Happy Birthday, Faucon

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FAUCON: May your day be filled with love, hugs, and tons of good wishes. And may your year, and all the years that follow be filled with all that is good and all that you wish for yourself. Hugs, Vi

Happy Birthday, Faucon

Have a fantastic day!

From Imogen at the Hermitage

copyright Imogen Crest 2006.

Happy Birthday Ken

Enchanteur conjours up some special magic for your birthday Ken

Happy Birthday Papa

Click on the image to see it full size - love, Gail

Fireside Fitz

On the Hole of it

Roasting a hole
is a conundrum of sorts,
akin to drinking an ulum;
i.e., the part that’s gone
or never was.

Perhaps it is like the soul,
unseen – but known
by the spiraling circle
of spiritual yearning
and human frailty –
but tasty none the less…

but, hopefully never roasted;
unless Source likes it that way.

Embers

A campfire is as good a place as any
to discuss important things in life –
better than most.

No one huddles close to fading embers by accident,
though an invitation is rarely required either.
No one is long a stranger
who can contribute a timely split of log,
or glimpse of life or reasoned opinion.
Identities are lost in steam from chocolate mugs
and shapelessness from bundled cloaks
and stories from another time.

I sense a shiver from my left
and extend a gnarled hand –
taken quickly by a sexless frozen fist.
This I can do!

I send a pulse in tune with the whispering coals –
from charka womb through heart and hand –
a message gentle –
a song of warmth and cherish.

It is easy to send a little heat energy to another person –
the problem is finding one who will allow it.
It doesn’t require friendship or love –
just lack of fear.

Easy by a campfire –
the angry world ends at the circle.
Small fire – huddle close –
whisper instead of shout.
My soul’s reach is limited, you know.
I blame it on the embers.

faucon

A Song of Hope for Heather and Darryl

SOULMATES


Other worlds in deep of space
Orbit other suns in silent motion;
On another shore I touched your face
And stood with you beside another ocean.

We are old friends, somewhere
Beaneath a distant star that moved
In stately arcs through alien sky,
We met before and even then we loved.

You were mine before this earth was born,
Twin souls handfast in ancient rite.
Our children walked into the first primeval dawn,
Our children will see the last exploding night.

On other worlds, in other times, we met…
And then we loved, and never will forget.

Song of the Urban Gypsy

I think of the old days,
Remember the old ways
As I join the crush on the train.

I still hear the wheels creak,
Still hear the wind speak
As I wait for the bus in the rain.

I still smell the wood smoke.
Still touch the wild oak,
As I trudge up the company stairs.

I still sing the old tunes
dream of the full moon,
As I sit in my hard office chair.

Another day in the rat race,
Another hour at the coal face,
Will wither my spirit to ash.

So its throw off this load for me,
Back to the road for me,
I'll not trade my freedom for cash.

RINGING THE BELL

The man from Tennessee has rung the bell
Gather around he has chimmed
Tell stories of wonder and dreams
Talk in the language of forebears of
days and times that have long gone
try to reminis in a world moving so quickly

Not so easy man from Tennessee,
as we struggle to keep ahead
of what the days bring
Do we try to help ,to do our bit
and question ,if it is enough.
And if not,why not ?

Perhaps it is good to dream
and remember back to times long gone,
Fantasise ,take our thoughts far far away
After all isn't this what camp fires are about
Chatter - not of the serious kind
but of light and humourous happenings
Much much laughter
as we look into the flames and see what
it is that makes us dream

I can do that, man from Tennessee
Not every day
but when the call is made
I can,and will oblige
and enjoy the experience
of being taken out of the
seriousness of my thoughts

So skip I will and look
for Gail ,as she might like
some company and good friends
to make the day complete
I'm on my way ......

Lois ( Muse of the Sea) 18.9.06

Just Grand 2

the continuation of the story below

..............................................................................

Bye ‘n bye he starts in askin’ questions. “Yer leanin’ agin a roof post – tell me ‘bout it – what makes it special?” “On the path up ya heard the tinklin’ song of a waterfall – what did it say to ya?” “In a bit of a glade behind the house some of my kin are buried – how many, ‘n how as they died?” and more … Some answers came easy as I was mountain born and kin ta the forest – leastwise always thought so. Never bathed ‘cept in a stream ‘re rain barrel. Always et some gift of the meadow every day: berries, wild onions, nettle root, ‘re cress – just like mom dun tol’ me. Never kilt nuthin’ I didn’t plan ta eat and could tickle trout …

Tellin’ of things I’d never seen was different, but I spoke right out. On my first try I was jest faerie guessin’ and Grandie called me up right quick. “Be startin’ with what ya know fer sure. Then ‘low yerself to be in my shoes and look fer the balance of things – knowin’ what be right fer peace and utility.” He never told me if’n I be right or no, but I began to sense a kinda glow ‘bout him when I ventured some ‘extension’ – leastwise that’s what Grandie called em. As I be readin’ these as indicators of true er close guessin’, I began to describe things small first ‘stead o’ tryin’ to grasp the whole imagine. When I sensed the glow – better with my eyes closed – I built on that. When his “truth reflectin’” sang low ‘re quiet, I tried agin with no fear atall. Thirsty work, though – cider mostly gone. Grandie’s jug was down ta dribble too.

“I talk better walkin’,” he mumbled while creakin’ outa that rockin’ chair. We drifted gentle through the woods, pacin’ some old trails and discoverin’ new – passed a mossy busted still and ‘nother cabin burnt down. He told me stories ‘bout these ‘n other glimpses of past folk gone long. Some were not fer believin’ but fer makin’ a point. Others seemed to have no meanin’ atall but ta be anchors like fer other mem’ries and musin’. All the while he was a movin’ his hands and shiftin’ his feet peculiar like ‘til I caught on. His body kinda moved ahead of what he was sayin’, pointin’ where his thoughts were goin’, and whether he was plannin’ to feed me some dream tea. Then we came upon this broken bridge never fixed, as a log fall now served fer one ‘n carts never came by no mo’. Ole Grandie wandered around a bit, but din’t say nuthin’. My turn.

I started in tellin’ a story ‘bou why the bridge had been built, and by what folk, and how it came to be broke up, ‘n the tragedy of the place and what lessons were to be learned. I took clues from where he had stood, ‘n how his hands twitched while a ‘memberin’ how it had been. When I didn’t get any glow clues I talked about little things I saw – knew to be true like a patch of wild flowers ‘re the way a tree had been chopped – ‘til I found a bit of truth to grow on – then I storied what I thought up seemed ta fit the flow o’ things. He didn’t say nuthin’ durin’ the tellin’, nor move from the stump ‘cept fer puffin’ on his pipe. Finally, I just kinda ran out a thinks ta tell.

“No body coulda saved her, you know. Twasn’t yer fault none.” You’d a thought me the old man and him but fourteen from the tellin’ it sok,90hcjk,90hcj. We chatted some there by the tumbly rocks with both of us aged somewhere in between – jest friend ta friend, ya know. I won’t tell ya where he picked up a new jug, or how I knew who had left it fer him. Ya already be quessin’ that this twisty walkin’ stick I use be the one he gifted me that day, ‘re that it took him twenty years to carve it. ‘re that it was meant fer his son. It isn’t magickal to know such things.

All it takes is bein’ alive – and knowin’ that ya are, and learnin’ to listen to heart ‘n hands – and a watchin’ fer the soul glow.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Now, you don't have to be a 'seer' to know that I

wrote this story for Lorijayne, promted by her

divination (dousing) exploration. and I will make

a 'presentiment'.

You will practice your 'art' for fun and amazement,

but will feel self-conscious when doing it in front of others --

and your success rate will be sporatic. Then you will realize

that 'for others' is the whole point, and that your 'gift'

works best when done selflessly to help others. This you will do,

full knowing that the pain will balance the joy,

but will do it 'because you can and therefore must'.

May it always 'flow though' and caress your spirit

faucon the Gusari

The Gypsy and the Horse

In spite of the usefulness of cars and trucks, there remains a close historic tie between gypsies and horses. A gypsy could usually find work as a horse dealer or handler in the past, and gypsies developed one of the strongest and gentlest horse breeds in the world - the Gypsy Cob.
The gypsies and their horses developed a closer bond than other horse owners for a number of reasons, the main one being that the two lived much closer in day to day existence. Gyspies had no stables so the horses lived around the caravans and were part of the everyday life of the camp. Children played with them, adults stopped to pet them and they were constantly aware of the movement of humans around them.
Gypsies practiced the `horse whisperer' style of breaking and training. I was priveleged once to watch this in action.
A young mare, who had been badly frightened as a foal and refused to lead, had been sent to the knacker's yard. She was bought for a small amount of money by a traveller, along with the advice that she would never be any good.
It took all the morning even to get her loaded into a horse box. She was in a constant state of terror, wouldn't lead and wouldn't let anyone touch her head without a fight.
The traveller built a small enclosure and turned her loose in this. Everyday for a week, he would visit her, and spend time talking to her. She had no food or water in the enclosure. She could only drink from a bucket held by her new master and eat from his hand.
By the end of the week he was sitting on the fence, with no sign of her usual panic. The next week he started climbing in with her, always talking, always gentle, always insisting she ate and drank from his hand.
When I called in to see them again, he was in the pen, crawling all over her back while she stood quietly. Soon he was able to lead her outside the pen and teach her to accept a saddle and bridle. All through gentleness - all through patience.
Known as master horsemen, gypsies were always to be seen at county fairs, horse races and horse sales. They were shrewd bargainers and always on the look out for a good horse. It was this knowledge of horses that led to the development of the Gypsy Cob.
The Gypsies bred their horses amongst themselves as early as the 17th Century to concentrate certain characteristics that were useful or considered beautiful. They wanted a strong, powerful horse to pull their vans, but also a safe and gentle animal that could be trusted in a camp where small children ran freely about.
For looks they preferred the two coloured horses; the piebald, which is black and white, and the skewbald, which is brown and white. In fact, these colours became so associated with gypsies and circus travellers, that they were frowned on in the show ring and racing circles.
They bred from heavy draft horses, like the Friesian and the Clydesdale, and the small tough English ponies such as the Dales and the New Forest, to produce a compact, short bodie, sturdy all purpose breed that could be ridden or used to pull carts.
The heavy horses added another characteristic - the `feathers', or deep fringes of hair, around the hooves. Soon the gypsies were vying with each other to produce the animal with the lushest feathers, and mail and tail. These, and the two coloured coats, became the basic characteristics of the breed.
These magnificent horses have been revived as a breed today, with studs in the UK and the US.

Still More on Divining Rods...

As some of you know from posts I've made on other bloggers, some of my ancestors were dowsers-- at least that's what I've been told.

I did, a while back, fashion a pair of rods out of brass tubing and the plastic outer casings of ball point pens (to use as handles to allow the tubing to move freely). I fooled around with the rods and put them aside, determining in my mind that any pronounced movement of the rods had a rational explanation.

Earlier this week I lost an earring. It was an amber stone in a silver setting-- not expensive, but enough so to make it worth my effort to hunt for it. I scanned the floor of my office, our parking garage, the sidewalk outside my front door, and of course every room of my apartment. No luck.

So, I'm sitting in my living room a couple of nights ago and saw the rods sitting on the top of my bookcase and I thought-- "What the heck, I've done weirder stuff...." So I began to dowse for my lost earring.

I know you see this coming: I found the earring. It was on the floor of my bedroom where I had walked numerous times since I lost the earring but didn't see it.

I actually can't remember if the rods crossed right over the earring. It could be that I was simply walking much more slowly and looking more carefully. It might have been that, it might have been luck, or it might have been those darn rods leading my attention to the earring.

Anyway, I tell this story over the gypsy campfire and will let you all decide for yourself.


L Gloyd (c) 2006

Just Grand 1

‘twas a bit of climb up ta ridge to Grandie’s place, but he managed at nigh on a hun’ert, so I recon I wouldn’t be breathless long. Seeing as he was s’post to have ‘The Sight’ I didn’t send a message ahead, but brought a sack of goodies fer hospitality. Didn’t take any magickal divination to bring chocolate chip cookies and smoked oysters and sweet pickles. I threw in one of those new fangled combo pliers ‘n foldin’ tool gismos just in case. Them what have the ‘gift’ never charge but shore be likin’ gifts and carin’ – or so I’s been told.

Thar was a body scarce when I ‘rived the shack, but smoke still curled from the fire pit and his jug was by the porch rocker tellin’ he was near by. There was an axe honed mean stuck in the choppin’ round, with half a pile of kindli’ on one side, and a pile of chucks ‘tuther. I set my sack in the spring-house an’ savored a dipper of cool delight on my neck and sippin’ swaller. ‘twasn’t work, really. I get’s simple pleasure from choppin’ wood – an easy flow of muscles and getting’ done – the finished pile rightfully larger than the startin’. When I got done and looked up ole Grandie was a smokin’ in his chair, like he been there all ‘long and I just didn’t see.

“Glad I could do that fer ya,” he smiled. That puzzled me a tad as I’d been thinkin’ I was doin’ it fer him. Then I realized that while I was a choppin’ my thoughts had kinda come together ‘n I was more prepared to ask ‘n listen. “Yer pa’s leg still painin’ him?” Grandie asked. This was done jest ta rattle me, I’m sure – seein’ as I had never met Grandie and my pa was settled eighty miles ta north.

“Thanks ya sir fer askin’,” says myself. “He’s off dem crutchers now but complainin’ jest ta get attention. I be thinkin’ he’s anxious ta get back ta his place at the mill – kinda worried ‘bout the young sawyers without his beady eye a trainin’.” I set on the top step ag’in the shaved post so to look up at him – seemed proper. “Been visitin’ my Aunt Mod down Pine Hollow way ‘n thought I’d come by to ask the truth of it – ‘bout this divination stuff ‘n magick ‘n all. Mod t’was sayin’ I’s got a bit a healin’ gift ‘n ought to be learnin’ more. Don’t rightly know.” Then I just sits ‘n listen to the jay birds.

He took a sip ta jug, but di’n’t offer none. I took out them pliers thing and worried a nail out of my boot. Then I opened a blade after searchin’ through a dozen wrong ones and started inta whit’lin’ this branch. Tired of that quick though and stuck that tool in the plank ‘tween us with a couple of foldin’ things stickin’ out like points of a midnight star. Then I drifted to the spring ta bring back lunch and ignore the tool was gone. He had laid out some jerkey ‘n pan bread ‘n apples – ‘nuff fer blenin’ into a fine spread with my bringings tumbled out. A canvas- wrapped stone bottle of cider was drip coolin’ from a peg, while he stuck to his jug o’ sweezings. Still say nuthin’ though, but din’t send me away, which was enough.

to be continued …

Camp Fire

GYPSY FIRE

The bright protected flames flicker
in the caress of approaching night,
and roar in awe of sudden gusting
awareness of the approaching storm.
Strange shadows dance in symmetry
with the strumming of Mother Earth
and the breathing of our forest friends.
Gather close about to sing and dream,
for these torches will warm our hearts.

papa

Gypsy fortune telling

Can Gypsies really foretell the future? Can they really know who you are from the lines in your hand?

To truly understand why Gypsies seem to have mysterious powers, you have to understand how they live.

Gypsies live very lightly in the world - they do not build anything, nor are they overly attached to possessions or places. They roam freely through it all, and living very close to nature heightens your senses about certain things.

Older country people, you may have noticed, have no trouble predicting the weather. ``It'll rain," they say, while you look up at a cloudless blue sky in disbelief. But they noticed the little signs that point to a change in the weather - for example, spiders that build their webs in the corners of verandahs will retreat into the shelter of the eaves and take their captured food with them.

A Gypsy that lives truly free and one with the elements grows up keenly aware of these signs. Gypsies mimic nature by leaving easily overlooked signs for their fellows to show which way they have gone. They call these signs `patrin'.

They become very observant in other ways as well. It is not hard for a gypsy, basically as disinterested in the affairs of society as animals are in the affairs of men, to sniff which way the wind blows - just as animals know when we are around and plan to make a nuisance of ourselves.

A human hand can offer so much information that you may not even need to know how to read the lines. No use removing your wedding ring to fool a gypsy. Those sharp eyes will spot where it has been. They will also spot tiny calluses, scars and other marks that proclaim your profession.
Does this mean the lines in your hand have nothing to say? Oh no, because Gypsies believe that everything is connected and know that - for example - folk whose hearts rule their heads have a deep corresponding line across their palms.

If Gypsies seem to have more sixth sense than others, it is because they understand acutely how much we are part of nature, and how our story becomes written in our hands, our faces, and everything we touch.

Also posted at Squidoo Gypsy Camp

Glade am I

Glade am I

I am fain the Glade of Elkhorn
where three streams meet in churning;
and Gypsies dance from dusk ‘till morn
to jangles and swirling and hearts a pounding.

Why do you stomp ‘bout as you please
and steal my fruit just ripening;
and break the fingers from my trees
to burn my soul and set my hair a blazing?

I could rain and drown yer children
and tumble boulders on those carts;
and rip those bright dresses flaylin’,
to snap yer bow and stay yer wand’rin’ hearts.

but …

then you’d pile concrete ‘pon my head
and pave black roads across my chest;
and dam my blood ‘til green was dead,
with a honk and screech to destroy my rest.

So dance my friend with raven hair
and spill wine on my fair clover;
and catch the maid ‘neath laughing fern
that Gypsies will find this Glade forever.

faucon

"Looking Back to July 10th 2006"

This week I was reminded of a Little Gypsy Caravan
Neighbours of mine Margaret and Ian came home with a caravan
Not just any caravan ,but a little pop top van
Just big enough for two
Coloured white and blue
They pulled it behind their ute (Holden Utility)
An Australian invention I am informed is the ute
I maybe wrong
It was first used by farmers who cut down a car
welded on a metal carry section for transporting hay etc.
and that was how the "Ute" was born

When I saw my neigbours pull into their driveway
I was immediately reminded of that "Little Gypsy Caravan"
Do you remember ,the one I gave to the Gypsies
on that day in July 2006
They had a party to celebrate
They contact me from time to time
just to let me know how its going
Still painted red and orange
and still being pulled by their horses

They tell me there are no leakes in the roof
no problems with the wheels
no maintenance needed except a bit of grease from time to time on them
and the horses (2) love it because it is so light to pull.
They tell me they can take it anywhere ,over rocky roads,
up steep hills,even crossing small streams and rickity bridges
As you know Gypsies are only small so they can fit 3 or 4 in the little van.
They pull up every night ,make a camp fire,have a hearty meal
retire to bed and thank their ancestors for the life they lead

I called my little van "Faraway"
The Gypsies have renamed it "Romanyi"
I like that !
Now as I look sadly ,and a little teary eyed at my neighbours
going away in their little pop-top van
I am wishing it was me once again
But...I pull myself together and say to Jessie Dog
"What grand times we had together you and I"
In that little van we gave to the Gypsies

I must be strong and say to myself
It was grand while it lasted
- it was our little piece of heaven
But we all must move on
And wave goodbye to others much younger that us
who can enjoy the magical voyages we once had
Life is full of events that bring up memories
Or as Le Enchanteur might say
Lois, Sweet Pea " Its Syncronicity".
Or maybe Margaret and Ian are just trying
to get back to enjoying the simple things in life
Camping and travelling in a little Gypsy Caravan
has got to be one of life's great journeys

Lois(Muse of the Sea) 8th Sept 2006.

Risk Kay

I hope this doesn't offend anyone,
but it seems appopriate for a campside fire.

Before I joined these blogs I was on another site
where postings became fairly pornographic.
I suggested that it was possible to write erotic stories
without any four letter words or descriptions
of hidden parts. Many challenged me --
seeing no difference between 'erotic' and 'porn'.

This was the result ....

papa
..........................................................................
HAND DRUM

The light mist breathed in and out of the trees as if controlled by a dragon in the ravine. It was profound enough to transform brush and logs into shifting forms. Monsters? Elves? Lost lovers? For each friend bunched around the fire ring, the effect was different. Memories became defused with imagination and wine. A silent owl drifting above might have found the scene humorous. To those within there was an element of fear, or at least self-doubt. Out with the bad air -- in with the good. Time seemed controlled by the pulse of the coals. Passion was imminent. The drumbeat began.

Chunk
Chanunck
Skrip Thop
Chunk

Other drums, large and small joined in. Some were divine in artistic embrace. Others carefully selected sticks. One an animal skull. Somewhere echoed the simple sound of hands clapped alternately on knees and chest. It had begun.

Chunk – whop snick – kunk
Chuna-chuna - chunk Klack
whop Whop – snick – Chuna-klack
snick-snick – Klunk

No one led – no on followed – heart and fire called the tune.
One hand soft – one held silent – no one dance except in heart.

The twelve ring-bound players prayed with their fingers and chance touching of swaying shoulders; so close were they huddled against the back chill and grasp of the forest. Each sat on a folded blanket or cloak, legs extend – one folded – lotus – kneeling. Position was no more dictated than rhythm; except by cramp of spirit. Shannok was guided into a relaxed lotus by the size of the drum in his lap -- resembling more an upturned squat kettle than a dumbai. He had to clutch the rough cedar edges between his knees for support. Everyone was energetically engaged in magically syncopated spontaneity. Each was detached in individual visioning. A hand touched his thigh.

The feather caress was light enough not to cause alarm -- more like amazement, as it was not possible for either elbow partner to have a free hand. His committed contribution to the now repeating rhythm allowed for nothing more than a furtive glance to each side. On his left, swaying Noktorus seemed to have vanished into his beard -- closed eyes no more than dimples. On his right, slender Dalana had allowed her golden tresses to fall around her face. The mysterious hand reached within the strangely unbuttoned flap on his baggy trousers. The drum easily hid the surging response of his neglected pride. Knowing fingers released memories and yearning as well as sigh. He closed his own eyes. He had never pulsed so readily and strong.

Chunk – whop snick – kunk
Chuna-chuna - chunk Klack
whop Whop – snick – Chuna-klack
snick-snick – Klunk

The fingers knew their own rhythm -- his shifting and grasping thighs an ancient call. Together they blended then surpassed the drumbeat -- drumbeat song. He again glanced to each side, trying to disguise his trembling breath. No clue – only swaying passion matching the other nine -- no ten -- unknowing drummers. The embers pulsed in time with drumbeat and forest breath. Red/gold agony -- black retreat into past and eternity.

A log tumbled from its precarious perch in a shower of sparks. The waning fire roared high in cracking response and disguising flare as if driven by the passion of the twelve. Two knew differently. Two shared a prayer beyond hope -- future -- and dream. The drumbeat was now that of earth song and faint moonlight. The hand withdrew.

Twelve swaying drummers. One smiled a secret kiss. One shuddered in ecstasy and puzzled churning mind.

Leaping spirit -- secret love -- speak to me!

The stars twinkled slightly as the eternally drifting owl swallowed the secret of the night.

“Who – who,” it called.

A Little Music.......

We need some appropriate music for dancing around the campfire.

Click this link and listen.

I'll bring the finger cymbals and tabla.

Lori Gloyd

(This link is from The Visionary Dance website.)

At the Camp

le Enchanteur is excited about joining the Gypsy Camp to relax and enjoy their lifestyle. She always feels calm here and the Gypsy Chief always makes such a fuss of her.
So grab your things and join us here.

Leave all your woes dire, come to the campfire,
Come to the sound of the tambourine;
Come in a red skirt, come in a gold shirt,
Come to the dance on the Gypsy Green.

Take down the barn doors, make them a dance floor,
Partner your Rom, and sweep up your Queen;
Dance by the camp fire, dance ’til your feet tire,
Dance `neath the moon on the Gypsy Green.

Tell us the old tales, tell us some new tales,
Tell us everything that you’ve done or seen;
Take us down old ways, tell of your young days,
Spin us a yarn on the Gypsy Green.

Now watch the fire die, now hear the owl cry,
Soon the first rays of morning steal over the scene;
Sleep in your caravans, dream of fair atchin tan,
All tuckered out on the Gypsy Green.

Note: atchin tan=camp place