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.

there was little cat a romany was he
full of gypsy blood with a life so free
traveling all around in his caravan
roaming round the country stopping where he can
he stopped in a field that was near by
suddenly he heard a what sounded like a cry
then he saw a squirrel stuck up in a tree
trying to get loose trying to break free
his little tail  was caught in his squirrel hole
now he couldnt move poor little soul
cat climbed up the tree to see what he could do
and around the hole began to scratch and chew
he got the squirrel free now he could move once more
now he wasnt stuck like he was before
cat he was so happy the rescue had been fun
and traveled on once more beneath the country sun

I want to go to Romania,
split this vacuum,
fly jumbo
across the deep blue
into Bucharest.

I want to adopt a gypsy baby,
a fat one with olive skin,
one with Romany eyes,
cries all the time,
bangs its head
against the crib.

I want to be a saint,
make a difference
in at least one person's life.
I figured a gypsy baby
might be the most grateful.

Having another gypsy
as a parent
would certainly
be better than
a non-gypsy one.

Walked through the precinct where love once was habitual.
Met lady with blood of Romany.
'Cross my palm with silver my dear.'
And love you will find so very near'.

Gave her heather.
A non-scented dry piece.
She said to the lady who purchased .
Good God my dear.
I feel you're lucky.

The old white dried out heather.
Left stuck on the shelf.
Implanted in ***, where her incense once dwelt.
Still sits there waiting for love or luck.
Either one will do.
She said.
Heather didn't give her much joy.
Sad lady was misled.

Never mind said she.
Staring at her heather.
Still sitting in her incense ***.
Giving up on love.
After all these months of chill.
He thinks she will get over him.
She knows she never will!


By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Bonjour Mon Cher,
As the stars rise and the moon lights, I meld you deeply. The time we spent together is so fruitful, with explorations of nature and a friendly company.  You whisk my motivation , the very nature of warmth and strength.  There has been times when my willpower to be strong has been crushed and trampled; muddled in the muddiness of the overflowing pond.

As the duck glides on the rippled calm water, I picture your essence. As it strolls on the waters, deep in thoughts yet conscious and aware of its existence; there you are in the calmness, the stillness of the wavelet. As the duck sets to rise, it flutters. I sensed your edginess and the indecisiveness you have burdened all your life. Indeed, your life has been a challenge. Breath in,feel free and submerge in the depths of the ponds. Then rise again and explore the skies above, for brief moments escape in the dense freshness. Set your being  in the briefness of ecstasy, the succinctness of forever. For your essence is ambient and radiant.

My being is filled with warmth and a reminiscence of the great days. The times when the chariots with it’s magnificent horses would flow in the saccharine grounds. The time frame when the yellowish hue of the daffodils bloomed and shone their beauty to the world. The touch cascading the shivers from one neurone to the next in sequenced loops. The ever-condensed electric magnetism. My mind explodes with the synchronicity of the beauty sacrificed by yours. My soul has woken from it’s hibernation, its departing the doorway of the cave. The cave laid with layers of secrets, mystery and mystic existence.

The nip of the earlobe tip is a pleasure I pass. A chance to trace the resonance of my whispers. More so, a declaration of my naiveness. The statue poising on the plinth of the Romany windows in declaration that she does not understand many things. It’s in the whisper her beauty, my representation. The words that she wants to transpire but as such there is never enough time. Neither is there an eternity, but snippets of memories and moments.

Let me deep inside, to see every thought, to hear every dream to touch the breath of every sound. The existence of everyday living is absent and helpless. However, to love one is to embrace all. Someday, I wonder how we exist in such a dichotomy of life. I would like to hold you and touch you. To feel your oneness coursing in my blood and mind. I try and try to see above this existence. To touch and dream of the beauty, to collapse in the core of the humanness. My drug is ingested in the craziness of realness, an authenticity of the façade that we don day in and out.

Yet as the wind we fade in and out. When our insides are hollow and empty, drenching in lonely paths. But we stand un-fainted and feint. In the chaos of uncovering the curiosity and the depths awaiting to be exploded as the volcano boils. I want you to know that I am alive in your presence, I am real, I am me. This is one of the very rare connections I have had and I respect it. Hope not to whelm with my ambiguousness or eccentricity. I have no expectations and I am not wanting to be owned or own. Tis’ you giving the hungry eyes and Tis’ me who hope you can see beyond my interior.

In retrospection and introversion, welcome to the pleasures and treasures.

Be you,
SassyJ

My grandfather had a beautiful horse full of kindness. I did not see it, but they said it was brave. May be my family owned a saddle; I do not know and I did not ask about it, but I think if we had one, it would be closed like our desert. Yes, I am an Arab man and you know that there is nothing here but the desert, so I decided to bring a Romany wagon cart to my house to teach my children freedom.

I

The pistons rusted, the furnace grew cold and
I lost you at the coal face.

The cat had got it

and the rest was just noise

II

We left the strong-men, that mean looking lion.
We pushed back the linoleum ***** of a smaller tent,
liking the rubber on our hands.

I’m after the fortune-teller telling me
on the slopes of The Bones, she will say yes.

The tent was cloaked in this rotten perfume.
So smokey, you couldn’t see your hand for your fist.
I was dealt the Queen of Pentacles,
her the Hanged Man.
I watched her nose reflect in the crystal ball.

III

I watched a ghost
depart the dunking stool -
a soul disintegrate
from a Romany curse.

I was dizzied by the strike of a lampshade.
those shoulders I stood on
Were yours.

I rocked as your body was taken away.

IV

The storyteller had the world on his back!
Half Atlas, half time-snail, he was
Sticky with aphorism.

We listened to his TED Talk and when he left
the soil was fertile with prayer…

But nothing grew
til the sweat of the shovel-man
granted the earth some water.

V

Acceptance.
The attendant sprits
Spoke wisdom in
basic steps.
‘One thing at a time’
A stone cracked.
‘One thing at a time’
An Aegean Daemon watched,
A genie whispered…
‘One thing at a time’

VI

‘We’re putty.’
-Sarah stood up in class, obnoxiously-
‘Forged in volcanos, capsules of perfect evolution.
We’re of earth, of mud and rainforest and canyon.
Of the same stuff as moons, the sparkles
across a twilight ocean, the particles
caught in sunbeams. We’re the dust that worked.
We moved towards this... this beautiful complexity.
And you can be anything.’

VII

I drew a smile in lipstick
Across the face in the mirror

VIII

Sewing Machines.
dumpf dumpf dumf
Carolina’s hands.
working the tender silk.
Dumf, dumpf, dumpf,

IX

Ella’s lips around his *****.
David thrusted like a Spartan.
she comes
loudly.

X

I trust, honestly,
I trust what I see with my own two eyes.
I see us infected by Delhi Belly,
the muck from Gangees is flooding the Seine,
the Hudson the Thames.
It’s like the third morning
After one day of snow.
My father’s father
Has been forgotten. 

XI

Brian awoke on another Wednesday
gratefully ******* his gums.
Unlike in his dream
he still had his pearly whites.

XII

The dogwood fire licks his face.
Sunrise through the dense Bitterroot and
Wakan-Tanka.
Breath.
‘There is no separation,
Us and the river.’

I looked into the wisemans face.
Lined.
But all I wanted was to sketch an outline,
and step in to the silhouette of
Someone else.

Before you judge us


Before you judge me tell me one thing
Do you know how dew feels in the early morning
Do you know what timber makes that crackling sound
When you sit by a fire on open ground
Tell me how bright the stars do shine
While lying on your back with your lover beside
Why do weeping willows weep
They cry for the humans souls they keep
How do bluebell woods look in May
A carpet of fragrance such beauty are they

So before you tell me we can't stay
What do you know about the land that we lay
We may be different, gypsies are we
But we love these lands more than you see
We travel around from woods to creak
Past babbling brooks and chestnut trees
By steaming streams and Rocky mounts
We love this land, why doesn't this count
Romany women so small and beautiful

Tell me how midnight sounds while sleeping on hallowed ground
The night it creeps into your embrace
The perfect partner love can make

Before you judge me tell me this
What sound streams make when meeting lakes
While rivers join the big wide sea
How does it feel when admiring these
Tall trees sore the open sky
The most beautiful colours with the sun rise

So before you judge us and make us move on
Have a care for what your doing
As we are still human

We're love this land until the day we die
This is where we started our lives

I used to think mysef
a Romany

reading palms
and wearing golden
bangles

layers of purples
pinks and reds

adorning my body

but your love
turned me into
nothing but

a Tinker

stealing purses
from unsuspecting
well dressed women

and pocket watches
from pinstriped suited
men

I never said I was
guiltless

but your love
made me nothing
but ashes in

the fire pit of
Hell

The fall of communism

When free of the burden of communism
and many states became a democracies
it was a great feeling no one telling people what to do.
This and a free press became a burden for the public
who seeking order turned to the right.
When Neo- fascists came to power people rejoiced,
at last, someone to give vent to their prejudices, say,
people seeking refuge from war and most of all
the ancient hatred of the Romany people was provided free
rein. Nothing new here people everywhere are
unpleasant hate what they do not understand,
from there to concentration camps, the road is short.

'I want that one',
said someone
and no one replied,
'you'll get what you're given'
and someone's hands were tied.

I dream of high wire walking across
Niagara falls.

I fell and wouldn't you know
the water far below
swallowed me and so
a Jonah I shall be

'but you're a Romany',
said Heather, who sold
Heather for a while.

The violin or mandolin
plays on the radio, but that
was many. many and a few
years long ago.

No one speaks since iphone
spoke and put the hex on me
I text to Alexander Graham Bell,
a thousand minutes free!

'I still want one and anyone.,
said someone,
that will do
and I think that any someone
could be anyone like you.

it is said that a relative married
a gipsy lady who lived at
redhill common in a tent

it is said she had two thumbs on each hand
like anne boleyn i think . too

that is why long sleeves were fashion then
to hide things

i think now we say romany

in kinson the jeffs lived round the corner
milhams

the men were lovely and i loved them
the ladies sold flowers, went to the square
by bus
and stayed all day
unless sold out early

it was nice to find
all their photos
on social media

as it was all a long
time ago

even then
things had started

we played with the gipsy folk
up on turbary common & julian
went with them when
they left their camp at
the brickworks

the police brought him back
they felt they knew best

they did not know the half of it

things took a turn
at the studio yesterday
&
left me tired

it is a different day today
with other plans

hows the job going?
how are your legs now?

6.55 am
raining

Bi-polar


    He's not a wayfaring tourist explorer

        Nor a rambling ranger nor rover


   He's not a trekker nor tinker nor hiker

      Nor a vagabond journeyman biker


  He's not a tramper nor migrant itinerant

    Nor a gypsy nor nomad nor immigrant


He's not a moseying vagrant commuter              

     Nor a sightseeing pilgrim vamooser    
                                            

He's not a laggard nor hobo meandering                                

   Nor a Romany rolling-stone wandering
                                                                ­

   He's not a runaway refugee absconder

       Nor a transient gallivanting yonder


   He's not a truancy drifter out travelling

      Nor a lingering loiterer just ambling   
                             

He's not an outback on walkabout saunter                

         Nor a pilot nor mariner nor jaunter    
                                                     ­         

He's not a trudger nor slogging globetrotter

Nor an excursionist nor an ushers escorter


   He’s not a slob nor plodding backpacker                        

  Nor gatecrasher barnstormer nor slacker


He's not a fugitive nor traipser nor stroller

      He's Quixote and yes he’s bi-polar.

She wore her wisdom very well all wrapped up in mystique from amidst her personality which was so incredibly unique..She had mastered the art of secrecy with such a tremendous technique, whilst she searched within your soul as she kissed you on your cheek..

Younger than her power of perception would suggest, tho much older midst the memories of her mindfulness manifest..a descendant from the romany gypsies, Vadoma was her stage name.. tho if she had used her birth one Lavinia..this should have fared the same..but ‘V’ stood for Victorious as she always tried to be, she would explain this theory to her confused Father when he complained constantly..

Vadoma could look inside one’s future of fortune and fate, and as her beautiful, bright blue eyes captivated, she hypnotised you in a sleepy state..then she could clear your thoughts as they would dance betwixt her head..but when you awoke from your revery there would be not a shred nor a thread..and alas this wise wizen woman used her findings for her own gratification..tho disguised beneath her intentions was such a fascination of sheer sensations