Gipsy Poems | Examples

That Note

How glad I could be if, like the teaching of the Gita
I can renounce the fruits of each of my tireless labour.
Being a long way from the perfection of Lord Krishna
Midst lost gifts, I'd seek my son's note that I value greater

As boyish, buoyant naughtiness navigated his road
Fun and frolic outwitted his fervour for true wisdom.
Roaming carefree, like a hippy, his youthful trails he trod
My hopes for him were hushed like the glows of a broken prism.

He grew up with his mother dead; I was his all in all.
My chides pierced his heart, which, I know, might be like a knife.
Like a gipsy, with a note, he left; didn't write or call.
That precious note is lost; I feel as though I've lost my life.

Silver, gold, or gems would never match a paternal bond.
Though in the travails of time, bonds tend to fly far beyond

Oasis

Xanadu! Heaven in a desert! Rest of the restless!
Where the Almighty reveals a gleam of his gorgeous glimpse
Where nature reaches out her healing hands to the helpless
Where the sprig sources and freshwater fountains have their whims

Isn't Oasis a constant component of my mind?
Doesn't it flow, flood, and form a fertile soil for the soul?
Isn't it—in thoughts, words, and deeds—compassionate and kind?
Doesn't it mould my existence and give me a grand goal?

As I tread on trails of terrain, Mountains, plateaus, and plains
As a saint, sage, nomad, or gipsy seeking psychic truth
It's the oasis of hope that soothes my fatigue and pains
Strengthening each of my steps; making the roughest roads smooth

We need not walk miles, dear friends; Oasis is in our midst.
In daily virtues and values, like blood in flesh, it's mixed.

Intermezzo

Intermezzo

I was in Huelva in 1958, a poverty-struck town in Spain
there were Tivoli carrousels and all that
I met a beautiful gipsy girl barefoot in the dust.
We laughed a lot; I don’t know why and she kissed me
passionately in the park.
Her father came, he was grim, she cried, to mollify him
I gave my Ronson gas lighter, no one else on the ship 
had a lighter like this.
The father was pleased but walked off with his daughter
 and my lighter
 That’s ok 40 years later, I stopped smoking

Gipsy Dance Under the Moon

With all bonfires lit
serenade moon from above
applauds  gypsy dance

The Drunken Rogue

I am drunk, stoned, woozy and tipsy
Drinking beer, brandy and whiskey,
Swinging with abandon like a gipsy.
Kinda crazy, sozzled but hella merry…
Ha, Mary, kiss me! And Yo Sherry,
Your luscious lips, red as a ripe cherry…
Yoo-hoo, life could be a ding-a-derry.

The unsavory past is but long forgotten
Life’s more fun now and not at all rotten
The hurt is bearable and the pain lessen
Since flirting with this devious devil often
Brings me bliss and heartaches soften.

Like little children laugh, dance and sing
All summer, winter, autumn and spring,
With a passionate heart I bid you to bring
lots of hugs, kisses and joyful yodeling.



~A Brian Strand contest.

Contest: Addiction
Sponsor: Rob Levasseur

A Display of Exposition

A huge swing, swirling into unknown, burying whims one by one 
A droplet of tear touches a  small hand, a tiny world in reflection
Its silent roar touches a faded glory, a forgotten dream of a long lost song
I see lights in darkness, as  you said, dreams do not spellbound life for long
Zero balance of zero hour, a math of a balanced ebb of egotistic foolish try  
Burned out soul of ashes still utter for yet another chance, another huge cry
mon rêve depuis longtemps oublié! Signature of time tricked in a strange way.
Gipsy clouds won’t wait for a fossilized past , disasters of a blackened dismay,
Still remains , an undecided moment , the beginning of an inevitable lullaby 
Life is nothing but a vanishing story, an effort of  chapters soaked in wishful try.
Alarm  of reality never derail a dreamer, quite a success in his long expedition
I will meet you there, my empty box of soothing dreams, a display of exposition.

Corona Poem

‘Corona’ you ‘old gipsy man’
Crowned over humanity, victorious
Ushering Coleridge’s Angel of death - the LADY with
Bright red-lips and dead-white-skin? 
Caging people and casting spell? 

You anchored the coast of every continent,
Fueled with hasty vengeance, 
Counting the cost of all who 
Live up, 
Who, cannot give up,
In formidable quarantine. 

So sweet a name you are ‘corona’
Charm laden attire, lovely to look 
In the electronic microscope,
As if a witch has assumed a princess. 

You taught us,
Sweet touches are sour,
Breathing, spills venom,
Sneezing, sparks bio-bomb,
Kiss is an atomic explosion! 

Now people are zombies,
Or the fire spitting dragons.
Staying at a gap, they fear their kind —
Not even safe is the mother’s lap,
So altered is the human map.

Musk-dances are so real, and
Gloves are not for sub-zero chills.
You gave us a bio-chemical riddle,
And, we are still solving.

Prayer: Don’t get me please as I have written 
So sour things about you,
Don’t get us for 
We know not, how to fight
Aliens, so tiny.
Wait and don’t catch any life
Until we know you better,
Spare! Spare and spare.

Talking About Plagiarism

I plagiarized a verse
           Japanese,
          that was copied on
           Australia,
          later it was recited
           In Rome,
          until being censored
          in Arabia ...
          I stole a gipsy poem
          that was transcribed
          in sanskrit,
          went through the package leaflet
          in Africa,
          and ended up here
          in the nook ...
          Everything I write
          is played ...
          All i say
          It has been said ...
          Nothing what
          we poet,
          it's unheard of ...
          Everything here or there,
          It's plagiarism!

First Love

I want to die because of sorrow.
I wish I embrace you before joining the death row.
I`m ready to god taking everything I gain.
So that I can be with you one more day again.

Before you my life was meaningless.
Before you I didn't know what love is.
I am your gipsy, your pilgrim.
You are the key to my destine.

You are the first love; you, the last one 
My whole life is you, you the only one
You are the pure love God gifts me.
You were my love and you will be.

Late Summer - Gipsy Violinist

ate summer - gipsy violinist

In the immense mass of a green leaves
flashed the red and yellow ones
The promise of a change
  messengers of the Fall
In the air floated certain undertones
of a melancholy and decay

The melody, as a raging river
owerfloaded from a trembling strings
The Violin sobbed with a plainitive note
its voice, penetrating 
as an eye of a Sphinx
sent the shiver down my spin 
and left the rest of me afloat. 

The gipsy man drove his bow
as if it was a Devils tool
an arrow shot from the Hell
The moves stabbed to the heart 
and pierced humans soul
and he kept playing
for few coins  and understanding smile.

The whole day resonated with the joy
of a meadow if is filled
with the music of  birds
 and humming bees.
and with griefs 
of dusty roads and endless journeys
With a passions  
of the night under twinkling stars
with the beauty of a nomad life
with the secret of a fortune teller
with an eternal damnation.

Once a Seafarer

Once a Seafarer 
I was thinking of my life as a seafarer endless
voyaging like a gipsy of the seas.
It was the best of times because I was young
but was also the worst of times being without
a woman for months on end. 
I was a lousy seaman really didn`t blend in 
Preferred reading in my cabin and got a higher
education without trying or knowing it, yes 
I`m grateful to so many writers they gave my life
a meaning on the ocean of colossal ennui.
I came alive when the ship docked, and I could go 
ashore, cold lone star beer in Houston and 
dance with a cowgirl or a midnight swim with 
a woman in Honduras.

As I got older little could assuage my boredom
the drink became both friend and enemy, washed up
on the shore of Portugal, here I got up  drank a cold
beer built my house on solid earth and dreams.

Evening and Horses

Evening and horses 
I`m walking on the bottom of an ancient sea
The bottom is flat and rich in grapes and cabbage.
The used to be a lake here, but it disappeared
What is left is a small stream that gets its water from
Water below. On the lake that was, and no longer is
Helicopter pilots practice take-off and landing 
Some gipsy horses graze nearby and ignore the noise 
The choppers make- I took a picture of one going in
For landing, it belongs to the fire department, many fires
During the hot summer, some fires need to burn 
And some fires are caused by pyromaniacs. 
But never mind I will see my doctor at the hospital tomorrow 
She is like a beautiful race horse on the wrong side of fifty,
She is forever telling me what not to eat; she told me curry 
Was fattening once and I said nothing on her desk there is
A picture of her husband he is a pilot.

My Flame-Haired Gypsy Maid

On Summers eve-you danced by night
On sweet-scented breeze by the campfires light
Your flaming hair-locks swirling wild-
desires and passion you did rile.
My Gypsy maid from Clare's sweet paths
from Donegal to Dublin's streets-
and a brothel there called Clancy's Meat.
You tease me wildly my Gypsy flame-
you enthral my being with your game-
You tempted the man-of another's wife
Into his heart you plunged your knife-
my Gypsy Maid from Clare's sweet paths.
There was a Galway lass so fine
but you stole me away from her-
then broke my heart my Gipsy maid.
My money so-you so freely took-
left me poor-as poor could be
my Galway lass so far from me.
Where are you now my Gypsy maid-
are you dancing round another's fire
as you fill his heart with false desire
Or are you back in Clancy's Meat-
charming those you choose to greet.
a poem/song by john scott

The Golden Lighter

The Golden Lighter

I met her in a small Spanish coastal town
she was a gipsy and barefoot in the dust
a flowering skirt and laughter.
I was 18 years old and knew with certainty 
this was the love I had been looking for
dark eyes and lips slightly apart I could see 
her perfect teeth, yes, she loved me too.
She might have been Juliet, but I was no 
Romeo, her father, came took my lighter and
told me to stay away from his daughter.
This was the moment when I should be strong
and fight to get my lighter back or the girl.
went back onboard and pretended I had lost it.

Fortune Teller

A young damsel was,
Walking in the green forest,
Searching for the old gypsy,
Known by palm readings,
Predicting about present,
With a great accuracy.

The gipsy told to,
The damsel that if she wants,
To predict her future life,
Only have to look,
How was living nowadays,
To know the foresight foresee.


For Sedoka rhyme poetry
Sponsored by Laura Loo
Third Place
1-3-2016

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