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He smiled faintly as her hand brushed his face one last time,
Her scent still lingered on his skin.
It had only been one night;
Yet for that night they had been one,
Brought together through passion and intensity,
So much more - yet never quite the same forever after.
As she walked away, she cast him one last firey look,
Her olive green eyes undressing him once more,
Burning themselves into the back of his mind,
Forever branding him as hers.
And he knew as she dissappeared over the hills,
That the woman he longed for more than any other,
Was the one he'd never see again.
Never fall in love with a gypsy.The Gypsy7 years ago in Free Verse

Back to the Gypsy-Collab4 years ago in Visual & Found Poetry

Gypsy Perhaps she'll drop out of college, use all her bank account money and take a train to New York. Or maybe Seattle, for she likes all the cafes, the art, the vintage. Perhaps she'll return to California and live with friends and tell her parents that she's still at university.

Yeah, that could work. That's one way to disappear.

Maybe she'll meet a rich, married man that will take care of her as long as she's good with her tongue and her curves. He could take her to San Francisco where being strange is the norm, and she could find home in old houses smashed together for equity's sake.

She'll grow fond of small towns with simple heroes anGypsy1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes

GypsyMy grandmother's bones
Provide the support
To my empty rib cage
Evening the structure;
Her disappointment
Would be something great.
Taciturn tea leaves
In a ceramic urn
Allow some comfort
From their steam
While the lines
On my palm lie-
My bracelets of fortune
Can't be that short.Gypsy1 year ago in Free Verse

GypsyWhat say you?
To a life of poverty,
a life of Travel,
a life of endless hope?

What say you?
To a road less walked,
a road to nowhere,
a road to nothing in particular?

What say you?
To the hunter,
the wanderer,
the teller of stories?

What say you to any man,
who says they have no home,
who speaks of worlds they roam,
who cries for lost time?

What say you, Gypsy...Gypsy7 years ago in Free Verse

GypsyGypsy

I am a nomad, just a wandering lad
I am the gypsy prince I will slay them all, not even wince

I can't stay in one place for fear that they will know my face
I walk around now in dark silks and fine lace, look all around I own this place

As I grasp my sword a fine shining blade I will fix all the mistakes that I have made
I cut them down where they stand. Sore and bloody now I must seek a new place
in time they will forget my face and I that place

I am the Gypsy prince all covered in blood.

End
By: Dan BlackthornGypsy9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms

Gypsy LaceShe wove her gypsy lace
beneath a wayward moon,
as the wrinkles gathered
beneath her aging eyes.

Nimble her fingers
thread stories of the ages,
while when each colored strand
voices of the dead whispered.

She worked before the
primal firelight,
where centuries before
her ancestors once
played the melodies
upon a Roma guitar.

Where the women danced
among their flaunting veils
embolden of vibrant
unapologizing colors,
hiding not the passions
of the soul.Gypsy Lace2 years ago in Free Verse

Back To The Gypsy -COLLAB-4 years ago in Visual & Found Poetry

gypsies.....Let's be gypsies, traveling dancers-
you've got the know-how,
I've got the looks.
Let's be nomads, coin-catching Capricorns
singing for the common folk
just like in the books.

We'll dance for a dollar.
We'll rhyme for a dime.
We'll travel on the cobblestones
if we find the time.

Rattle our rattles,
tambourines,
vocal chords and tom-tom drums
keep feet light upon the ground
shout to heaven, show your gums
let's be gypsies.
traveling nomads.
you've got the know-how-
I've got the looks.gypsies.....6 years ago in Free Verse

the future is for gypsieswe are all twenty three point five degrees shy
of even, a people off-kilter and invariably prodigal, timid
as our buffalo. you have a hometown, i say out loud
while driving in it, and you murmur something about murder,
the dusky war over your head. you say those birds don't
even know about the obliquity of the ecliptic, and here
they are, trying to change it with all their weight in the sky.
twenty three point five, you repeat, your mouth around it
gingerly as a psalm, as a lioness with cubs, and we keep driving.
there are sights: a stripped-wire cherry tree, its fragile arms tipped
with ravens, their children unstrung and clingingthe future is for gypsies3 years ago in Free Verse

gypsy.She was just twenty and only a girl,
sharp like a knife, only a woman who knew
the pen is not always mightier than a sword.

She brought her family with her
in every fold of her sunset skirt, her careworn hands
eager for a new world, the Roaring Twenties, even

the name called her, barefoot with a warrior's soul.

She held her sister's hand on a vast ship, tight,
and never glanced back. She sailed the seas on
her high cheekbones, dark-lashed eyes

that looked into mine years after the world
heaved like Pangaea, after the names of her people
had changed, she looked into my unfamiliar

green eyes
and saw herself.gypsy.1 year ago in Free Verse

Back To The GypsyA single cookfire,
A lone vardo in a glade.
My way of life is dying...
The more I wander,
the more it seems...
I am the last of the true Rom,
a once proud people.
Our music stirring
the blood,
the passion,
the imagination
of the gadje,
those outsiders who view us
as a mere romantic image,
who long to live as we do.
The open road, our home.
Nothing to hold us back,
whole families traveling
in one caravan.
Then there's the other gadje,
who view us as
thieves,
ne'er-do-wells,
and charlatans.
Those who do not listen,
who do not understand.
They cannot see our stories,
cannot feel our songs.
And so I look tBack To The Gypsy4 years ago in Free Verse

Master of RavensMaster of Ravens

1
My little brother is nine years old the first time I decide to kill him.

During the night, snow fell over the jagged wreckage of our land. In the morning I realize he will follow me outside if I call to him. Like an awkward-limbed colt he'll stumble through the snowdrifts, and I can leave him to the ice and wind in the shadow of a three-walled building. No one will see me. Our father will think he has gotten lost on his own. I too will cry when they find his body. When the mourning is done, however, I will be my father's true and only son. 'Cam,' he will call to me, and I'll kneel down before him.

My father. Master ofMaster of Ravens7 years ago in Fantasy

A Poetic Tribute to Trixie: Wandering Gypsy

The Great and Powerful Trixie
My name prophesising
A renowned showmare
Bountiful flair

My challenge to all
Better them at their own
A veil to my insecurity
Tainting purity

Ponyville, my downfall,
A minor setback
Confronting an Ursa true
Revealed my act a shimmering hue

Upstaged by a librarian
Saved by the Goddess
A disgraceful dethroning
Mirrored sparkle, fading

Encore's call,
But an illusion...

A lack of appreciation
Those ponies have
Theatre is but fiction
None but that mare could provide contradiction

News will travel
But Trixie will endure
After all, the world is a stage
And Trixie, its premier mage.A Poetic Tribute to Trixie: Wandering Gypsy7 months ago in Free Verse

GypsyIf I am the darkness,
and the inverted, does that
make her the light?
She can, without a doubt, sparkle.
She has made me feel confident,
like no one else has,
but she also has set me in my place.
Realization.
I am not good enough.
She is still unstoppable,
dancing in my thoughts;
the gypsy, whispering
of demons and voices,
prophecies in my head.
Fantasies that will never become reality.
Still, I wait for the day
when the crystal ball may tell
of a new fortune;
a new future in which the light
and the darkness collide.
Captivated, fascinated,
I will continue to watch my gypsy
dance circles around the controlled flames
of Gypsy6 years ago in Free Verse

Gypsy and the Warrior I laughed as my brothers played their instruments for the crowd and danced along with the tune. It was my job after all. My sisters and I would dance with bells on to entertain the people who came to our little show. Others would visit the fortune teller while they were here. My cousin would eat flames and swallow swords.

Tramps and thieves were what we were most often called, as men would lay with our women and they would buy the snake oils the fortune teller would sell them. But we were gypsies, traveling from city to city in our covered wagons and never spent more than a week anywhere. The music stopped as the crowds turned and I stoppeGypsy and the Warrior1 year ago in Short Stories

From an English TeacherWhen you're forced to read just to pass English class
And you don't know what to do
Because novels are dull and dramas are daft,
And none of the stories sound true....

Just remember...

Our existence is a story told with schemes and different themes
And we live through them most every single hour,
You'd see if you just took a little look, it's like a book,
And as we grow up the plot begins to flower

Our lives unfold in stages, and are written down on pages
in a book that's hidden deep within our souls.
This dear town is just a setting and the people that you're getting
to know well are only characters and roles.

Every victory orFrom an English Teacher2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms

Gypsy.I've got a gypsy spirit, I'm lost, getting along on my own
Looking to be discovered, like a diamond encased in coal
Known the touch of a man, but not the right one
So I keep going on, legs carrying me at a run

Hoping to unhitch the wagon, unharness the horses
Kick up my feet and stop fighting all the forces
Go for a trail ride along the country side
Watch the pull of the moon at tide

Put away these wild dreams that'll never come true
Like how the sun soaks up the morning dew
Get a better head on these shoulders of mine
Something more strong like the boulders past the pines

All these emotions I can't keep hiding from
So I'll sing Gypsy.2 years ago in Free Verse

Father!SwedenxChild!Reader - GypsyA mother in rags ran through the streets of the small town. Her heart was racing as she fled from an unknown. Gunfire echoed in the town. She turned sharply to a large house and hit the door, fear pounding.
"Help! Help!" She cried, looking around in fear. A man opened the door, she pushed the bundle into his arms. "Please take care of my daughter and run!" She cried and ran, before he could say anything. He watched as she ran into the darkness. When he closed the door, he heard a gunshot fire off before silence. He hoped that she got away safely.
"Tino?" He turned, meeting the Swedish man that loomed over him. "Who was that?" He asked.
"I don't know Berwald. However, she gave me her little girl." Tino lifted the baby up to allow Berwald to see her face.
"Hm. Should we keep her?"
"Yes! I know just what to call her! [Name]!"
"Hm. Okay."
...
"Mama!" Tino turned, hearing his little five year old [name]'s voice cry out.
"Yes?"
"Somebody was following me today and he looked really scaFather!SwedenxChild!Reader - Gypsy10 months ago in Short Stories

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