Tag Archives: Gypsy

Self-Deskovery

I miss the road trips
Destination: Me
Always looking to find,
Looking to see,

Look at me now.

I’ve been here,
Been grounded,
But in my stillness
I’m astounded

Hounded by me.

This pen doesn’t aid,
Doesn’t trace my lines
Or uncover my being;
It just reminds me

Of the kinds of me
I’ve already found.


Bricolage

There is a wildness in me
An ocean in a bottle
With a moist cork, I see
I stand a suppressed model
Of practicality,
Revving for full throttle
But for the wake of brutality
And all forgot, all
Sacrificed to creativity,

But there is something wild in me
And still it grows, and still I thirst
For open fields, and free
Paints, and notes, and words
And time and space to feed
What be the best or worst
Or wildest escapee-
All unheard, and all unversed,
La Pensée Sauvage will be.


The Greater Good

In all my days of wandering,
Wending through water and wood,
For every move I made I
Mustered what courage I could,
Closing my eyes, and holding my breath
Putting foot, by foot, to ground
And while my fear was never lost,
Some little bravery was found.
On the outskirts of each town,
I buried my farewells.
Just enough courage to leave them,
But never enough to tell
And once I left a city,
I cut it from my map,
Because there was never any forward,
If there was ever any back.
All the friends I found along the way,
I left littered on every street,
Because the brave are always advancing,
The brave do not retreat
But each friend spoke into my heart,
And all their words remained,
And all my tiny footfalls
Left the echoed words unchanged.
And every word begged me
To change my wandering ways,
And every time they welcomed me
To make a home- to Stay.
Still I continued headway,
Step, by step, by step,
Until, in shock and wonder,
I found those who could accept
All my failed goodbyes,
And the worst I can be.
Friends who superseded,
Who survived as family.

Now in all my many travels,
And ever did I roam,
Nothing took more courage
Than learning to come home.


Just Geography

We’ve been following old roads,
Carrying old loads,
Passed from hands to hands and
Shouldering demands
We can’t understand.

We’ve been drinking elixirs,
Looking for fixers,
Someone who’s handy with some spackle
Someone to tackle
Our old rusted shackles.

We’ve been roving all night,
Packing light,
A coin in the cap
And no home on the map,
For a return lap.

We’ve been getting older,
But never bolder,
Never bold enough to turn around,
To stare the years down,
To drive a stake in a piece of ground.

The wanderer is a language,
A song of anguish
That passes through trees,
Gets heard, gets forgotten, leaves
Before the next breeze

Reminds of whats and whens
Without the whys.