She wore a ribbon red as flame,
he carved her secret in his name.
They danced beneath the open skies,
with stars like lanterns in their eyes.
The campfire laughed, the horses swayed,
the fiddles sang while nightbirds prayed.
Their vows were stitched with whispered thread,
"Till death," they swore, "no tears to shed."
But Fortune's wheel turned rough and wild--
the lawman came to claim their child.
A fortune-teller saw too late--
the cards had sealed a crooked fate.
They rode like ghosts through iron rain,
the mountains swallowed up their pain.
Yet dawn betrayed their broken flight--
two shadows fell in dying light.
The caravan still hums their song,
a love too bright, a loss too strong.
And every fire that gypsies light,
still weeps for them across the night.
Some say when midnight paints the skies,
you'll hear their laughter where it lies--
two spirits twirling hand in hand,
forever free across the land.
Along the road where moonbeams spill,
the gypsy wagons wander still.
Their lanterns swing like fireflies caught,
each wheel a whisper, each song a thought.
The fiddler hums a ghostly tune,
that weaves beneath the weeping moon.
A tambourine keeps time with dreams,
and horses wade through silver streams.
No map can mark the path they tread,
no stone remembers where they led.
They chase the winds, they court the skies,
with fortune shining in their eyes.
And if you chance to hear their song,
it means your heart won't rest for long.
For once you glimpse the roaming stars,
your soul will follow gypsy scars.
A shored life
awakes the old
patience is a virtue
a wondrous light
a way for the world
one way passage
yielding trifles
abundant returns
nameless faceless
novelties in scrolls
constant to air
The Book of Life
accounts tallies
clearly visible
hidden from sight
chance of a lifetime
warps through glass
bottled sealed.
The road seems endless
Nighttime quickens fear
Unfamiliar, a stranger
In this bus
The air, humid and thick
With danger, angry
Glances swim upstream
Avoiding fallen hate
At first, some were friendly
As hours and days passed
They disappeared, maybe
Changing direction, or
Means of transport, as
Streetcars rattled down the
Middle of the road, always
Heading back to sadness
Women keep their heads
Cloaked tightly, not drawing
Attention, counting on safety
In numbers, various maladies
Afflicted many, silently praying
God is leading them to help
At various moments, fights break
Out, angry words, punches, flotsam
Sometimes wildly swinging knives
Clanging off the sides, a middle
Peace ensues, imaginary walls
Erected, unspoken truce shifts
Uncomfortably
The end, unknown...
Caravan
You don’t pick radishes.
You pull radishes, bent over
Workin’ backwards, ten hours.
Rubber band ‘em by the dozen
Bushel full, boss pays eight bits.
Twenty bushel good day.
Band 99 cents at the Kroger.
Make it to America, land
Of opportunity. Walk for
Your children, pull for your
Grandchildren.
Copyright 2018 Paul M Thomson
The earthly experience, a creature of emotion.
Counting the turning of worlds, the ecstatic whirling.
The Knowing in near real-time, making the heightened moment.
To read of yourself in print, detailing your fifteen minutes.
All of the revolutions, each one nearing the last one.
When the mind learns the secrets, of persistent illusions.
The unexpected dreaming, speaks of new destinations.
A new soul experience, with agonies and ecstacies.
Each dimension a bit higher, the actors are more refined.
Where there is learned the next phase, of becoming who you are.
On the eternal caravan, of life among stars!
================= Caravan Tea
From Russia with love
smoky fires guard our sleep
precious mountain leaves
GINSU-KNIFE EASTPORT , MAINE USA
Russian caravan tea is one of my favorites.
Strong and dark ... smoky.
Im sitting by the fire with the travelers with each sip.
The world around us is already running out.
We feel it in the air shyly,
After all, lies the caravan already on the loose,
And a terrible pain somewhere howls wistfully.
People will fill in the gaps everywhere,
And proudly bear the seal of loneliness.
Lucky caravan us lies in the dark,
How long will the prophecy last?
Prophets are welcome on our planet
They broadcast everything with their mouths.
We should not believe them, they are not responsible
For what people will do later.
The call in the shower no longer touches,
Only initiates see clearly,
That the caravan incites enmity,
Lies and deception are his fuel.
That caravan goes about unknown,
Our worries will sing and lull us to sleep
Will include a record of false melodies
And yet it will deceive a sensitive heart.
Seems just like yesterday when all this began
From a wee one on a tricycle to today on a divan
Recalling those days
Of a long-ago place
When the world seemed simpler on life's caravan
Apt 4
Black Door
Next Door neighbors moved out
Week before last
Citing strange noises
Rotten stench and an unruly pet
And the fact they had never seen , spoken nor met
Human nature is to speculate
But why waste the energy and time
No foul,
No crime
Until the door is kicked in
And the body's are found
Lying face down
As the children are taken into protective custody
Just another tale gone bad
Swapping Apt 4 in Trailer Park Suburbia
For Cell No 4
And a Heroin Needle
For 1 Final
Lethal Injection
The End
Amen
Beyond a sandstorm’s gritty veil,
A solitary Bedouin,
Like a ghost in a sea of dunes,
Rides slowly along in the dusk.
The singing of rababah strings
Mimic the cooling evening winds;
Tambourines and flutes sound sadly
From the oasis where he’s bound.
His caravans once wound their ways
From the Atlas to the Tigris,
Trudging across the somber sands
Of a boundless and barren realm.
O Bedouin, where are thy tracks?
No hooves clatter in the wadis;
No trail of rotting camel dung.
O Bedouin, where are thy ways?
O Bedouin does your dirah
Yet teem with goat and camel flocks,
Since you have settled in the towns,
Which you once heaped with scorn and mocked?
O noble herdsman once so proud,
Tightly wrapped up in culture’s shroud,
Are you bottled up like the Djinn;
Forced to serve those who hemmed you in?
The rosy mirage of freedom
Is like a scarlet evening light
That paints the clouds with fiery hopes
Which fade in thralldom to the night.
In the shimm’ring empty distance
Of a vast central Asian steppe,
A faint and formless shape appeared.
A soundless mass of black and brown
Rose like a djinn from out the dust
Of the long traveled Great Silk Road.
As it drew closer on its course,
Under a wide and hot noon sky,
That vague and slowly swaying shape
Cloned a train of two-humped camels,
And dark-faced nomads robed in blue,
Who marched in sync with Borodin.
On they trekked toward Samarkand
With their load of silks and spices,
Mixing sounds of bells and voices;
Indifferently passing by
To vanish in a distant haze
As do so many of our days.
The Sheep are nearly to the gate
but seem to wait, their shepherd’s late,
some are bleating loudly now,
others grazing, humbly bow
some are wandering far away
Shepherd unaware they stray
some seem to blame the lowing cows
caravanning from the south
escaping slaughterhouses foul
her calves are bleating weakly now
mother, tired, licks their brow
hoping shepherds from the North
will meet them kindly with food and work
she doesn't see the sharp pitchforks
and what these shepherds have in store..
Desperate people moving
Fleeing heartbreak and despair
Traveling towards the land of opportunity,
Seeking shelter from harsh rulers,
Seeking peace and a better life.
Who knows what I seek within me,
In a heap of ashes
neither there is a flame nor any spark.
That passion to live has cooled down,
That fervor to strive and struggle,
My fiery spirit has bowed prone
under the mere weight of grief and woe.
Weary of life's mundane existence
Neither do I fight my fate now
Nor cherish any desires anymore;
Destined to endure this mortal life
I roam across the barren expanse of desert
looking for a guiding trail
in this ever shifting sands of time.
Life, bid me adieu,
Death, hold my hand!
Cast out of the eternal caravan
I gaze longingly at the
rising clouds of dust in its wake.
Oh, It will be a rude awakening
from the cradle of humanity
to repose in the womb of eternity!
~A Brian Strand's contest.
~09/28/18
~"I Wander the Desert Alone" contest
Sponsor Edward Ibeh
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