billowing skirt whirls on air
wild and chase, that’s gypsy flair
belly moves like ocean wave
in the rhythm of each octave
swirls and sways with bouncing feet
synchronizes with every season’s hit
night and day never quits
flowing recklessly in her own beat
Czardas plays; the gypsy’s swoon
with the bow and string, swaying.
Wordless wistfulness razing the moon.
Naked feet, in the camp’s dust, straying.
Brunette length, vivacious features, glistening.
Prismatic skirt, round and round, flows
with perfect curvature, lilting, listening,
obeying the violinist’s puppeteer propose.
In firelight, moved by percussive beat
along with a tambourine’s jingle-jangle,
a young girl swirls on tiny dancing feet.
Around her ankles twirl large bangles.
As she thrusts and twists her hips petite,
her clothing, with bright adornments, spangles.
Her face in moonlight is so joyous and sweet
as faster and faster she brings gypsy heat.
#12 on 100 Best New Poems List as of July 28, 2026
Silk twirls come alive beneath the moonlit sky,
Violins awaken old stories with their cry,
Silver bangles jangle, flashing all around,
Laughter rises, circling the heated ground,
Bare feet blur and leap beside the firelight,
Wandering drums keep the beat just right,
Each turn becomes a timeless romance,
Now time itself has become the dance.
Swirling skirts moving like a rhyme
of an older time
when the world was wild and free,
but what has that to do with me?
You are a daughter of the sun
and of the moon,
a sweet remembrance sung
by the celestial tune.
Dad said I was a moving,
my feet and body was a grooving.
At three in dance school.
moves that were very cool.
Dance in my body and soul,
a gypsy dance or rock-n- roll.
My feet,
dance floor they will eat.
Contest: THROUGH AESTHETICA
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Date: 18th July 2026
Fast foot tapping
Thigh slapping
Arms flapping
Hands clapping
Twirls, grins, skirts spin...
With spontaneous grace at a glance
What a playful and merry chance
To share in A Gypsy Dance!
Grace hovers on a breeze.
She leaves behind her trail of mystery.
There's no denying her panache.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
They come together all in one place
tinker and traveller, Roma and gypsy,
with all who belong by grace as one race
under one roof while no one seems tipsy.
Count Me In has begun with a gesture
Appleby St Lawrence offering the space
for each here to hear in a new venture
music uplifting for all to embrace.
Skills arising from guitar and fiddle,
accordion and harp, percussion and pipe,
folk songs and ballads, nothing too little,
poems and testimony, hopeful and ripe.
Many expressions of who each of us are
brought here together wherever we're from.
Home made refreshments (milk from the Spar)
sustaining the fun, with applause like a prom.
'What does this mean?' with Festival and Fair
combining as one in celebration.
Just like Pentecost there's joy in the air
harmony overcoming separation.
With all our difference we are together
fired by the Spirit it's a time to treasure.
Appleby Horse Fair with reference to Acts chapter 2
“I follow the gypsy rain and its
carvan of clouds. It is freedom
and purification of the spirit,
like jazz.”
Free form jazz
free falling into
my gypsy life
Kamikaze saxophone
dive bombing down
Keyboard meanderings
dancing down
all around
the heartways
the soulways
the pathways to
spiritual purity
It is Saturday night
and I am alive again
in the falling rain
Deep one night, in fitful sleep
there was I, among
bright night-flowers
and warm sea winds
of tropical ecstasy.
Along bright, tranquil ripples
and swaying purple leaves
she was there, tender at first
in the blue-green lagoon.
Her mythical beauty, stunning
but peculiar yellow eyes, ominous
study me mindfully,
in the light of the night-sun.
Slipping through the coolness
of the sea-pond, I reach
toward her, enveloped--
only she stabs at my soul, taking it,
leaving me to ponder
the warm horizon beyond the everglade.
She is not more passionate than other women,
nor does she bring happiness just because she is a Gypsy,
she is the counterpart of a mystery, an unexplored zone,
captures a heart, even though yesterday she was a stranger.
Her seductive gaze hides sadness within,
even though her smile is her trademark for you,
you can delight her even with a flower
and that will be enough for you to be her hero.
And the centuries in her shadow are densely woven,
the shackles of customs and other people's prejudices follow her,
she will fight, even though her dreams lie stranded,
not caring for those who judge her with their eyes.
For her heart is wild and loves freedom,
she can deceive you with love into believing she belongs to you,
even though you never dreamed of such an outcome,
you belong to her and that fact does not fade.
And she was not just any Gypsy — she was mine,
or perhaps I was only fooling myself at the time,
though I was hers, I surrendered without a battle,
and I still am, our story is now my burden.
A bit of it resides in all of us,
As constant movement won't stall or stand still.
Giving its nature to wander endlessly,
Marching to a drummer and traveling will.
While motion is steady and stubborn,
One may wonder as to the sacrifice.
Since little time can be seen to lay roots down,
Maybe there's been found, a mobile paradise?
Yet no matter the time or the distance,
These journeys continue, with no end in sight.
Perpetual motion being the sole calling card,
Seeking to satisfy a vagabond appetite.
She wore a ribbon red as flame,
he carved her secret in his name.
They danced beneath the open skies,
with stars like lanterns in their eyes.
The campfire laughed, the horses swayed,
the fiddles sang while nightbirds prayed.
Their vows were stitched with whispered thread,
"Till death," they swore, "no tears to shed."
But Fortune's wheel turned rough and wild--
the lawman came to claim their child.
A fortune-teller saw too late--
the cards had sealed a crooked fate.
They rode like ghosts through iron rain,
the mountains swallowed up their pain.
Yet dawn betrayed their broken flight--
two shadows fell in dying light.
The caravan still hums their song,
a love too bright, a loss too strong.
And every fire that gypsies light,
still weeps for them across the night.
Some say when midnight paints the skies,
you'll hear their laughter where it lies--
two spirits twirling hand in hand,
forever free across the land.
Along the road where moonbeams spill,
the gypsy wagons wander still.
Their lanterns swing like fireflies caught,
each wheel a whisper, each song a thought.
The fiddler hums a ghostly tune,
that weaves beneath the weeping moon.
A tambourine keeps time with dreams,
and horses wade through silver streams.
No map can mark the path they tread,
no stone remembers where they led.
They chase the winds, they court the skies,
with fortune shining in their eyes.
And if you chance to hear their song,
it means your heart won't rest for long.
For once you glimpse the roaming stars,
your soul will follow gypsy scars.
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