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,
on a well-stretched tambourine.
The merchant moved with confidence,
assurance in his gait;
with a smile so well advertised,
it overlapped distinction
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,
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 Chapter III Pine Cone Diaries