Happy Birthday, Vi

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.

More Snow

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...

I thought you might like to come along

Peace for Papa

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

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

seeded by Fran's freefall writing course

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

New Gypsies are arriving in the Gypsy Camp and

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

Make yourself at home...

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.

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.