On the trail to ZoralinQ:

16 Feb

The Merchant and the Gypsy

Oh my God, open my heart so I can see

So that my mind can soul the truth, I know.


Let me resonate the Love that chimes the light

into life and silences darkness by showing me the moon.


I have no lamb to sacrifice nor special gift to wrap.

Let dusk welcome me with the fruits of my day

Let me sleep at Your feet knowing You

and who I am; inseparable through Love.


Awaken me from the shelter of my self

with the vibration that transcends’ my own sound

abundantly impoverished in these words.


A merchant and a Gypsy came dancing through euphoria.

Skipping, banging cymbals thumped and jingled

to the beating of a racing heart.


They skittered here and there,

forwards and backwards,

sliding sideways and all about.


The gypsy with ringing bells

from dangling strings of magic beads

had clipped on her hip, in a loop on her belt,

my image

on a well-stretched tambourine.


The merchant moved with confidence,

assurance in his gait;

with a smile so well advertised,

it overlapped distinction

and recognition

of a very familiar face.


silencing the bells, with permission of the Gypsy

he displayed a wooden pony, which “he had to sell.”


“Rode through heaven and hell; to promises of fulfillment!”

for this moments “Special”.

Winking with sincerity and honesty,

stroking the slightly scorched metallic paint.


with the sweep of his hand and a nod to the Gypsy

came a thumping sound and the resuming of the bells.


Clouding dandelion puffs, pumpkins, and snowballs,

not to mention the “no vacancy sign” in my head,

popped the Gypsy in my face

but at a distant with quite a lot of space.


One arm outstretched rattling her un-clipped tambourine,

painted face playfully disguising her many races

of father, mother, birch, oak, eagle, dove, worm,

excetra, excetra.

flashing images of gala fantasies,

in unimagined mysteries of blended colors

rode the quivering wake of her tambourine.


Mind painted galleries stretched from history

 and pulled from the future to the present.

Music, pottery, healing herbs,

seeds, grain, sand, and necessities;

all found in the scratches

beneath the merchants’, shiny thing.


Starting from her toes to her nose she shook and rattled

erasing the image on her tambourine.


Things started falling out of her pockets

Treasures found on her path; those discarded and forgotten.

fallen through the holes in my pockets.


She was willing to exchange, with me,

these common things;

for things hoarded from the merchant,

not knowing, that I still keep.


He, the merchant, still quite involved,

knowing the value of my inventory,

smiling, completely disagreed to oversee.



There they were!


Their campfire was as bright as the moon that framed them.

I watch the sparks of their fire being poked,

blinking with bright sparkle into a glowing sky;

lifting light from gold to silver to ember and back into dark.

In an eyelid blink

bowing in such graceful arks,

the merchant and the gypsy, exited with my mind.

As the curtain of decision and indecision lowered

I saw the wick of infinity

in the hands of my soul’s standing applause.

The Night Before Breakfast: An Outlaw Journal    Chapter III Pine Cone Diaries   


Posted by on February 16, 2014 in Beginnings, Love, Philosophy, Pine Cone Diaries, Poetry, prose, religion, Zen


Tags: , , ,

8 responses to “On the trail to ZoralinQ:

  1. Sherry Blue Sky

    March 2, 2014 at 1:22 pm

    Wowzers! Back for another read……your opening prayer is breathtaking. And I love the gypsy’s many races! A terrific write!


  2. Sherry Blue Sky

    February 17, 2014 at 6:57 pm

    “so that my mind can soul the truths I know” – what a profound line that is. This is very deep, ZQ, and I read it as attentively as I can. LOVED the opening prayer…….love the story of the gypsies, interspersed with your thoughts. A remarkable offering. Yay!


  3. dsnake1

    February 16, 2014 at 5:55 pm

    what a magical journey. i feel like i am watching a stage play. 🙂


  4. ZQ

    February 16, 2014 at 5:29 pm

    …and also with you.


  5. Gabriella

    February 16, 2014 at 4:13 pm

    The beginning of your poem resonates with me!


  6. brian miller

    February 16, 2014 at 1:37 pm

    her pockets of treasures make me think of my boys and the things they pick up and think are treasures….the wick of infinity…now that sounds rather magical


  7. Mary

    February 16, 2014 at 1:20 pm

    Some fascinating thoughts here, ZQ. Enjoyed them.


  8. Gede Prama

    February 16, 2014 at 12:57 pm

    Well written. May peace be with you 🙂



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