Throwing
Stones at Blood and Bone
A part
of me is a gypsy.
Fluid,
electrifying and homeless.
She’s a
siren out of water
She’s a
magical mess.
A part
of me is a preacher.
Cursed by
a soulful obligation to giving
She’s a charitable
loose cannon
Unsure of
how to treat herself like she is living.
I see
what it is to be a gypsy.
She is
happier than me
Because she
does just as she wishes.
She
loves only when one needs her love-
And I grew
up shy of gypsy kisses.
I see
what it is to be a preacher.
He is
sadder than me
Because he isn't with whom he belongs
He
manipulates a success wherever he’s invited
But we've both missed home all along.
I’m
anxious and full of motion
Somewhere
in the middle –
A loose
cannon treading water
With no
destination in sight.
She says
I’m a bitch and a liar
Maybe she
is right.
He says I’m
a pistol and a philanthropist
Maybe he
is right.
I wonder
if a gypsy is always a gypsy.
A free
spirit, never eternally bound.
She will
go when the wind wills her away
But she
is the fastest at settling down.
She acquires
quite the tribe of souls in her ways
She is a
wolf mother-
She leads
a pack of strays.
She is a
settled gypsy now,
Leaving her
soul food outside her door
And she
resents that I need not be carried,
That I don’t
eat it anymore.
I wonder
if a preacher is always a preacher
With story
after story to tell
He’s
both exaggerated and nonchalant
He’s
impossible to know very well.
He holds
close to his pod and his responsibility
He is an
orca father-
Who passively
protects his whole family.
He is an
aged preacher now,
Who has
told all his best history
He’s
waiting for something before he goes home
I’m not
ready to know if it is me.
I’m
swimming in the depths
Somewhere
miles from the shore.
I am
working my way inland
To a
place I've been before.
The gypsy
in me takes the long way
But I’m
slowly going home.
So I can
settle with whom I belong-
And wait
to make history of my own perceiving.
There is
a preacher who deserves home
And a
gypsy with a lot to learn about leaving.
