A Gypsy Dream

My friend, the gypsy, shared a dream
Of how she’d found a carnival,
A type of old tradition where
The best of their technology
Was brought to bear to try to make
A wonderland of lights and sorcery.

Where lovers could walk hand-in-hand
And feel excitement from the crowd,
As she did; with some unknown he
Whose face was handsome, though unseen.
But still the glow of love was there,
Among the scents of summer on the pier.

But love, she said, is not her way:
At least, the way that many think
That love should be: just one for good –
A night, a day, a month, a year,
That’s fine, but even in a dream,
She knew the carnival must have
An end – a letting go – a final turn.

She stared away, in shadows, then
She said, “I’m built for wandering.
The hands I hold are many, as
I make my way across this life.
I’m sure that dream was just my truth
As written on my neurons in the night.”

I watched her kiss the sunset, and
The gleaming colors in her eyes
As she arose to meet the night,
And leave me in a cafe seat
To ponder what a gypsy thing
That lives and hearts are in the very end,

That lives and hearts are in the very end.

School, Bike, and Dugout

We learn, we play, we join a team;
We work, we laugh, we live the dream

The dream of being more – and less –
Than simple lives of
Blessedness


Photo credit (and poem idea from) © Fiskness | Dreamstime.com – Old school, bike, and dugout

In Place

We spend our lifetimes thus.

In place, we spend our lifetimes full of days
And think the world encompassed by our eyes:
The field we see, the only grass we graze –
Familiar and secure, without surprise.
Upon which every hope and comfort lies –
And lies, indeed, though beautiful they be
Do not encompass all humanity.

And oft, we will look down on other fields
As poor reflections of the truth we know:
Although we’ve fed from one small sort of yields
And slumbered when we might have chanced to go
And taste new grass, wherever that might grow.
But still we stay in place, and never roam,
And boast about the greener grass of home.

    But yet — a lifetime spent is not enough
    To know a state, a city, or a town:
    Perhaps I am mistaken in this stuff,
    In thinking those who stay must be held down.
    To seek to know oneself, and not renown,
    Might be to view the truth’s lone lovely face:
    And may be seen by those who’ve stayed in place.

like silk

hot soft the water runs in mist,
the mirrors folded in a cloud;
as towel-bedraped and lensless, i,
still cut and scraped from law and crowd,

come in. and there one precious is –
a music like a new perfume,
a crystal glass filled up with years,
a still-that bride for yet-my groom —

like knives the day,
like silk the night;
like midnight storms
and candlelight –

as lost as we,
through entropy,
we cross a bridge
of silken ecstasy

how comes the passing eidolon
to hands that on her back must play?
what pulls the dusk into the night
of after stars and tear away?

for open eyes will close in joy
and feelings follow feeling,
as meanings live in what is meant
and sense is made for reeling –

like knives the day,
like silk the night;
like midnight storms
and candlelight –

as lost as we,
through entropy,
we cross a bridge
of silken ecstasy

Patchwork

Varied little bits of pleasure
Patched together without pattern;
Country poor or city treasure –
High with fame, or lowly slattern —

Each and every square a story;
Tales of simple fun, or glory,
Love that covers up in winter,
Aged legs or youthful sprinter –

As a patchwork, so is living:
There, no matter what the weather,
Warming when we come together,
Differences amid forgiving.