn ..
Rather, he should live on the road.
....
The gypsy has no identity papers.
But he does not know what the meaning of stained papers and seals.
The gypsy does not know power ..
when he meets the mayor of the village
he Whoops:
Why do they obey you when they are free ..
The gypsy knows no hunger ..
Because he eats anything in nature.
Flowers and butterflies ..
Rivers mud ...
Then he pulls his guitar from his back.
And he goes on trekking
He plays a song that tells about a dream
With the warmth of a beautiful woman's chest.
Gypsy travels after the spring.
as if he tied with a rope..
He does not like winter ..
He does not like summer ..
He does not like autumn ..
Like birds in the sky ..
Gipsy follows the scent of silt and nectar.
He points with his finger to the distant horizon:
- It rained there..
He plays a rain song ...
.....
What do you have, gypsy?
The bar girl asks him
In transit hours standing
He says: What do you mean by the word "you have"?
The gypsy has nothing ..
Because he has everything.
He has his freedom ..
A girl spends a night with him
Then she expels him from her arms in the morning
So he takes up his guitar
And he sings in tears over his broken heart.
Passing through plains and mountains ..
To where he does not know
....
Truck drivers meet him
They offer to get him to where he wants..
But he refuses ..
He doesn't want to miss a moment without being in the heart of nature ...
Sings
Consuming time with his guitar
His guitar, which he inherited from his father ..
His father who does not know him ...
But what his mother told him before her death
when they were traveling on the way ..
He buries her ..
And he prays for her soul..
Without knowing which god he is praying to..
He smiles ..
And he goes on its eternal journey
.....
When crossing forests..
He is surrounded by hyenas.
He pulls his guitar and sings.
The hyenas watched him in amazement.
they remain amazed as they snaps his flesh..
And he is still singing
Playing his guitar
His guitar, which he inherited from his father ..
His father who never knew him ..
Aug 28, 2020
Aug 28, 2020 at 2:06 PM UTC
WHEN the sea is everywhere
from horizon to horizon ..
when the salt and blue
fill a circle of horizons ..
I swear again how I know
the sea is older than anything else
and the sea younger than anything else.
My first father was a landsman.
My tenth father was a sea-lover,
a gipsy sea-boy, a singer of chanties.
(Oh Blow the Man Down!)
The sea is always the same:
and yet the sea always changes.
The sea gives all,
and yet the sea keeps something back.
The sea takes without asking.
The sea is a worker, a thief and a loafer.
Why does the sea let go so slow?
Or never let go at all?
The sea always the same
day after day,
the sea always the same
night after night,
fog on fog and never a star,
wind on wind and running white sheets,
bird on bird always a sea-bird-
so the days get lost:
it is neither Saturday nor Monday,
it is any day or no day,
it is a year, ten years.
Fog on fog and never a star,
what is a man, a child, a woman,
to the green and grinding sea?
The ropes and boards squeak and groan.
On the land they know a child they have named Today.
On the sea they know three children they have named:
Yesterday, Today, To-morrow.
I made a song to a woman:-it ran:
I have wanted you.
I have called to you
on a day I counted a thousand years.
In the deep of a sea-blue noon
many women run in a man's head,
phantom women leaping from a man's forehead
.. to the railings ... into the sea ... to the
sea rim ...
.. a man's mother ... a man's wife ... other
women ...
I asked a sure-footed sailor how and he said:
I have known many women but there is only one sea.
I saw the North Star once
and our old friend, The Big Dipper,
only the sea between us:
"Take away the sea
and I lift The Dipper,
swing the handle of it,
drink from the brim of it."
I saw the North Star one night
and five new stars for me in the rigging ropes,
and seven old stars in the cross of the wireless
plunging by night,
plowing by night-
Five new cool stars, seven old warm stars.
I have been let down in a thousand graves by my kinfolk.
I have been left alone with the sea and the sea's wife, the wind, for my last friends
And my kinfolk never knew anything about it at all.
Salt from an old work of eating our graveclothes is here.
The sea-kin of my thousand graves,
The sea and the sea's wife, the wind,
They are all here to-night
between the circle of horizons,
between the cross of the wireless
and the seven old warm stars.
Out of a thousand sea-holes I came yesterday.
Out of a thousand sea-holes I come to-morrow.
I am kin of the changer.
I am a son of the sea
and the sea's wife, the wind.
1.8k
“when you get up in the morning you must take your heart in your two hands. You must do this every morning.” Grace Paley
fall into me
on blackout days
for something beautiful
is here is everywhere
is nowhere
you knew it
Borges used it
beauty is a physical sensation
the axis mundi piercing
the palms of my hands
memory like a gipsy woman
who reads palms
beauty, yes, it draws the soul
ascetic
I figured it out in the smiling of your sleep
like babies smile to angels, they say
this game that keeps us alive is hers
golden beetles die for it
of for the love of dust
pastimes of gods its archives
everyday the light tastes differently
the body moves where the mind is
or the other way round
I'll read Cartarescu to you half naked
one page a day
beauty is the quest,
this spiral of wonder
filling up the rest &
my nails
Feb 10, 2023
Feb 10, 2023 at 1:42 PM UTC
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to **** you.
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My ****** friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——
Not God but a ********
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the *****
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,
The voices just can’t worm through.
If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you ******* I’m through.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 2:45 AM UTC
THERE is something terrible
about a hurdy-gurdy,
a gipsy man and woman,
and a monkey in red flannel
all stopping in front of a big house
with a sign "For Rent" on the door
and the blinds hanging loose
and nobody home.
I never saw this.
I hope to God I never will.
Whoop-de-doodle-de-doo.
Hoodle-de-harr-de-hum.
Nobody home? Everybody home.
Whoop-de-doodle-de-doo.
Mamie Riley married Jimmy Higgins last night: Eddie Jones died of whooping cough: George Hacks got a job on the police force: the Rosenheims bought a brass bed: Lena Hart giggled at a jackie: a pushcart man called tomaytoes, tomaytoes.
Whoop-de-doodle-de-doo.
Hoodle-de-harr-de-hum.
Nobody home? Everybody home.
1.6k
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to **** you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My ****** friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--
Not God but a ********
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the *****
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you ******* I'm through.
-sylvia plath 1932 -1963
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
What,
what shall I do with you?
My gipsy, my fix, my oyster, sea —
only a few spiritual members
gather in front of you, speechless:
my eyes, lips, ***** hands…
— And the heart, my love, where is the heart?
Here and here, and there, my love,
in every place
that your lips touch.
Amir Or from Let's speak you
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
Once a Seafarer
I was thinking of my life as a seafarer endless
voyaging like a gipsy of the seas.
It was the best of times because I was young
but was also the worst of times being without
a woman for months on end.
I was a lousy ****** really didn't blend in
Preferred reading in my cabin and got a higher
education without trying or knowing it, yes
I'm grateful to so many writers they gave my life
a meaning on the ocean of colossal ennui.
I came alive when the ship docked, and I could go
ashore, cold lone star beer in Houston and
dance with a cowgirl or a midnight swim with
a woman in Honduras.
As I got older little could assuage my boredom
the drink became both friend and enemy, washed up
on the shore of Portugal, here I got up drank a cold
beer built my house on solid earth and dreams.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 3:14 AM UTC
Tonight
i have no shoes
and it feels alright
nothing like my dreams
i like feeling the cold on my feet tonight
i must be a gipsy or something more
to feel so Seconal in this dream
for sure that must
be just me
in no shoes
this night
and feeling things
the ground so sure.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 5:16 PM UTC
god created the sun
god created rain
rain and sun slept together
a rainbow evolved
every being has a double, somewhen
i'm half gipsy and jewish
bleedin' blueish
wise man told me lies about trueness
smell the fragrance of ghosts
relax, feel, love yourself
i will be praying for you
in rainbows
Dec 25, 2020
Dec 25, 2020 at 3:18 PM UTC
Let me dance.
Rain will see me free
As a gipsy would be.
Let me dance
Rain the rhythm will keep
Wind gonna howl so deep
Let me dance
Me and gipsy shall dance some more
Let the silk of het skirt never touch the floor
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
7,000 's gipsy's swung together
and hijacked that starship
and it gave it music and dreams
even though it was ones self
have you seen the star's tonight
and are you not surprised by
the wasted light years
which now we call our own
so move your mind and come with me and ride
into a space sHip past Mars.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
Aquí paz,
y después gloria.
Aquí,
a orillas de Francia,
en donde Cataluña no muere todavía
y prolonga en carteles de «Toros à Ceret»
y de «Flamenco's Show»
esa curiosa España de las ganaderías
de reses bravas y de juergas sórdidas,
reposa un español bajo una losa:
paz
y después gloria.
Dramático destino,
triste suerte
morir aquí
-paz
y después...-
perdido,
abandonado
y liberado a un tiempo
(ya sin tiempo)
de una patria sombría e inclemente.
Sí; después gloria.
Al final del verano,
por las proximidades
pasan trenes nocturnos, subrepticios,
rebosantes de humana mercancía:
manos de obra barata, ejército
vencido por el hambre
-paz...-,
otra vez desbandada de españoles
cruzando la frontera, derrotados
-...sin gloria.
Se paga con la muerte
o con la vida,
pero se paga siempre una derrota.
¿Qué precio es el peor?
Me lo pregunto
y no sé qué pensar
ante esta tumba,
ante esta paz
-«Casino
de Canet: spanish gipsy dancers»,
rumor de trenes, hojas...-,
ante la gloria ésta
-...de reseco laurel-
que yace aquí, abatida
bajo el ciprés erguido,
igual que una bandera al pie de un mástil.
Quisiera,
a veces,
que borrase el tiempo
los nombres y los hechos de esta historia
como borrará un día mis palabras
que la repiten siempre tercas, roncas.
854
"i have been suffering under a loss. can you help me?"
"ain't no big deal you gotta pass avenue h
then you have to make a left to reach starbucks
when you're standing in front of it
move your head to the right and focus the end of the block you'll spot a lantern
(not the one with the rectangular shape but
the one that looks like a strange cone; mind that difference my man)
yeah
and when you have reached that lantern
you walk 25 blocks to catch a ride
ain't no cab i need you to look out for a gipsy car ridden by a female driver
(can't tell you why now would be too early and will be explained later on the phone)
hand out $ 7.000,00 to the driver and tell her to take you to emigration oaks; that's close to salt lake city in utah (never ever try to get there by plane my man)
after you'll have arrived you gotta dial a certain number –– 1-800-reveal-a-secret ––
and listen to a voice you have been fearing
its message will be relating to you personally
let everything go
show courage
become yourself
one year later smile about your former life.
do you understand that?"
Feb 2, 2020
Feb 2, 2020 at 11:37 AM UTC
Blue lights on the memories still,
That we are, that we are, that you are to hold.
Winter froze the autumns' feel,
But the snow here isn't cold..
See, your heart is your own land,
With colored hills of sand,
Grass and rivers flowing free,
Red birds hidden in the trees.
No man is a wave alone,
This says all,
But if I must fall,
Know that you have been a blue sea,
While I was just a stone.
Blue lights on the memories still,
That we are, that we are, that you are to hold.
Winter came against my will,
And every story should grow old.
I may be a traveler,
A Gipsy tainted face,
But the road'll be wearier,
With another in your place.
No man is a house warm,
This says all,
But if I must fall,
Know that your stars in my skies,
Are windows in my home.
And I don't wanna burn your face red,
And you don't want to come to me,
But when I was a stone in grey shreds,
You were the waving blue sea.
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 12:30 PM UTC
Gipsy take me
Away away
Far from bethnal green
Ten years old
wanted away away
Near sixty lord
let me go
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 3:46 AM UTC
It’s not enough to make believe
And after all is really frustrating
Not feeling the way I do
But here we go:
I never felt no trace of pity when she died
No hate no nothing for this sad news from a stranger
All I remember is that I was unemployed
Not able to find a **** job for a long time
So she offered me a place to sleep
And the daily bred as a reward for my hand labor
Carried out all day long near his house
It was the kind of slavery of which
The most stupid animals can be horrified
But I did it
Yes sir
I did it out of pity for her solitude sickness and despair
After a while I even hated her hobby to collect nothing but things
This car this house this garden of paranoid miracles
All sold in loss after her burial to some gipsy lover
Who was actually greedier than she ever dreamed
I also remember she cursed me when I left her place
”You ******* she said
”You will never be able to find a home of your own”
”You may rot in hell working for strangers!”
”It’s ok” I said
”You never felt anything more delusional of me”
”But if strangers would feel that way” I said
”At least they will pay me big time for my trouble”
So I was far away in the land of Nowhere when she died
And I knew that for me she was gone long time before
When I didn’t felt no pity no hate no trace of any sadness
When I decided to leave the house of my sister
Which was not my home anymore
When I felt my real sister was gone far away
And anywhere else in the world
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 1:17 AM UTC
Battered Similes
As an ABCDERIAN poem.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As battered as an aspen leaf a tremble.
Bad pennies just keep turning up
Clean as a signal from a whistle
Deaf as a post or daft as a brush
Easy like Sunday mornings epistle
Fit as a gipsy upon an old fiddle
Good as the gold you pan from the river
Happy as the longest day , a joy to be living
Innocent as a new born babe in its weaning
Jack of all trades mastering none
Keen though as mustard, is that keen enough?
Liken as two peas in the greenest of pods
Memory like that rusty old sieve
Nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof
Obstinate as a Mule with a stone in the hoof
Pretty as a picture , the one in my head.
Quick as a flash then the picture is dead.
Read like a book that mind of the poet.
Sharp as a razor,though he don’t even know it
Talk to the hand, just like my Dutch uncle
Ugly like sin with the face of the devil.
Vague battered similes to drive poets mental
Wise as King Solomon but you must beware
Xenophobian as a dislike of foreigners
Young in years of training still to understand
Zion’s a million miles from any promised land
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip
December 5th 2018.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 6:24 AM UTC
I suppose not being there yet is what you get when you wish on a dried up well.
The gipsy told me that folding paper felt better than coins in her palm,
trying to palm me off on the promise of better times?
but it's what you fall for that tends to cost more,
and I play Monopoly and so I should know.
Nov 17, 2022
Nov 17, 2022 at 1:54 PM UTC
Some feel safe within a name-
gipsy, sea traveller
And all that is fine
And some must be acknowledged
without going anywhere
Some are time travellers
long ago they knew
What everyone runs from
is pointless
You will find it
eventually
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 6:07 PM UTC