The poet falls with night in the soul. Her Muse catches her hair, and draws near with soft hands the feel of comfort and love. "Where must I go, and what shall I do?" asks the tired bard. You are the Light, and yet my fingers errantly wave your flames away. My heart lies heavy in these mountains of the moon, and the days of bright sun are oft times unfamiliar and jaunted." Musa smiles through tears as the poet joins with a pained reality spinning downward. "I've no where else to go," Poet screams without voice, choking on the very foliage that grows in frustrated shadows. Hand reaching outward, touching the Muse, an old bardess becomes young and soft once more. Feeling the depth of her heart, the inspiration of her passion lifts a broken body upward, carrying it in those seconds when it cannot carry itself. "For all my living life I may never understand why you love me, my Sweet Muse." "Yet I think on you softly, with fondness of the soul. Your touch, were it water in the cisterns of a spirit, would flood my mind with a breaking heart sort of love that endures through any ache." The Muse smiles, and the tears fade, exchanging themselves with those of the tired scribe. "All I can do is love you." the poet rises to say. "My heart is yours. It always has been . . . it has always said yes to say yes, to you." The smooth tale may crack at times, and my pen might be scarce for ink, but for you, I shall never grow tired of loving; I shall ne'er fall short of needing to feel you wrap around my wounds. Nor shall one ever cease to gently tend and kiss the hurt of your scars. The Poet says further, "This is my gift, and I fear it is all I have, sometimes." "Yet," she whispers, "if my garden were flowered vineyards that bloomed for every second that I am yours in love, then you could walk said garden and tread only on the petals. It is only my song, but it is for you, and only for you, my Love." My body may break and my voice falter, but my hands will never tire of touching you. If your waters were youth-strong, I should drink them, and never grow old. You are Light to me. Nothing in the Universe could be more thankful for you, to you, and because of you, than I. My Muse, my Dearest Heart," Poet whispers . . . when your blood courses, it is mine that runs red with passion. When my lips feel parched, yours swab away the heat of desire. I only have my song, but it is Life, to me. Were Life the coursers of mighty steeds digging across the sea-salt laden beaches of time, then my body would bear you forward, and smile from the mirror at you . . . so sweetened by what I see when to your eyes, mine look. I love you with boundless energies. The times when my voice cracks are pain that I bear . . . but you, my Sweet Musa Mea, you breathe and I come alive . . . once more. URL: http://thegypsyshadow.blogspot.com/2015/05/a-song-to-muse.html

Alone-ness. Swimming the night lake. Shallow and cold, fingers scrape the pebbles of ice. Yet, I will swim. It isn't so much the heart-wrench of one facet; Rather it moves in noxious, choking vapor across many faces that smile steamily at you, all together. Fumes that eviscerate the will and clamp mud blocks on slogging feet. Then from nowhere, the place in your outer consciousness, the projectile and shards fire at your soul and hit it like a sack. The burst comes on impact and the spirit flows out like a drizzling river of blood, pain and ooze effervescing from the place where solace resides. Then there is no more. I know this. I know that this is life. I know that this is this life. I know that this is life and the life in which we are on our own. Grace knew it; they treated her "like a guest." They are not equipped to make the promises real. In their world, you must step quietly, or they will show you how little you are missed when gone. Their frozen-ness does not shake the heart of those they have ensnared And like tin soldiers in a row, those you once knew, those who lived in profound depths with you, no longer remember. This is the part of them that does not recognize you anymore. Like a drop of water on the desert, their tears fall in breaking voice, but no nourishment comes forth. The drop does not crack the floor of dry sand, it is absorbed and forgotten in a finite second, a stroke of the clock's hand. No more a thought than that held by the wind as it blows a leaf from the autumned tree. The leaf once struggled, broke its casing bonds, and lived through the heat and torrent of summer rains. Yet, in an emotionless breath, its life is snuffed. You are that memory, Your efficacy and legacy are just that temporary, they are just that easily shed. In the vacuous lie and the shallow pool of so-called fraternity you dive and smash, break and crumple. You are a mirror without silvering, a shadow in the moonlight. I miss them and hope they know that I am still here. I am whom I say I am. No one need fear the reciprocity of vengeance or the forgetting of my words. I will not return apathy. It shall not poison. You always have a home, here. May you never know what transpires in my heart. For as much as it now sears the soft bag that holds my beating essence, it will not conquer and vanquish what I have to be in order to find my way. That you will always see, even if I cannot see you. I will sense your smile of dismissal and smile back at you with an open heart. I hope they know I am the same. They are beings of my soul and I miss the brush of fur in that spins slowly around to the twilight slip into dreams. Home. I shall find you again, soon. URL: http://thegypsyshadow.blogspot.com/2009/11/fantasy-of-praxis-is-strictly-congruent.html

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Speaking without boundaries, whispers lacking edges, one love speaks to the other . . . “On the day of our vows, these are the unfettered thoughts. Spilled here are the contents of my heart: I hope today that you feel free. I hope that when you are tempest-tossed or encircled by frenzy, you remember to simply recline. My arms will already be around you; my hands will stir an unshakeable peace across the strings of your heart. In any linear thought or imagination of time, in the happiness of bursting laughter, or in the futility of being surrounded by morose sentiment, realize that I love you with all of my being. When across the moments you see my face today, in that place suspended between us, know that your very presence has made a unique and loving mark on my life, and that I will never truly find words to express how much you have meant, and continue to mean, to me. When I think of you, my eyes soften, and the thought makes me smile and feel a safe, warm happiness. And in those moments, I can move mountains . . . no dream is impossible or out of reach . . . simple thoughts of your lovely being make me feel just that invincible. I hope that in turns of moments that happen everyday, but most especially in those today, if someone makes you smile, you smile from the inside out. Can you see how very much I love you? I hope you know that I will always love you, I hope you know that my soul is inextricably tied with yours, and even the kiss of another life's beginning cannot break me away. I hope you know that I want to grow old with you. I want my hands to caress your face when they are old and withered. Even after years, I will still think on you as my strength. In the winter-time of our lives you will be as resplendent and alluring . . . just as simply beautiful as you have ever been to me. No matter how old you are, no matter for myself, I will always feel the most safe, the most loved and content, when I am beside you. I hope you know how I could have never made life so sweet without you, Dear Heart. I hope you know how the Gods in their Heavens have no greater ecstasy in their hearts when they ponder the essence of thankfulness, as I do when I thank them for finding you again. Like the earth when the soft rains fall upon her, I love to feel your presence. Your hands contain the sunlight, and it bursts across my heart in the slightness of your touch. In those mundane moments, when I gaze at you and you’re unaware of my presence, your sweetness makes me smile out loud. When we leave this place, journeying back to our customary lives, my fondest wish is that you will never feel that your steps have been so quiet on the Earth, that your spirit has gone unseen. I see you. And I love what I see.” URL: http://thegypsyshadow.blogspot.com/2010/12/discourses-of-inamoratas-speaking.html

If words were like water, I could drink them from you, No fear would split the night, or slice a mind in two. If words were like food, you could take them inside, They'd assuage all doubts, and the faint heart, override. If words were like crimson, paint the soul they would In red's fiery tempest, and blue's serene hood. If I were more beautiful, there would be ne'er a grasp, Tears would not flow so easily, and a parched throat of desire wouldn't trouble you so with doubt's ugly rasp. My mind, it's own worst enemy, t'wood not wrench and twist, Love would find contentedness, here, not a cuff 'round the wrist. A cuff that lashes back to a winter's discontent, When broken and battered, the heart was almost spent. If words were like weapons, and sliced through time, they could be blocked, by your strong arms, at once, so sublime. This average waif would not need you to often reinforce, what others pulled asunder through searing discourse. If words were like time, regardless of care, No thoughts of loss or tempest-toss would blast with trumpeted blare. Yet they ring in my ears, on the days that I dwell, within this cold outcrop, o'er the sea's raging swell. Here, my feet are like vines, they cannot move with haste, instead they creep slowly into light, but many days, they waste. Waste in an agony so needless . . . and I curse myself for not being stronger, for being a glass vase on a shelf. I do not know why, there is need for such things, I am not special, nor made precious,as rare a gem as one find in silvered rings. In fact, at times I think of no reason you love me at all. Im part-broken, part-mended, but how easily I fall! Fall into pain, into heartache and doubt. One's surprised you don't brush it all away and say to hell with this lout. Nevertheless, were words as so many ribbons of steel, Yours would ring back, on forgetful ears they'd peal. The thoughts you've given, not frequent, I confess, have been genuine and heartfelt, nevertheless . . . Words are often lost when the mind is a-blaze with angst and panick, bricking forward into a road of malaise, Why in the wide world a woman's heart needs such reiteration, her love must wonder, and wait with anticipation. She must question as to why her statements are not recalled, She seems to forget them, One supposes she's most appalled. Appalled at how often, she needs her to say, Why she needs her, why she loves her, what the hell needs MORE say? She's said it before, why does she not now hear, Does she have no memory? Do things not recall in her ear? If words were like the stars, they'd never disappear, They'd simply re-group still alive in another sphere. Word unbroken, and this plain, unworthy woman wouldn't question your mind. Based on her own baggage, she'd just leave it behind. Not easily done, though . . . sloughing off pain and fear The heart seems little more than scarred tissue, When thoughts are unclear. At long last Dear Heart I'm sorry to need such things as I do. Forgive me, my love, but this much is true. To say I love you, is not adequate by far. I see you for the woman, the person, you are. Im a pale shadow, around you I creep. Imagining myself lucky if dreams I enter, as you sleep. Ill be worth it someday, on this you have my vow. I love you for always, forever, and especially right now. Forgive my weakness, my hysteria, and fear. If one weren't so broken at times, they'd never be near. Unfortunate for you, they are mine when sorrow pours, I'm not nearly what one should be, but I offer what is here, without a doubt, I am yours. URL: http://thegypsyshadow.blogspot.com/2012/11/if-words-were-like-water-i-could-drink.html

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe,— Sailed on a river of crystal light Into a sea of dew. "Where are you going, and what do you wish?" The old moon asked the three. "We have come to fish for the herring-fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we," Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. The old moon laughed and sang a song, As they rocked in the wooden shoe; And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew; The little stars were the herring-fish That lived in the beautiful sea. "Now cast your nets wherever you wish,— Never afraid are we!" So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. All night long their nets they threw To the stars in the twinkling foam,— Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home: 'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed As if it could not be; And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea; But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed; So shut your eyes while Mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock in the misty sea Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:— Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. Eugene Field 1850-1895