Tiny tinsel twining there,
suspended in the evening light,
gathers dew as lovers drawn,
to feed the soul,
to feed the night.
Hearts across a universe,
descend the heavens,
defining dew drop’s kiss,
Yet angel’s wings are stranger things
when to the mortal touch be blessed,
shape a heart in labyrinth,
embracing hope with truth confessed.
But not of mortal love alone,
but of a simple heart’s desire
to warn the soul,
to kindle kind
the ashes of love’s fire.
that once has burned
within a mortal beating heart,
is lashed to love again,
until an angel takes the part
to free the anguish and the grief,
to carry life’s own burden grown,
to bear the weight and frame eternal,
to swiftly lift sweet love toward home.
Dew drops stacked in waiting,
upon the tiny tinsel there…
just souls in longing love’s return,
suspended in the evening air…
Steel my aching love of thee,
rent your fabric from my dreams,
quell the sudden upstarts’ shift
that pulls the threads from hidden seams.
Cast a cold and pallor stare
befitting of a graveside rain,
shred the memories of my soul
that I may come to love again.
Deny your silken beauty
to fabric of an eon’s dust,
count your blushing smile within
the dog eared pages histories trust.
Bathe my memory empty,
white washed before the bleaching sun,
that ere I come to see you
will fade before my heart can run.
Twist the ink by such a spell
to ne’er reflect the prose I’ve stayed,
dump the feathered drunkard well
till pools of black are left and played.
For thee I count among the dead,
tho’ ghostly still, by living haunt,
‘til in my fear, to see you,
is truly all I really want.
This arc, this life, in tempest,
calls to intersecting points of soul,
embracing love for focal point
yet claiming just one point to hold.
In glancing time and calculus
by gravity bound, inertia stays
to bend our lives through space and time,
to bend our love and minds in ways
that mathematics can’t resolve,
physics can’t portray, define.
Yet souls alive through living draw
the force of love in lines.
Towards setting sun I strike a pose
in chase of dusk’s last errant kiss,
clinging tight to hope, disposed,
dreaming in the sweetest bliss
of light remembered,
duty bound while love enthralled
across an ochre meadow, this.
Barley wisps ignite the lea
crowned in long ray’s amber fire,
blinding what I strive to see,
as stirrups stretch in raising higher
to glimpse the spark,
lift the veil,
find my love across this dell,
there chance to win her arms, retire.
Eternity my shortest day
hath called me from the tomb and grave
to burden deep my soul to stay,
to ride upon eternal wave
of amber field,
of setting sun,
to nearly see the face, the one
who’s love I couldn’t save.
Toward dusk I strike a hopeful pose,
dreaming of her one last kiss,
belay a sudden scent of rose
to carry home my heart, remiss
of pain endured,
beyond the tide,
at dream within this errant ride,
across this golden meadow’s bliss…
Eternally I ride…
Cast betwixt two drifts of wind my sorry soul did drown,
torn between two lover’s tides, in confluence, pulled me down
beneath these waves of temporal flux, be cast to love’s deep purpose,
where only I can pay the debt, one hundred years be tied to service.
In penance to all breaking hearts that I may mend their shattered hopes,
forever ‘neath the northern star, forever pulling frozen ropes.
No reference to horizon made that I my debt delay,
held beyond sweet morning’s dawn, denied each glimpse of day.
Cast I wreck from havoc to belay a pardon’s sweet remorse
that these poor souls adrift here, by me, return their course.
So to love or death they go with fractured hearts amend,
yet of the shards here left behind unto my selfish purpose lend
a hope that love may still await when placed within my own,
that penanced years of servitude may build a heart, so grown.
Yet still the seas of love do crash, deliver me their broken hopes,
as time stands still beneath this pole, these frozen hands on frozen ropes.
Her silken touch in dance across the twill’s uneven strand,
graces so her slender wrist as beauty’s stem and giving’s hand.
Poised in quiet pleasure, she works the loom in quickened throws
of shuttle passing twixt the threads which capture kind the weft in rows.
Her mind and heart deny the task that binds this simple weave,
permits her drift on whispered tones of gypsy songs that pitch and heave
through stories of the rover, of hearts won true seduced by song,
of verdant green and rolling rills that tempt a maiden’s heart strings long.
Between the woven threads of twill she hears a whistling soft and sweet
that slowly grows above the hill, its timber and its tone complete.
She feels the green wood gently ring in echo ‘cross the valley’s rill,
till nearer from the shady lane she feels her heart give rise, then still…
“But for gypsy rover!” she laughs and pulls the warp lines tight,
“One day he’ll yet come for me!” smiles and casts the shuttle’s flight
between the warp suspended threads, sweetly bound by loving hand,
blended with the rover’s song still tempting maidens through the land.
In honor of and inspired by the song “The Whistling Gypsy” also known as “The Gypsy Rover”
There’s a song in the heart of my lover
that stems the wake of crashing truth,
that holds my soul suspended
here upon a glimpse of youth.
There’s a truth in the laud of her sweetness,
that holds my child between the days,
that keeps my raging spirit calm
within her soft and kindest gaze.
There’s a love in the eye of my truest,
that speaks to me in volumes sung,
that dreams the moments’ dreams with me,
that holds this world in sum
of all we know in each other,
of all we ever hope to be,
of what we know when all else fails…
‘tis here our hearts desire to be.