The gypsy has stopped running

In a time of hot and cold, of sweet and sour, a young and hesitant swig, a hated taste of bitterness, a desire to annihilate the pain, the suffocation, the unbearable, wins. Did the angels weep that day? Aware the test of depth, of strength, beware the dour proclamations sweeping through the impoverished landscape of ego’s wild perception, the self-deceit becomes an addictive burden. A green glass bottle of ferment, falling, crashing to the floor, leave it there for evermore, a step towards a door that has always been left open, a peek at a graceful place, a beautiful garden, an outstretched hand, a much-loved face, tender arms opening, the shelter of a forgotten love, a father, a chestnut tree, a river of tears that didn’t need to be. Forgive me. And so it was, without hesitation. A sober reality, a dusty book re-opened, perennial truths whip the scales away, yes, yes, there it is, the enchanting rainbow that has always been there. How could I have been so blind?
The gypsy has stopped running.

Cunning was the day, the night
the curse, the self-appointed clock
the poison rose that pricked her
the edgy tick, the maddening tock
of all the lonesome hours chosen
the gypsy’s drunken right to flight
her hidden cave, her sea-side lair
she never sought to see her light
her unforgiving landscape frozen

Life seemed easier that way
smudge the edge of night and day
no mirrors please, she isn’t there
just cut the cord and free her
for every careless shrug she paid
in cold and painful echoed laughter
she chose the pattern of her days
and lay upon the bed she made
a-bleeding in the ever after

In the dark tightness of the cocoon, a writhing longing for lightness, for truth, for love, a first grip on reality’s roughly calloused hand. He was as tough as old leather. Like a babe, she cooed at him and he scolded. Get real. Then the teeter, the totter, the fall, the scream. It doesn’t matter if you fall and one day when you float then fly, as you will, you’ll very likely break a wing but it will mend and bring you all the way to paradise, the words he spoke live on. But what to carry now if all the baggage is left here outside the lair, the fear that the tide will come in and sweep it all away and the world’s perception will be of one who has nothing? Will I be left naked with just the enlightenment you gave? Is that the light that will help me to take flight? Indeed, you are your own source of wealth, the well, the spirit you know that can be and do anything. Will I miss the pain that became such a drug? No Claire, its just part of the delusion. And like a new red gypsy balloon, filled with the lightness of being, she sang ‘look, look, I’m off my feet and floating in the air….. soon I will be flying.’

© Jane Claire Solomon
June, 25th, 2011
Copyright reserved

The gypsy has stopped running


Westdene, Johannesburg, South Africa

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Artist's Description

I dedicate this write to the amazing grace of God, to my tough-loving Psychologist, to a very special and long-suffering Friend (and Place) and to the warmth and support of a beautiful Family.

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