Gypsy Camp - The Romanyi

An un-Christmas

2006-12-25T08:31:00.000-08:00

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

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)

Come new - come again

2006-12-17T13:18:00.000-08:00

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

Bag Lady

2006-12-12T07:23:00.000-08:00

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

papa
....................................................................................

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.

Gypsy Wanderer

2006-12-04T08:10:00.000-08:00

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)
........................................................................................

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 ..."

Happy Birthday, Vi

2006-11-28T15:18:00.000-08:00

Gypsies dance because:

In spite of its worries,
In spite of its fears,
In spite of its sorrows,
In spite of its tears,
In spite of its heartaches,
In spite of its woes -
Life is just beautiful,
So dance on your toes.

The image is from the website of the touring New Zealand Gypsy Fair.

First Fire

2006-11-28T06:54:00.000-08:00

Many new friends are arriving at the Gypsy Camp,
and all are invited to stand in the flickering shadows
to sing or tell a ballad or story or prayer --
these give more warmth than the glowing embers.

I will start things off -- not a Bard for naught --
and will tell you something of my home and haven
at Sakin'el. Sung in two voices

faucon
.........................................................................

Sakin’el Hush

And the Bard sang by the fire bright …

“If you will do this in trust and love
then Sakin'el will live anew,
and at each splendid sunset kiss
you will hear the faint 'Silent Breeze'
of ever profound inner peace.”

“but what will I hear,” asked the maiden faire,
with teasing eyes and coquettish aire?

“draw close to the flowers with petaled dew
and look at the reflection there,
while gentle bees caress the wind
and hum of sweet nectared dreams
soon lost to age and vanity.”

“how loud is the sound,” mused the withered crone,
with vacant eyes who slept alone?

“the trees will thunder and the stones will shout
if you stand as one ‘pon the path;
while holding hands can mute the din
and change the music to quiet song
best heard from the lips of a friend.”

“do they tell stories,” requested the youth
with wand’ring spirit searching truth?

“brave soldiers on horseback beat steady drums
and dragons breathe through piercing flutes
and Viking ships sound a longing horn,
calling to arms companions true
to follow a quest most daring.”

“are they ever hushed,” sighed the tonsured priest
whose fervant prayers never ceased.

“if one can be silent they sing the same
and echo spirit’s harmony
to a song of Light and knowing,
where heart strings are plucked
b y an angelic choir in love.”

“can I sing along,” laughed the little elf
with innocent mirth beside himself.

“if you sing ‘belong’ and soon join right in
and dance a lick and whistle now,
then birds chirp in and clouds applaud
the music of humanity,
gifted by the morning dawn.”

“can I then just sit and watch,” cried the child
with remembered touch beguiled.”

“to live life is to surly embrace life
and conduct an orchestra grand,
where you will coax your soul to sing
and blend with whispers of Tegsh
as she accomp’nies even me.”

More Snow

2006-11-27T20:18:00.000-08:00

More snow, all last night, and all day today, it just kept falling, a clean white sound suffocating blanket of fresh snow. Few wandered out. It not being walker or cane friendly weather, I stayed in at gazed at it through the window, although briefly I did go out to walk my dog. I negotiated with extra cookies to get him to come back in. He could have played in it hours longer. The city is ill prepared for so much snow, and most stayed home. It is lovely thought, especially in the pre dawn hours, then to walk the dog is ideal, acres of virgin snow and just us and the stars out in it. The sound of the city dampened and my happy Belvedere making like a snow plough with his nose.

Walk through the snow with me...

2006-11-26T20:40:00.000-08:00

I thought you might like to come along

Papa at Peace

2006-11-24T01:27:00.000-08:00

Please read each poem separately,
then together with each line joined as one
...................................................

Found a glade where.......... Sought in heart today
Fresh water springs .......... recycled Godess tears
Where shady trees ............ speak in shadowed mirth
stretch their arms ............. tapping Mother Earth
over the water's edge......... in a pool of silent birh.
Found a place where ......... there’s found in place
You and I can sit and talk........... souls touch and grace
of times past............... mem’ries of tomorrow
Times to come .......... caressed in yesterday,
And other irrelevancies............ not related but as one.
Found a quiet spot ...................Looking between the leaves
where we can lay ......................and spirits overlay
down our arms..................... around and bound
Let the battle travel ............in rest bequest
on for a spell. .......................foretold as dream.
From Lavengro.................. by the Gusari

Peace for Papa

2006-11-23T17:43:00.000-08:00

Found a glade where

Fresh water springs

Where shady trees

stretch their arms

over the water's edge.

Found a place where

You and I can sit and talk

of times past

Times to come

And other irrelevancies

Found a quiet spot

where we can lay

down our arms

Let the battle travel

on for a spell.

From Lavengro

In Response to: A Place to Keep Our Horses

2006-11-23T08:35:00.000-08:00

She Was But a Barn

She stood forlorn in a worn out field,
an aging, wrinkled crone.
Though unsung,
she rivaled the classic architecture of old Europe.

There were no signs or souvenirs,
no mention in a guide book.
No tourists flocked to view her—
she was but a barn.
Her history was hardly grandiose.
She was but a simple monument to the brave
but ordinary folk
who settled hereabouts.

Each winter, snow lay heavy on her roof,
each spring she sagged a little more.
How many seasons could she have stood to tell
that some humble pioneer homesteaded here?

One morning when I walked that way,
I saw the sign, new and brightly coloured,
it proclaimed development—
Eighty homes, a strip mall, and a filling station
would replace my piece of history.

With swimming eyes, I climbed the fence
and walked through the dry and crackling grass.
I entered through the double doors,
one hung precariously, the other one was down
and molding into dust.
Once inside I stood in silent homage
to what soon would be no more.
Weeds grew through the floor,
surviving despite the gloom.
Old straw had crumpled into dust
in stalls where once horses rested.
Swallows in darkened corners
would nest here no more,
nor would they make music in the rafters.
Blue sky shone through gaps while
Dust filled God beams
searched mouse tracks below.

She was alive that day, my barn, old friend.
Her timbers creaked and groaned
as I sat, my back against a crumbling stall,
and whispered my good bye.

I left that day with heavy heart.
She had been a friend so long,
watching me, each day as I walked by
in rain or shine, snow or freezing cold.
I took one last long look, then turned my back.
There was nothing I could do to help her.
She had no historic value,
Only architectural charm.
She was but a simple barn
Built by gnarled hands and sweat.

I walk that way no longer
Now that my friend has gone.

Vi Jones
©November 23, 2006

A Place to keep our horses

2006-11-23T06:28:00.000-08:00

Nesled by the fire

2006-11-22T08:47:00.000-08:00

I might just sit by the fire a bit and litsen to other tell stories,
though a few dancing girls are always in order --
but I do have a story to tell of the hospital.

The doctor said I could not go home until my blood pressure
dropped to a more normal lever (then at 155/85)
I asked what was acceptable seeing that my norm is 126/78.

He said that 130 would be incredible. So I told him to return in a half hour,
and imagined myself by the Gypsy fire with friends and 'forced' my figures down
to 124/76 -- and am now home.

papa

seeded by Fran's freefall writing course

2006-11-16T05:52:00.000-08:00

I slip between the veils of two worlds,
'twixt sleep and dreaming,
between memory and anticipation
drifting on the current of mist rising from the fields in the early mornings,
in the sun's rays, on a leaf being carried down the stream,
caught in an occasional eddy
where I spiral uncontrollably until,
snagged on a hook of rock, I'm cast forth once again.
I drift upwards in the smoke of an autumn bonfire,
bright sparks flowering golden against the night sky,
a flower that lasts but a few seconds, withers and dies.
On a vapour from a pot of stew I rise,
tantalising the nostrils of the gypsy bent over the fire,
sparks of light flashing off her golden earrings and from the lights in her eyes.

Dream Seeds for Gypsies

2006-11-15T13:39:00.000-08:00

New Gypsies are arriving in the Gypsy Camp and

Enchanteur brings fresh dream seeds to the Gypsy Camp for a potting session.

divining the divine

2006-11-14T19:22:00.000-08:00

Hello, gypsy friends.......tis I, Tambouree, and here is my reading, nut shell, nut meat, and cracked open to say as much as I would have. I hear the low rattle of dried rattlesnake shakers and the violin raising it voice to say I am on the cusp of major change and wanting to fall in love with my life all over again.

Tambouree
whose skirts are swirling to "Take Me To The River"

Knight of Cups - Reversed in the Cover position.Indicates the querent in relationship to the present situation.The Knight of Cups reversed is warning you about an untrustworthy man in your life. He is idle, selfish, and incapable of telling the truth.

Queen of Discs in the Cross position.Represents the positive forces or assets in the querent's favor. If this card should happen to be a negative card, it indicates the nature of an obstacles that is hindering progress. (The card in this position is always interpreted in its upright manner.)She is strong and independent, practical, and very fond of good food, clothes, possessions, and pleasure. She can be a good friend when it suits her, but she is capable of using others for her own ends.

The Knight of Discs in the Beneath position.Can be viewed as a message from the "higher self." It can also reflect the querent's potential aspirations.The Knight of Discs may appear in your life in the shape of a young man who will set for you an example of the virtues of hard work, patience, and gentleness. As a friend or a lover he is faithful and dependable. He is, however, rather intolerant of impractical people.

Knight of Wands in the Crown position.Represents past events and influences that color and give rise to the current situation.The Knight of Wands loves a challenge and is virtually fearless, thriving on the stimulation of danger and risk. The Knight is a warm, generous, loveable character who makes a wise and loyal friend, though his temper is quick to flare up if he thinks anyone is abusing his generosity.

6 of Wands - Reversed in the Behind position.Represents the preoccupation of the subconscious which filters into waking life, affecting moods and outlook. This is the underlying theme of dreams and the emotional undercurrent in the querent's life.The Six of Wands reversed in your spread indicates that you will receive some bad news.

The Wheel in the Before position.Represents the state of the querent's relationships with others.This card indicates that the wind of change is blowing, but the seeming sudden changes that occur come as the results of past efforts - whether for good or ill - though they will lead to a new phase in your life when you will grow enormously. It calls upon you to be sensitive to the ebb and flow of the cycles surrounding you. Things don't always happen when we want them to, but instead when it is their season.

Death in the Self position.Indicates the querent's psychological state and attitudes which can greatly affect the outcome of the matter.This card does not presage a physical death but, like the harvest, marks the end of a cycle in which the seeds of a new one are sown. The card indicates a time of adjustment and mourning, a suspension between the old stage and the new. On a higher level, the Death card can indicate a re-evaluation of your life and a change in your consciousness.

10 of Discs - Reversed in the House position.Represents the querent's environment and unseen forces influencing the situation.The Ten of Discs reversed is warning you that you have become stuck in a rut without realizing it. Wake up and seek new challenges!

3 of Swords in the Hopes position.Indicates the hopes and fears of the querent.The Three of Swords indicates that things have reached rock bottom. Your life is taken up with quarrels and upheavals.

6 of Cups in the Outcome position.Indicates the outcome of the matter.You are trying to escape into the past, which you are remembering as happy and beautiful. Instead of wallowing in nostalgia, use the knowledge you have gained from the past to realize your ambitions in the present.

River breezes,
Tambouree

a nightsong for you.........

2006-11-14T18:47:00.000-08:00

How about a song to introduce myself? Something mellow and sweet with the moon as a backdrop and the stars to serve as voyeurs, as we reminisce on journeys taken thus far, and those to come...........

Fields Of Barley By: the ever-famous, yet departed, Eva Cassidy

You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we walk in fields of gold

So she took her love
For to gaze awhile
Upon the fields of barley
In his arms she fell as her hair came down
Among the fields of gold

Will you stay with me, will you be my love
Among the fields of barley
We'll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we lie in fields of gold

See the west wind move like a lover so
Upon the fields of barley
Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth
Among the fields of gold

I never made promises lightly
And there have been some that I've broken
But I swear in the days still left
We'll walk in fields of gold
We'll walk in fields of gold

Many years have passed since those summer days
Among the fields of barley
See the children run as the sun goes down
Among the fields of gold

You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in fields of gold.........

merely a question...........

2006-11-14T18:34:00.000-08:00

Tambouree, the new gyspy blogger has a question. I sent to the gypsy camp a post which I created at my blog "Plucking The Strings of Life" and it has not shown up at the camp. Is there something I must do to place the post in both my blog and the camp, or that not a possibility? and why are computers not friendly to me? I bet it is age discrimination, or else they despise tambourine playing fools! You may send me a reply and then delete this less than rhapsodic post.

HELP!

Make yourself at home...

2006-11-14T15:40:00.000-08:00

When you arrive at the Gypsy Camp you will be greeted by your very own Gypsy tarot reader. She will give you a tarot reading which you can share with us here if you wish.

You will also be given your own caravan anywhere in the camp that you choose. What colour is your caravan? What does it look like inside? What will you do there? Use it as a writing hideaway, a studio or just sit on the steps and dream?

The Gypsies love to hear your songs and stories, so take inspiration from the free and easy Gypsy life and regale us with poems, tales, legends or art, as we gather round the campfire.

A thousand welcomes to our travellers.

2006-11-14T15:36:00.000-08:00

Welcome, travellers, to the Gypsy Camp!

Lavengro, the Gypsy Chief (who looks a bit like Johnny Depp) and his merry band of gypsies from all over the world are putting on a big party in your honour. There will be dancing around the campfire, singing, good food and drink, but most of all, you tales, songs and art. We at the Gypsy Camp love to share your creativity, so gather round the campfire, grab a baked potato from the ashes (careful, they’re hot!) and a glass of cider from the barrel and share your songs and stories with us.

The Gypsies have also purloined a pair of barn doors (as is their wont) and laid them on the ground for a dance floor, so kick up those heels! Lavengro will want to dance with all the ladies but he particularly adores Heather and Le Enbchanteur, so you may have to get in line.

Yes you have found us

2006-11-14T08:18:00.000-08:00

ah, the tambourine
rattle snake enchantment,
rhythm beat of blood and soul
and call to dance –
tiny footsteps
all in flirtation yet more
as life and pledge and doing
weave in the fire’s blending
of all
and nothing
evermore.

swirl skirt and jangle coins,
tempt me with dreams enchanting –
and then be close at dawning
when the dew
must be taught
to sing.

Have I found you?

2006-11-13T18:09:00.000-08:00

Tis' I Tambouree, sent by L'Enchanteur. Three times I have tried to enter and been snagged by the ugly portal monsters who would have me wander in the dark wood. Three times I have stamped my foot at the doorkeepers and shook my tambourine in their faces. May I come to your fire, and sit with you and rest until I am able to say more?

with eyes peering into the darkness and ears listening for your reply,
Tambouree

Strangers of welcome and glad

2006-11-13T06:34:00.000-08:00

The fire is beyond caring;
both as a task for the two Gypsies till awake,
and for the spirit of embers signing –
knowing it has done its job well –
and invitation offered, met and cherished –

“I understand that strangers will soon arrive,
yet never strangers to passion, dance and fire.”

“Aye – the crones are already foraging for information
that their profound divinations might prevail,
and the maidens are playing at bangles and beads.”

“A bit more wine, my friend, and you will be a poet;
but you might just rosin up yer bow
in case music be what they need.”

“Oh, they will all dance – as well they must,
and our tunes are just an excuse –
they come because they hear a finer tune
plucked on the harp of creation.”

“What can we do then to ease their search?”

“methinks to start a pot of stone soup
to which each may add something of their choosing,
and all might share of the joining.”

“and I will instruct that firewood be gather from afar,
such that these newcomers might easily add to the fire
of fall and found close at hand. There is nothing compared
to bring the child out than to add a gift to the fire.”

“and you again might stumble about,
that they can teach you a step or two of dance,
though I have seen your heels touch the clouds.”

“and you might just sit silent beneath the oak
that they might come and learn of silence too,
and know that the space between the notes,
and hesitation of a falling leaf
is also a dance.”

“Aye, we will be ready …”

Come for a walk with me...

2006-11-12T01:31:00.000-08:00

please join me.

Happy Belated 70th Lois

2006-11-11T21:49:00.000-08:00

Happy Birthday for this Milestone, love Monika

Happy Belated Birthday to Megan

2006-11-11T21:45:00.000-08:00

Birthday Daisies for you, Megan, love Monika

Digging Deep

2006-11-11T01:34:00.000-08:00

Soul Food's Alluvial Mine, with its allusions to digging, is certainly a creative trigger for me. Ever since I read an account of Howard Carter's discovery of Tutankhamun's tomb when I was a young girl, I have been a dedicated armchair archeologist.
Most recently I have travelled to ancient Peru with Hugh Thomson's book Cochineal Red, and to the fabled city of Tell el Amarna with the witty and delightful Mary Chubb. What I love about these writer is that they do more than uncover the past - they uncover the hearts and souls of ancient people, and in many ways, they are not so different from us.
Let me share a couple of their stories with you.
Hugh Thomson attended an Andean ceremony, a gruelling high altitude walk, yet the Peruvians being a celebratory, joyful people, they even managed to create moments of delight during this ordeal with singing, music and dancing. The tales of camps and fires and boiling chocolate Mate to ward off the cold are very familiar to anyone who has been a traveler. These things are shared through the ages and across the world by all who cannot resist the magic of the campfire, the outdoor gathering.
But what particularly charmed me was the Game of the Little Houses. It seems native Peruvians know all about positive visualisation. Halfway up a mountain they make miniature houses and believe firmly that what they create there will be manifested in their lives. They literally build their dream, live their dreams, marry their dream spouse, exchange dream money - even buy dream passports and diplomas. All in the certainty that the dream will manifest.

Mary Chubb was assistant to the secretary of a London archeological society when she wangled herself a trip to Egypt in 1930 as an on site secretary to the expedition. Her witty observations of life on the dig at Tell el Amarna, and her companions, make delightful reading.
The leader of the expedition, the charismatic John Pendleton, remarked one day that the team needed to find a treasure worth 200 pounds to be able to come back the following season. There seemed little hope of that, although many beautiful things were found.
But not long after, the team uncovered an earthenware pot filled with gold and silver bars, stolen and hidden while Akenaten and Nefertiti were still alive, and for some reason, never uncovered again until that moment.
The finds were always looked over by the Cairo Museum first, and what they didn't want, the expedition was allowed to keep and take back to Britain.
The Museum director was very dismissive of the gold and silver bars. ``I do not want all the gold and silver," he sniffed. ``We will retain one half...you may keep the other."
The Bank of England paid 200 hundred pound for the treasure, ensuring the expedition's return to Tell el Amarna.

Let us never lose the courage to dream, to seek the dream, to make the dream manifest.

Pulsing

2006-11-03T04:20:00.000-08:00

Comments on the Solace Blog
somehow take me to a campfire --
by whose side I have found a gentler peace.

I have dredged up an Incantation,
perhaps more appropriate here than there --
but who knows.

papa
............................................................

LIVE EMBERS

Sit awhile by the midnight embers,
pulsing crimson angered breath,
sighing life and pending death,
green mem'ries dance in ashes.

Shiver on the barkened branches,
rough and bent, hewn from yearning.
Tarry not 'till sun has risen
past the time of fairie dance.

Hidden from eye and ear of darkness,
know that song and spell are one.
Find whispered hope ever done,
beside the path from Ever.

Living is nigh and bids you enter,
but pass you must unto silence;
flick'ring shadows bring resolve
by the night-fire’s silent stand.

Halloween

2006-11-01T01:37:00.000-08:00

Belated happy Birthday to Lois, Megan and Faucon

2006-10-28T04:47:00.000-07:00

All of you radiate such joy and wisdom to this group.

Thank for everything you have shared with us

with love from Gail and the Gypsies

Sparrow

2006-10-19T20:06:00.000-07:00

Sparrow Girl – The Night the Refinery Blew Up

There are certain sounds you wake up to feeling inexplicably fearful and sickened. Long before knowing the why’s of it your stomach is already in great big knots. Very few events in my life had prepared me for waking up like this. In that split moment of waking up from what was my first experience with concussion from an explosion I had nothing on which to base my fear other than just knowing instinctively that this was a very, very bad thing. Before that split second was over I had already called out to my mother.

posted at www.sparrows.wordpress.com

Happy Birthday Lois, Megan and Faucon.

2006-10-19T01:37:00.000-07:00

An Angel for you all.

I hope you all had wonderful birthday's, sorry if this is late, I don't get to check in very often as you all know. With love and best wishes.

Camelot Scribe.

happy birthday Lois

2006-10-18T15:23:00.000-07:00

lemons from Cyprus to wish you a very happy birthday and many more to come
with love from Traveller

For Lois

2006-10-18T08:20:00.000-07:00

Dear Lois:

Have a wonderful, delightful birthday!!!

Best Wishes

Lori

Happy Birthday to Lois,Megan and Faucon

2006-10-18T06:51:00.000-07:00

For Lois on her Birthday

2006-10-17T16:23:00.000-07:00

"To know someone here or there with whom you can feel there is understanding in spite of distances or thoughts expressed ~ That can make life a garden." -Goethe

Wishing every joy and comfort for the coming year and many more returns of the day.

((((big joyful hugs))))

aletta

SeaMuse Grove

2006-10-17T06:17:00.000-07:00

There is a vacant spot near the Manor House
where the trails split to the Abbey
and Enchanted Forest that would be perfect
for a special grove of trees,
planted for Lois who guards their spirit.

I will have a cart of spriglings here
at the Gypsy Camp the morrow --
where each friend can select their favorite
and transport it to the grove for investiture.

What say you? I have in my Fitz cart:

alders, firs and lemon trees --
aspens and cedars and a jacaranda --
Mimosa, walnut and sycamore too,
and a Sequoia set aside for for life.

If you don't see what you need,
just whisper to Cher-Lynn
and it will be so --
and plant for Lois a memory
and prayer,
and a place of comfort
for you and me.

faucon

Happy Birthday Lois - Seventy Candles

2006-10-17T05:49:00.000-07:00

Enchanteur was going to bake a cake
but then she thought
it is Lois's birthday
so she put on her best Snow White outfit
and is leading a
cheeky dance.
Join in the fun

Happy 70th Lois. Enjoy your day darling heart!

Sparrow Girl – Early One Saturday Morning

2006-10-15T03:13:00.000-07:00

Across the street in a modest townhouse lived a family with three sons. The middle son was the one who would bully me at school. I didn’t, beyond the bullying, know any of them well at all. All I even knew about them was that they had a television, which on rare occasions, my parents and I had been invited to watch. Usually when something of earth shattering importance had happened somewhere in the world and there was extended news. News such as throwing a satellite into orbit or a man, monkey or dog into space.

These homes were newer than our apartments and had central heating. Very few homes those day had anything other than a cooking stove from which ambient heat was derived. Looking back I would assume that these families had a higher standing economically as most of the housing was company owned for the express befit of keeping their employees happy. Each house had a small tree and a little yard in front and back.

I had no reason to think about them at all. Until one day their lives became important to me and all the other people in the neighbourhood. I had been fast asleep all night happy in knowing that I would not have to wake up early in the morning because, after all it was a Saturday. My parents were far to happy having a couple of hours extra themselves to wake me up. It was not hey who woke me the next morning. It was still quite dark out, a cold day in the late autumn. The apartment was still cold. Apparently my father, who would normally be first up to start the coals burning, had not yet started up the coal stove.

I had been awakened by a lot of noise outside on the street. There was the howling siren of ambulances. Police were at the house on the other side of the street. My parents stood silently by he window. I knew something was wrong. If something pleasant was happening outside they would have noticed me and happily pointed out whatever might be of interest. Instead they stood like statues by the window. There was something were alarming about that. So much so I could hardly bring myself to ask what all the fuss was. So I didn’t ask. Instead I quietly walked up to the big picture window in the living room. Carefully, as not to destroy what might be a solemn moment for my parent, I tiptoed to the edge and looked.

Suddenly my presence was noticed. My mother immediately stood beside me. She said nothing, but knelt beside me and held my hand. That wasn’t something I was used to. Mams wasn’t given to moments of mushy physical demonstrations of affection. My father was still standing exactly where he was. I could not escape the feeling that whatever was going on out there had my parents quite upset.

I knew a little something about ambulances. I knew they came to get sick people and took them to the hospital. I knew the police came to catch bad guys and to help lost children find their way. The only time I had ever seen and ambulance and police in the same place was when we passed an automobile accident on the road to den Hague. Obviously here it had to do with quite something else.

As we all looked down, a stretcher carried by two ambulance attendants came out of the house. My mother was biting her lip and her eyes looked like she might cry. So I held her hand a little tighter and looked at her. She remained quiet. My father let out a spontaneous “oh”. Something he was not usually given to doing either. There was someone on the stretcher, all covered up. Completely covered, even the face was covered. I assumed it was because it was a cold day. Faces get cold too.

Then came the second stretcher and now I was getting a strong feeling that this was more than a sick person going to the hospital. I could not stay quiet any longer, I just had to know what all this was about. “Mams,” I asked, “what is going on over there”. I was feeling quite anxcious as I asked, frightened actually.

“Well,” started Mams, stroking my hair and biting her lip, “there was an accident, the gas was left on and everyone died.”

Well, that was to the point. I had some notion of what Mams was saying. I knew, for instance that gas could explode. It was not long after the night the nearby refinery blew up. Obviously here there was no explosion, the house looked fine. So I blurted”but the house isn’t blown up!” this was a cue for my dad, who loved explaining things, anything, and he could go on about almost anything for much longer than most of us had the stamina to listen. In this case no one minded he explain it. Mams was obviously deeply affected by all that was going on, Dad never failed to be absolutely calm (unless there was a drop of blood to be seen, then he would faint dead away).

“When the gas is left on and there is a lot of it in the air it is poison for people to breathe, and since they were sleeping they just never woke up.”

As if it would all change just because I asked the question “All of them?”

“Yes, all of them”

For about another hour we all stood by the window as the other stretchers came out of the house. Eventually as the sun was starting to warm us through the window, the police locked the door to the house, and the small crowd gathered on the street started home. It was comforting to see my father start up the coals in the stove in the kitchen. I didn’t see the benefit of having gas if it was just going to kill you. That was the day I stopped complaining about being cold first thing in the morning I had warm clothes and fat knitted socks to wear.

I was very sad because children should never die, but at least these children would go to he next life with their parents, they would not be alone. For weeks it as talked about. The teacher at school tried to explain how gas was dangerous, but my father had explained it much better. The women in line at the stores poke tearfully and at time weeping.

In time it was spoken of rarely. It made an impact. For the rest of your life I would dislike the us of gas, and appreciate just how easily one mistake can have fatal consequences, a lesson best learned early.

Happy birthday to Megan

2006-10-10T09:49:00.000-07:00

I wish you very many happy returns - sorry I'm late.
Love
Traveller/Troubadour

Beautiful Gypsy Purse

2006-10-05T03:25:00.000-07:00

Here's a lovely piece of art by Lilla Le Vine at Art-e-Zine. She shows you how to make a Gypsy Purse and provides some lovely Gypsy maidens to download as well.

Gail

For GrannieKav

2006-10-04T03:52:00.000-07:00

Your “campfire game”, and introspection
caused me to instantly pounce on a distinction between
those descriptors that are physical anthropomorphisms,
and those that allude to a more spiritual quality..

As a poet I am drawn to the latter,
and will now consciously focus
on using such more frequently …

no more ‘hint of a smile’, but
perhaps ‘wink of a smile’

my thanks, dear one.

………………………………………..

possibly my favorite from your list is

SEED: “The list of a ship turning towards home”

A cant towards a memoried haven
is of turmoil twixt mindful rudder
and keel willed obstinacy ;
both causing a list of soul and serenity.

A luft of sail give hint of sadness
‘bout lost adventure on waiting shores –
balanced alone by faith in waves
that cavitations of my presence
will brush the sands of tomorrow.

a Fitz of course

faucon

Who am I?

2006-10-03T19:09:00.000-07:00

Here's a little game that's fun to play round the campfire.

Who Am I?
Am I `whatsisname's wife'? ( a chamringly oblique reference I once heard to myself)
Am I Laurence's mum - or Moni's, Lana's, Mags', Luci's, Chris's or Kat's?
Am I the byline on my stories? (Reporter, poet, demented scribbler?)
Am I Grandma Kav? (I must confess, I like this one best)

But actually even that is not who I really am...

I am the wind over the tree tops
The rush of waves on the shore
I am the stars filling the night sky
The trickle of waters over rocks
The song of the bird in the morning
The list of the ship as it turns toward home
I am the gold of autumn leaves
A swathe of bluebells in the spring
I am the laughter of children
The thunder of hooves
The crunch of crisp windfall apples
I am COLOURS
Many Many colours, soft, bright, pastel, bold, check, plain, striped, plaid, dotted, rainbow
I am all that that and it is all of me
And that is who I am.

Now - who are you?

Home Again

2006-10-02T08:46:00.000-07:00

SURE FIRE

I have prepared the fore-sought fire, my friends,
in a practiced circle of ancient stones;
with needles of pine from a hollow log,
and inner-bark of a cotton-wood tree.

The lattice tiers swell from small to grand
such that a single spark will conflagrate
to warm the death-chill of hunt and wander,
and release the cloak-pin that bounds your soul.

The music will come with the ember glow,
and laughter asparkle with crackle and spark,
to lift your spirit on to Gypsy toes
as your flashing eyes will return to home.

papa faucon

Happy Birthday, Faucon

2006-09-28T09:29:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-28T07:28:00.000-07:00

Have a fantastic day!

From Imogen at the Hermitage

Happy Birthday Ken

2006-09-28T06:14:00.000-07:00

Enchanteur conjours up some special magic for your birthday Ken

Happy Birthday Papa

2006-09-28T05:31:00.000-07:00

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

Fireside Fitz

2006-09-23T02:17:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-22T07:02:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-22T03:14:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-17T22:05:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-17T18:12:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-17T02:43:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-16T21:22:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-09-15T11:02:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-15T08:36:00.000-07:00

‘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

2006-09-13T08:38:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-13T01:42:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-08T06:04:00.000-07:00

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"

2006-09-07T20:00:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-07T03:21:00.000-07:00

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.......

2006-09-06T11:32:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-05T18:59:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-09-05T02:27:00.000-07:00

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

Square dance for D

2006-07-15T04:57:00.000-07:00

Square dance for D
Originally uploaded by FranSb.

D is for dancing the night away
A square to share
and a prize to win
before dawn

A Different Dance

2006-07-15T03:13:00.000-07:00

The Gypsy Tree

They have returned!
The slow creaking meadow ruts,
and careful pitted fire –
a gleaning of discarded branches –
ahh –
like a comb through raven hair
I am cleansed!

Laughing children in my arms –
weary comfort from the sun;
and I wait …

Shadowed moonlight needs no lanterns –
barefoot prancing,
swirling maidens,
ribald stories – finger pointing –
yes they will come.

Glowing embers – banked for dawning,
a couple yearning –
two as one.
Between my gnarled roots,
against my ancient bosom,
they sway to my heartbeat –
and I can dance again.

At The Edges of Firelight

2006-07-14T23:29:00.000-07:00

There were several bonfires already brightly lighting the Gypsy Encampment when I arrived. I was wearing my favourite green figured silk skirt and matching lightweight sweater, I had many bracelets on each wrist, and my 9 sets of ear piercings were all filled with musically clinking earrings. My Cat-panions had chosen to remain in our warm bed at the Abbey, preferring to not meet playing children, dancing adults and dogs running freely through the camp.

My tent was ready for me, the floor was full of pads and patched quilts, and pillows in embroidered cases. My feet were bare, the toes wriggling joyously in the grass, I had jingling ankle bracelets and a belt of glinting chains wrapped loosely around my waist. My medicine bag was around my neck, I could feel the shapes beneath the green velvet when it bumped on my collarbone.

I settled happily in my tent and began to smudge myself and my acourterments with White GrandMother Sage, I also lit sandalwood incense to drive away the musties in my tent's fabric. I heard the violins, guitars, drums, and zithers awakening around the central fire; I finished the purification ritual, and took a few quick puffs from my peace pipe before Marya poked her smiling face in the tent's doorway.

"Come, we wish you to join the dance earlier this time. Yes, yes, I know you don't like to be seen dancing. Gyorgy thinks you are beautiful when you free yourself to the dance." Marya chattered non-stop as she dragged me to the crowd gathering around the main fire.

Already the instruments were in tune and in harmony, and I could hear the familiar, unforgettable music of Romany spoken by true Rom. Marya pulled me into a thicket of laughing, joking Rom ladies. It was perfect timing, for the first song cried into the night, graceful and languid as an Old-World Vampyr haunting the foggy streets of London.

It wasn't long until the movements began to coalesce into one sway around the campfire, for every dancer was still moving slowly. The wild twirls and leaps, and fearless acrobatics would come after the smaller children were tucked into their beds.

For now the dances were such that the young ones could run through the groups of dancers, without disturbing the dance or hurting themselves. One of the younger girls begged to be a part of the dance, she was twirled to the center and the headman shared a gentle gavotte with his great-great grandaughter.

Gyorgy danced into view and grinned down at me. "So!! At last you return to us!! Did you think we would not miss you?" His scolding was accompanied by a gentle kiss on my cheek.

"I am sure you missed me as badly as I missed all of you. You know as well as I that GrandMother claims I am a Lone Wolf cub, hunting in solitary ways. Where the pack would go right, I would choose the left."

"I know there are other reasons for you staying away too long, am I to blame?" Gyorgy's eyes were solemn, and his voice low.

"Please, Gyorgy, I don't belong here, as you well know. Were I to stay I would cause such sorrow and frustration for all of us. Let us be friends, and share a dance and a drink together when a party is afoot."

"All right, but only because you make your sad kitten eyes when you say things like that." Gyorgy winked and spun me back into the most animated group of dancers, where he coached me through the dance's steps.

It wasn't long at all and the young ones were settled into their beds, falling asleep in the midst of protests. The fires had burned lower, and several empty bottles of liquors and liquers in their snug little bin clinked soft comment about the dancers.

The musicians had taken a breather while the children were bedded down for the night. In the shifting light and motion I slipped away from the throng and claimed my Shaman Walking Stick. I walked over by the stream and described my Circle in the sand, room enough for me to dance freely.

I had cleared my mind, and calmed my spirit before the music started. There in the near darkness, ringed about by groaning and creaking trees I danced in my Circle. No longer a part of the pack, I followed the voice of my spirit where it led me.

By the time the third song was begun I had relaxed and begun dancing as if I were in my rooom, in the dark, the headphones blotting the world out. I whirled and stomped, clapped and shimmied my hips; the pattern of it growing closer, faster and more complex.

I was dancing with my all, feeling the power growing and seeming to choke me. When I could feel myself shaking helplessly yet exultant I focussed my entire being on directing the energy. I willed the power of the Seasons and The Four Natural Elements to my wishes.

All I could hear by now was howls of a winter wind, the hiss of the sea as it crawls up the sand, rough crunchings of gravel underfoot, and the snapping voice of the fire. My breath stopped for a moment and still I didn't slow. I could feel the energy built to frightening proportions, and yet I did not let go.

At last I stopped, slamming the butt of my staff hard on the ground. Trembling, breathless, voiceless, I throw my head back in a silent howl to the Heavens.

The released energy spread out from me, like ripples from a stone dropped in a still pond. It obscured sight of the material world, and all I could see were the stars, tethered in their complex, three dimensional web of gravity bonds. I felt all of the energy drain from me, sent to give my families of blood and spirit what they needed most.

I barely remember collapsing to the sand, doubled over and struggling to breathe, the stars began to swirl together and fade away. Light returned to me as Gyorgy was settling me in my tent.

"You!! You blithely perform a magic that Great-Grandmother is afraid to try and still you say you do not belong. How can you live in the Gadje world??"

"The Gadje world is my world. I am where I need to be. The Rom don't need to learn what I am here to teach, the Gadje do."

As often happens to me, I am accepted by both groups and respected, a part of both and neither. I am of the same wildish spirit as the Rom, yet I am born of the Gadje. Like the Penguin I am nicknamed after, I am neither fish nor fowl.

"You should rest now. No more dancing!! I will have Marya bring you a drink, and something to eat. You!! Do nothing other than rest there." Gyorgy glowered at me, and I summoned the energy to blow him a faint raspberry. He grinned and moved to one side of the tent when Marya arrived with a mug of tea, I could taste chamomile, honey, mint, and lemon peel.

I sipped on the drink, and misbehaved the whole time Gyorgy and Marya fussed over me. I was yawning and sinking deeply into the cushions and quilts as Marya, and then Gyorgy exited my tent. The flaps were gently lowered, and then I heard the sound of someone large (Gyorgy) settling in to guard all night.

Wizard Waltz

2006-07-14T06:19:00.000-07:00

INVITATION TO THE DANCE

I am not the caress of the Mistress;
but by right I am –
nor am I the Lord of the Dance,
though by right I am –
and I do not conduct the orchestra;
though by right I can –
for there is nothing that is not of me;
though this is also true of thee.

What then can we do – nay I,
for you must also choose …

I offer an invitation to the dance,
for to know life
one must live life;
which somehow involves ever you –

Forget the close ordered steps
proscribed by another’s will –
Throw off the shackles of music
described as good and bad,
and listen to the EverSong
with open heart and hand.

I can neither dance well or long
with pain my closest friend,
but I can embrace the dance of life,
but in need of a partner of chance.

I can waltz with a child standing
on my scuffed ‘n aging shoes
long after the melody has ended.

I can smile at an aging crone,
reaching out to the girl within,
and treasure her shy wink of knowing.

I can lift a girl from a wheelchair
and glide between the stars
to the rhythm of quick throbbing hearts --

or I can dance in the tree-bound moonlight
with all of you now at once,
just by choosing silent awe and wonder …

for we can always dance …
dance …

once more,

again.

Retro Full Moon Dance

2006-07-14T02:27:00.000-07:00

courtesy 50's Retro Dance Clip Art Site

Waltzing Under The Moon

2006-07-13T21:21:00.000-07:00

"Lost love is still love. It takes a different form that's all. You can't see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance floor. But when those senses weaken another heightens. Memory. Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it. ....Life has to end....Love doesn't." Mitch Ablom

2006-07-13T20:49:00.000-07:00

"She well knew the sounds. They were those of heavy carts or waggons, their wheels groaning and lurching along the uneven ruts of the lane, and with them came, from time to time, the crack of a whip, and men's voices urging and encouraging the horses. The barking of a dog too, and fainter shriller tones, women's and children's, laughing and chattering as they came slowly along.
"Sybil lost no time. She hurried to the steppingstones, crossing them without hesitation, for the water was low and they were almost dry; then she pushed her way through the greenery to the place by the bank, which she used as her look-out.

" 'It may be only farm waggons or the big brewer's dray, which comes along the lane as far as the keeper's cottage,' she thought. 'But I'm almost certain by the sounds that it's gipsies. How glad I am that I came down here!'" - from The Ruby Ring, by Mrs. Molesworth, MacMillan and Co. Ltd, London, 1908.

Like young Sybil in this beloved old novel, how glad I am I came down here! The fire blazes and lights our eager faces as we gather round and share the warmth of this moment. I gather my skirts, kick off my shoes, and get ready to dance! Fiddler, strike up a tune!

I'm Comin' Up So You Better Get This Party Started....

2006-07-13T19:39:00.000-07:00

"..... Makin my connection as I enter the room
Everybody's chillin as I set up the groove
Pumpin' up the volume with this brand new beat
Everybody's dancin and their dancin for me
I'm comin' up so you better get this party started....."
--PINK, http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/pink/getthepartystarted.html

Join Heather and Darryl

2006-07-13T08:03:00.000-07:00

He may not wish to dance with me,
but I can hold hat and coat
and watch you two do the ...

RAVEN WALTZ

I put my left foot in,
I take my left wing out.
Take my hidden halo,
And spin it all about.
Gonna' let my heart shine
And dance in ever Light.
That's what it's all about. Yeah

Let's do the Hooky Spooky
And hope it works out right.
I cannot fly, so I stumble
Cause being human is out of sight.

I'll put my right wing in
Take my 'right' foot out.
Ease my churning mind-throb
'cause I know a finer Light.
It's supposed to be a blessed life
So I'll spread my love around.
That's what it's all about! Hey!

Time, you old gypsy man...

2006-07-13T03:53:00.000-07:00

Deeply moved by the courageous love Heather and Darryl share, Lavengro read us this beautiful poem by Ralph Hodgson as we grouped round the camp fire to offer our prayers and support.

TIME, you old gipsy man,
Will you not stay,
Put up your caravan
Just for one day?

All things I'll give you
Will you be my guest,
Bells for your jennet
Of silver the best.

Goldsmiths shall beat you
A great golden ring,
Peacocks shall bow to you,
Little boys sing.

Oh, and sweet girls will
Festoon you with may,
Time, you old gipsy,
Why hasten away?

Last week in Babylon,
Last night in Rome,
Morning, and in the crush
Under Paul's dome;

Under Pauls' dial
You tighten your rein --
Only a moment,
And off once again;

Off to some city
Now blind in the womb,
Off to another
Ere that's in the tomb.

Time, you old gipsy man,
Will you not stay,
Put up your caravan
Just for one day?

Sakin'el Bleeds!

2006-07-13T02:07:00.000-07:00

I post this here because it deals with fire --
and many may gather for the dance.

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

The other evening a friend sitting on our porch lit a large candle to support their chain smoking. It burned through the night, unnoticed, until it bled down the wall and scorched the railing. My fault, of course, for not having placed a dish under the decorative candle. Yet ...

I wonder a bit at the actions:

Is it proper to light a candle in another person's home without asking?

If you do light a candle, are you perhaps responsible for it -- at least to tell someone of the event?

Should not smokers have a special responsibility for cleaning up their mess and caring for the effects of their habit?

Do I address the issue with the person, or just let it slide?

Do I fix the railing, or leave it as a warning to others?

Do I acknowledge that all smokers are irresponsible and bar them to the street?

Perhaps one of you has an answer ...

papa

A LITTLE GYPSY CARAVAN- called FARAWAY

2006-07-10T20:52:00.000-07:00

Now travellers one and all
Take note of that "Little Gypsy Caravan"
Not just any caravan but a magic one
It did not always belong to the Gypsies
Once it belonged to the Muse of the Sea
Notice how quaint,small and bright it is
Well that's what it was for just me

I bought it in 1998 from a fellow in the hills
Small enough to tow behind a car
Not too heavy to manouver backing it into a parking spot in a park
Lots of windows to let in the light,and the fresh air
A small stove and bed for just me and Jessie Dog.
It was coloured cream with brown trim
I called it "Faraway" the little one

Jessie dog and I went on many holidays
To the sea,to the hills,to festivals,to country towns
camping on the river in caravan parks
No dogs allowed in National Parks
but that's ok one understands to make allowances for one's companion

I travlled far and near
Such an experience as I had never towed before not even a little van
But did it it sure did ....
In about 2002 it was time to say goodbye to the little caravan
Age catches up with one and cuts short some adventures
So it was time to call it a day and take different holidays
But how could I do this.....I had never had holidays other than camping ones

But do it I must.
Now comes the mythical part of the story
I spoke to Madame Muse about giving the caravan to the Gypsies
She like me thought it a great idea
So it was sent to a carriage restorer who was to put
two long rods one each side fitted to the caravan so the horses could pull it
for the gypsies.

Now this little van was just the right size
as Gypsies are not large people you know.
And so it was that they received the caravan
and had a big party to celebrate
and of course we hear from them often and they are
always telling us how grateful and delighted they
are WITH their new little home
Which they have painted red and orange
And so am I to think that others can enjoy..

Lois(Muse of the Sea) 11.7.06
a litle piece of heaven

But strong enough not to blow away on a windy day

Universe Dances With Heather

2006-07-10T05:43:00.000-07:00

Dancing with Archetypes

2006-07-01T17:28:00.000-07:00

Still dancing!

Gail's Birthday

2006-06-30T00:55:00.000-07:00

Gail's Birthday
Originally uploaded by FranSb.

WISHES FOR GAIL

2006-06-29T18:12:00.000-07:00

HAPPY BIRTHDAY GAIL!
I WISH I COULD BE THERE TO SHARE A DRINK OR TWO
OR A LAUGH OR THREE...
INSTEAD I'LL SEND MY FRIEND
THE FIJI MERMAID
TO GRANT YOUR BIRTHDAY WISHES!

LOVE FROM ANITA MARIE
JUNE 29, 2006

Happy Birthday Gail !

2006-06-29T16:00:00.000-07:00

Gail, may your day be as brilliant as a garden on a summer's day!

L Gloyd

happy birthday Gail

2006-06-29T15:02:00.000-07:00

I bring you pink peonies from my garden. I hope you will have a wonderful birthday surrounded by all your friends and family.
love Traveller

Birthday Story

2006-06-29T14:44:00.000-07:00

Prompted by something my dad recalled hearing ...

He was different from others in the park, but then so was I. This mile square green contrast to man’s frenetic building and tearing down was a short cut to my house – not in distance, but of serenity. Each day I could stroll and smile and greet a hundred strangers, and hear laughter and listen to the trees. Why he came I did not know – and would not have attracted my attention, except that he always sat in a different place, and seemed to have a story to tell. Perhaps that is why I came.

I picked up a sub-sandwich cut into thirds, for I knew he would not accept half – and a six-pack of lemon-aide – safe. He must have known, as I found him in a natural stone seat with another in opposition. A waterfall played nearby to shield our conversation. Lunch was grand, and he had two packs of potato-chips to contribute. Not that he was derelict or seedy – just disconnected – and perhaps often forgot to eat, but had pockets full of random stuff. No one else wore a top coat in July. I waited.

“He carried me twelve hundred miles, they say. Possible. We were way up near the Artic Circle. I broke my leg. Fatal. Wolves. He found me. Fevered – don’t rightly remember.” He handed me a newspaper clipping. Yellow. Frayed.

OTTOWA EXPRESS May 21, 1938

"Amazing rescue! A staggering man found his way to the local hospital today, carrying on his back a corpse. He said he had found the man in a ravine up north and had brought him home. Sadly, the man was dead, but his companion was not told. The hero was suffering from such frostbite and exposure as to be placed in intensive care. Receipts for mining claims and identification support the incredible possibility that he carried the stranger more than twelve hundred miles. There is no evidence except that he was there, and now here, with no human in between. Pray that if you are ever injured such a friend will find thee."

I reached in soul and spirit to explore his burden and grief. What would one say to a man such as this – the courage, endurance and faith beyond reason. To carry a stranger – a brother – I cannot imagine the pain! This gentle, lost man extended a hand with missing fingers – his face disfigured and twisted – to seize my hand and eye.

“They have it wrong,” he cried. Two men lay there in the snow – one dead – one alive. I was the one delirious with a fractured leg. I did not know until later. Their false conclusions – not wishing to believe. He carried me beyond existence – beyond belief. When I was safe, he walked a final step and died – a last knowledge that others were rushing to my aid.”

I held his hand, and wept with him – as all men should, who do not understand that we are one. “What troubles you then, my friend?” asked I.

“I do not know his name,” he whispered as he rose to leave.

“Oh,” I murmured. “My dad told me that story years ago. I have done some research. His name was Sam Thompson – no kin. Your search is over.” He smiled and shuffled off – a little less stooped I hoped.

This is the only lie I have ever told.

Forgive me!

Happy Birthday!

2006-06-29T12:22:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday Gail!

Birthday Greetings

2006-06-29T06:45:00.000-07:00

Wishing you a wonderful day, Gail!

Happy Birthday Gail

2006-06-29T06:10:00.000-07:00

Come to the woods where the Gypsies are camped and celebrate Gail's birthday.
Happy birthday Gail.

Bardic Story

2006-06-09T02:44:00.000-07:00

I have posted this story on Serpentine Raod blog as part of my meeting 'impassible' obsticles there, but it is suitable here also. Actually, I have tolf this story many times around campfires with appropraite gesturing and animation -- even audience participation in various roles --

enjoy
.........................................................................

BRIDGE

I was curious to discover why the pass is described as ‘impassible’, as I have encountered no obstacle not easily circumvented or leaped, and a donkey would have no problems. A cart might not pass to be sure, as I discovered at a bridge called “The Span.” The name was apt in intent, for the seething stream cut deep in the granite, though never too wide. The bridge was nothing now but a pile of broken timbers, mostly swept away in the Spring thaw. A pleasant spot, actually, except that the opposing lip was twenty feet away with anchoring boulders half that below. There were handhold enough for a man to pass, but a cart was something else.

Two carts there were – grinning at each other from sides close yet so far. Two draft horses were likewise hobbled amiably on each side; and a lone merchant sat in the shade, with a strung bow close at hand. We shared a bit of cheese and fruit and I learned of his predicament. Twice each year he and another merchant met at The Span with a cart of goods. The one from the Bay swelled with goods expected at the Abbey, while the upland one returned crafts and specials of the forest. The merchants would trade carts at this point, to return home with their own horses and half the journey, to settle later any difference in value. Alas, nature directed this trade was not to be, and neither merchant was disposed to portage the goods across the defile by hand.

Thus it was that Tom stayed here to guard the goods while Samile returned to the village to hire laborers to rebuild the bridge. However, both had agreed that if a group of willing persons came along, they could be put to work immediately, with a bag of silver ready for payment for those who would trade the carts as planned. “This I will do for you,” offered my portly, crippled self. Laughter was the only reply, but I set myself to the task.

There were two logs of length about fifteen feet that I lashed to the wheels of the cart backed up to the nearside edge, secured of course with sturdy ropes of which there was plenty. The other ends extended into the center of the stream. Next, I climbed up two winsome firs and affixed ropes to the tops. These I bent slightly and secured to the back of the cart on either side. More ropes now led across the gap to the other side, where I borrowed the use of a single horse. Slowly we took up the slack.

The cart would have fallen into the stream save for the lever branches. Instead, the cart rose into the air on stilts – held in brake by the bending trees soon doubled like bows on the draw. The cart quivered at midpoint – then descended slowing to my side to settle without a sound. With the tree ropes bound fast, I freed the cart, towing it to safety with the second horse. Then I moved the other cart into place and again affixed the log supports to its wheels as before. With tethers all in place, my brilliant steed backed up ever slowly, allowing the cocked trees to pull back with steady hand. This cart too rose in the air, hesitated – and dropped slowly to the first side. The amazed merchant would have helped gather up the ropes, but I wished full compensation, knowing full well some poorish folk who could use the silver coins. All of this was quickly done, but a couple of hours delay from my wanderings.

“But what will I tell my friend?” asked he who now had to await the other merchant’s return before he could venture home.

“Always tell the truth,” said I. “Tell then that an old man caused the carts to fly across the stream by magick, for while the use of wits instead of brawn is not magickal at all, the willingness to greet any challenge as done, surely is!”

“They will not believe me!” murmured the merchant.

“Such is often the fate of truth. And you then will be safe to hold this knowledge until another time where it might serve you well. Consider it a gift – and an obligation to use it well.”

It was my gift to sleep well that night.

2006-05-17T16:24:00.000-07:00

Here re couple of resources for anyone who wants to know more about the Romanyi and their way of life:
The Patrin Web is one of the best, set up and maintined by Romany people, but this resource, lthough for role playing games, is also very well done.

A Fire Story

2006-05-11T19:14:00.000-07:00

not so long ago -- about 1248AD

from my book "Songs of the Gusari"

The Fire

Aldon had a restless night -- one of many during this period of fasting. He had hardened himself against the solitude and separation from the outside world, but questioned his calling once more. Even the close fellowship of his loving companions did not sustain his faltering spirit. Part of him accepted and embraced the quiet contemplation that paced the surrender of his will. Part rebelled against the harsh confinement -- the cold, the narrow cot, the meager food. Yet, he felt the Presence here, and whispered coachings from every darkened hall. Only yesterday he had come across Brother Paul lying prostrate on the stone slabs for more than twelve hours. Rolling him over, fearing him dead, had provided surprise. For the look in his eyes was worth a life's torment.

"But is it for me?"

His thought drifted away from the ordained prayers to his new friend of the forest. "Kiyan, is that your real name?" he thought. "I am surrounded here by people of faith and practiced piety," he mused. "But I have never met a Holy person outside the Church before!" He shuddered at the blasphemy.

The whisperings of the villagers had told him of the Gusari's return. Aldon felt ashamed over the revelation that a few moments with the traveler affected him more than the teachings of his Abba. His calling to the path of the Order was strong, but the song of the Gusari drew from deep in his chest. "Is that where the soul resides?" He gather his simple garments and sneaked down the hall.

Father Stephan was his mentor and confessor. More than that, he was large and blocked the door! Even closed, the hinged planks could not prevent the scents of life from invading the cloistered stench. "Out, out", his spirit called in unvoiced rebellion.

His friend had already turned the key!

"Would you accept a blessing for your mission?"

"Do you know then where I go?'

"Yes, we all Know. We have heard the pulse and chant and cry of that tortured self. We send out prayers, but he calls to you."

"Do you know him then?"

"Once long ago, I traveled with an entourage of the Duke. We were set upon by six bandits who killed our guard, and I feared for my life. The Gusari appeared and quickly dispatched two and the others fled. I would have thanked him, but he knelt there in the dust weeping over his foe. They drew me away with shrugs and palatable fear. The rest is legend."

"I must know of this if I am to learn from him -- or should I not go?"

"You are blessed, my son, to feel the song of his heart, and if you can be a source of peace for him, then go - go. Our Lord speaks to us in voices we cannot always understand. I do not understand this Gusari friend of yours, but I also know that I must not bar your way."

"Tell me what little you know then, please."

"He was raised and trained to be a shaman of his people, an anointed one by markings and prophecy. While on a journey of "joining", I know not what that means, his entire tribe was slaughtered by raiders -- Huns some say. It is said that he dug 80 graves with his own hands and refused any aid. He walks now with the weight of those souls in his rucksack and his strength is immense. I sense that his tears are a more powerful prayer than any I mumble on bended knee."

Aldon wandered through a section of forest new to him but was not lost. The yearning of his soul and scent of smoldering ash drew him on. When he discovered the mystic, the man was not alone, and the monk felt strangely surprised that others were drawn there. "Stupid! What vanity for me to want to possess his spirit. My brother, glad am I to find you well!"

"I am not sure you will be pleased when your willful pride drags you into these fallen leaves. Why should I wish to spend any time with a confounded spirit?

"I said nothing, which turned out to be the best answer."

"Did you bring bread? I have some nuts, here, and raison cakes and radishes! I have been waiting."

"Bread yes -- but mostly I bring myself. My spirit is prepared for a feast."

"Dine then with me. I will draw from the strength of your youth and faith. I will sing to your spirit"

The droning strum of the Gusli easily blended with the mystery of the night.

Thoughts on campfires...

2006-05-05T20:57:00.000-07:00

When I was a child in Ireland, my mother usually struggled to cook on a temperamental little Primus burner, that had to be primed and pumped with determination before it would fire up - when it defeated her, my father would laugh and put it away and light a campfire. He'd let it form glowing ashes, then tuck potatoes in around the edge and cook some fish or bacon in a frypan. While we ate, he and his brothers would sing and play old Irish songs. These were the best meals I remember.

We moved to England in the 50s and my mum got a portable gas stove which did everything well, even cooked Christmas dinner. But we often joined the gypsies, who always made my father welcome, around their camfires and relived old times, frying fish in butter and hacking off thick slices of local bread.

When we first came to Australia we were delighted to find that the travelling showmen had a campfire tradition as well. The best campfires of all were those set up by the Maori Troubadors, a group of singers and dancers whose show attracted huge crowds during showtime. During the day, they would bury half a pig in a fire pit, and at night, they would light the fire and invite their friends to join them. They too would sing and play under the stars, not the country and western and romantic ballads they presented in the show, but beautiful stirring Moari music that soared into the night.

My dear brother in law Sonny Neville was a musician and a master guitar player. he loved our camp fires and we knew whenever he came to visit us after we settled down, that we would have to light the fire and bake the potatoes. Sonny would sing and play for us from his amazing pepertoire of rock, ballads and spanish love songs. When he died, the music ended for a while, but now our son Chris is learning to play the guitar, so we will have music again.

We continue with the campfires - they are mostly in the backyard now, but ocacasionally at the beach. I guess this is one tradition that will never be forgotten in our family.

Quiet Story

2006-05-05T02:26:00.000-07:00

It is quiet about the campfire,
couples huddled close – no strangers here.
The frenetic dancing done,
communal dishes relished – gone;
wine changing to a drifting brandy flask.

“tell us a story, papa” whispered command.

I ponder on the quiet …
Easter past and Lenten lessens
easily forgotten. I reflect on Jeshua’s
quit times also – those missing 20 years,
now subject of pulp fiction.

a story then,

FALLING

"Mother, do you have a scrap of cloth that I can use as a bandage wrap?"

"Let me see -- oh, a rather nasty scrape! But see there -- some bits of grass and sand. Go and wash well in the stream and I will prepare. I still have some salve that Aunt Martha sent. She had it blessed. Go quickly. ---- No, do not run! The neighbor's animals need not be disturbed because of your clumsiness. Walking the path deliberately and carefully will bring you back directly. Please your mother, now!"

"That was truly pleasant. I washed downstream from the others, too. And there I found some newly budding flowers of a type I have not known. I will return in summer and gather some for your table. I wondered why you did not have me cleans the wound here, with water from the well. But you are wise, as always, dearest mistress."

"You, safely at my table, Jeshua, is all I desire. What was it this time? Rescuing a bird or swinging from a tree with those shepherd boys?

"I was helping young Timothy into that tall tree by the southern gate to climb with the older boys. It proved more difficult than I supposed. "Anyway, he was not injured."

"He is the one with only one foot from the cart accident last fall?"

"Yes, but he is strong and is learning to laugh again! He must exercise his pain."

"That too is why I sent you to the stream. You must take care that the scab does not stiffen and become inflexible. You will need your knee when we go to prayer."

"Inflexible? You mean like Rabbi Elam -- with teachings like stone. My Father is vibrantly alive, and we can pray as well seated here on Joseph's bench as in the synagogue."

"None the less, we will go -- to be with the others and support them in their prayers, if nothing else. Often the gift of companionship is the greatest sacrifice of all."

"Yes, Mother. -- Are there any dates left?"

"You can wait! We will dine before the reddening hours as Joseph needs your help to deliver the new table to the Roman home on the hill."

"Last time they gave me a pomegranate. I will bring it to you. It is like a little world inside, so much work just to get a simple prize."

"You make me laugh my son, and it cheers the hidden corners of my heart. But I have been musing here. Now, our magnificent Father above lifts the tiny wren into the wind and gives it shelter under a leaf in a storm. Why then did you fall?"

"Dearest Mother, if I had called up to Father to have Timothy float gently to the ground, he would not learn, but would try to climb again. When I caught and broke his fall as a friend, and gained this scrape by reward, I became a better man and so did he.

Look, the sun has touched the hill."

Farewell, dear fellow traveller

2006-05-04T01:30:00.000-07:00

Leonie, you will be sorely missed, and the candle lit to remember you by will never be extinguished in my heart, where the flame of those who touched my life burns in perpetuity. Lead the way my friend, travel with carefree abandon and in peace, where all of us will one day rejoin you.

Forward - a thought poem

2006-05-03T14:42:00.000-07:00

transcendent life
through birth
existence,
experience
toil, grief,
joy
all the colours
of passion
presented
each moment
for the reaping
youth hesitates
considers
agonizes

death provides transport
to the other side
of a stony wall
the reaper
moves
gracefully
back and forth
delivering
essences
of friends
enemies alike
to the other side
fear wonders
what if I?

more fellow
travellers,
since passed
generations removed
from life newly made
taking spent mortal remains,
most sadly too
those with lives
far to short
grief will
wonder
why?

there
not so
far from here
stands a wall
a wall not there
when I was young
of cold dark stone
evoking fear
and nostrils
sensing the sweetly acrid
stench of death
I have learned the limits
of mortality

the wall of
stoney perception
what was
set in motion
is not mortal
but eternal
so I too shall pass
delivered by
my new confidant
the dark gowned
figure
through stones of
not stone
but ether
knowing
as we are grieved
we are also joyfully
received

as days pass
fear grows
the reaper now stand closer
rarely am I out
of the dark figure's gaze
time moves
only forward
and the stones of the wall
again reveal
they are but ether
after all

in the reapers gaze
I stand and now look back
without fear
he now is
a familiar
a companion
encouraging acceptance
now as age advances
all senses
and all colour
mindfully yet
unhesitatingly
mine

the wall while marking a line
between the mortal and
eternal
offers
joy
reuniting
spirits of
familiar souls
to continue in eternity
forward
here in the mortal world
the legacies
of lives lived
continue in ripples
eternity offers
no here or there
only forever

without fear
now
all senses
all colour
unhesitatingly
mine
each moment
a small piece of
the eternal
in body or ether
I am

aletta

For Leonie, till we meet again.

Silky Comes to Dance With Us

2006-05-03T04:45:00.000-07:00

Leonie love the Magic Faraway Tree. She told me it was one of her favourite childhood books. All of us who loved the Faraway Tree loved sweet, gentle Silky. Silky has come up from the tree especially to be here and dance within the magic circle that is filled with love.

Goodbye Leonie

2006-05-03T03:15:00.000-07:00

Lotus Moon

Come dance by the Gypsy fire,” she said;
where the Sage speaks of forgotten words,
and candles play with mimsy shadows,
‘neath the Lotus Moon and your tears.

I finger ruby shoes round my throat –
a talisman of time’s tapestry;
extending my arms in expectation,
and clutch at her mem’ried melody.

Guitars purr in gossamer moonlight,
and my feet prance in driven dream –
and she glides with me in the glomming
while soft petals swirl in the night.

Circle dance

2006-05-02T23:23:00.000-07:00

time to go…
they say the journey is a long one:
change of robes

-Roshu

Dedicated to Leonie - by Megan Warren

2006-05-02T14:49:00.000-07:00

work of Megan Warren 2006

For Leonie - From Karen Roberts

2006-05-02T14:29:00.000-07:00

We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic
Hark, now hear the sailors cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic
And when that fog horn blows I will be coming home
And when that fog horn blows I want to hear it
I don't have to fear it
I want to rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
Then magnificently we will float into the mystic
And when that fog horn blows you know I will be coming home
And when that fog horn whistle blows I got to hear it
I don't have to fear it
I want to rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
And together we will float into the mystic...

Van Morrison

Much love to her wonderful soul on the next phase of her journey...Karen Roberts

The Last Dance With Me

2006-05-02T06:18:00.000-07:00

We had laughed and cried and said
we would dance for many more years Leonie
But... the fates intervened
with their scissors
snipping the thread of life so suddenly

So, I'm dancing for you now, as I have never danced before
Leading the celebration of your life
Here in the Gypsy Camp.

Form a circle everyone
And dance the last dance with us.