Monday, December 25, 2006

An un-Christmas

The Rom of old, camped for a hundred years in the 'beautiful valley' at the foot of Mount Tigor would not have celabrated Christmas as we -- but Solstice most certainly -- always a reason for dance and song

and to welcome a traveling Bard from Moravia
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This would be best, methinks, sung in the Trevere' style in which each verse can be presented in a different meter and tune to meet the mood of the audience. Thus the singer can use any method to which their passion drives them.

Three Voices

CHORUS:
He came with staff, came with lute, here with twinkling eye.
Hid within, three voices sure, songs of earth and sky.

Buckskin boots scarce touch the grass, bard of silent moon.
Cloak of simple homespun, seized by ring of bone.
Laughter like bells aringing, strong voice wind in the trees.
No weapon did he hold, no foe on land or seas.

CHORUS:

His first voice was that of an ancient Jongleur bold,
Magic song trembling low to tell of ballads old.
Then lyric swing to heaven's height, to seize soul's claim
On dreams of knights and honor, and true archer's aim.

CHORUS:

The second voice could be heard in shadowed glade,
Or by tinkling spring of soft fern and fairie bade.
Whistles, chimes and whispered chant; hear now Mother Earth.
Child laughter, call of the deer, feel the song of birth.

CHORUS:

Voice made three was meant for me, shot into my heart.
Stir quick my soul, make me blush, never to depart.
He strode away into the dawn, lilting song most dear.
Of child now within my loins, he will never hear.

CHORUS (slow - minor key)

Sunday, December 17, 2006

Come new - come again



Fire Draw

You cannot give our fire but a glance,
or walk right by with never a chance
to be one with it and know its heart,
of which death and birth both take part

Huddle close for warmth or skying,
embers pulse with endless dreaming –
gone those discarded writs of sorrow,
smoky prayer for joy tomorrow.

Far the mountain of bright yearning,
forgotten more the sea left churning.
Claim the now by fire’s entrancing –
be one with all who fuel its burning.

Join the campfire of Gypsy haven,
sense the presence of nighttime Raven;
share food and drink and storied wonder,
growing, learning from one another.


faucon

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Bag Lady

A frail shapeless form pushing a rickity cart
dropped a fraying coat --
and in giving it to her
I looked into her eyes.

papa
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BAG LADY

They had called her a traveler
‘cause she wandered hither gone;
but in truth she was only lost,
being forgotten long from home.

They had fancied her a Gypsy
‘since she danced with silver bells,
but in truth her swirled colored skirts
were from a wash-line fair and found.

The thought her but a withered crone
as she mem’ried n’er child nor kin;
but in truth she but hid inside,
all the laughter she might have known.

No one looks her quite in the eye
for want of seeing their own fears;
but in truth she danced with sunshine
if they would but expend some time.

I knew her as the girl next door
whom I might have claimed and wed;
but in truth I let love slip away
for hearing mind instead of heart.

So wave to every bag lady
and help them across street ‘n park;
for it truth she’s just like yer mom
‘cept I took simple trust away.

Monday, December 04, 2006

Gypsy Wanderer



I appreciate your comment about the incredible sunset of Trigor and would show it here also for those avoiding a 'Tour'. But also find a glimpse of sunrise across the meadow which was once home to early Gypsies.

faucon (also a Golden Eagle of Trigor)
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as a bit of Gypsy magic, I wrote to the photographer of the SunSet picture, telling him of what I was doing with early myths of Karantania which might lead to a book, and he has given permission to use this photo (selling for hunders of dollars) as the cover. "If you don't ask ..."