You don’t love me
It’s a thousand miles between us and all you see is words
I see why I hurt
I could be a step away and all you’d see is curves
I see my worth
Trying my best wouldn’t win your heart
I’ve tried before
It’s a thousand miles between us and all you see is words
For you, I have no more.
It is my gypsy heart that won’t be still.
Why does it yearn for things unknown?
I can’t love a place for long before my heart is vying to go
Go where? I never know. I just follow its unending desires and passionate fires;
I break other’s hearts just to save my own;
I burn those that come to close.
And while my gypsy heart goes where it likes,
I always leave a piece of my soul wherever I go.
Can you run out of soul?
I may be able to match an old blues mans row, but is that enough?
If someone could love this gypsy heart and broken soul then it might be enough.
It was once -
Enough to keep me home.
Yet, I wear the scars of that escapade too. They are in my mind.
The memories haunt my sleep and waking hours.
They turn my stomach and still my breath, but they never touch my heart.
A gypsy heart will never be touched
It beats even when there is no reason left.
Under a starlit sky with the moon shining high you can lose your heart out there. Among the mountains and the sage, in the basin or on the plains you can lose your heart. Out where the land is still wild and the horses trot for miles – you could lose your heart to me:
I’m the smell of the sage and the wind before rain.
I’m wide-open space, gullies and river breaks.
I’m the frost in the morning or the colors in the sky before the sun takes its place.
I’m wild and unchanged compared to a world that’s modern day.
I stand for an age that has long gone away, but where tradition still stays.
You will lose your heart
to the sand and sage, the stars and moon, and the cold, frozen days too.
Photo Creds: TL
Her red painted lips were like a taunting muleta in a matador’s hands. And her quick wit was a lance to the heart of many a man.
Photo Credit: Craige Moore, Creative Commons
It was a summer moon, under a Wyoming sky, when she loaded up her bags and kissed him goodbye. She drove straight through into an Oklahoma night, where she stayed for awhile to start a new life. The prairie wind tangled her hair and meddled with her mind as she struggled with doubt and the fears turning ripe. She set a direction and charted a course with a road map that led straight from her heart, to the heart of the north. Each day she toiled in the red clay and wind until the sweat from her brow and the work of her hands made her a name in the western land.
Photo Credit: TL
He was a modern Will James,in a faded blue suit coat hanging from broad shoulders and a slender frame.He wore a tie under the collar of his white button down tucked into faded jeans. He could pick them old cowboy songs and sing with a tone that could send chills over any girl’s skin. As the night wore on he led her to the dance floor to glide across the wooden planks pulling her ever closer as they danced. She was falling for a buckaroo – who could only love the wilds of Nevada. She knew he would never love her too. But for one night she could feel his arms pulling her in and the warmth of his lips. She could watch the cigarette smoke escape to dissolve into the Montana air. He was a modern Will James, in a faded blue suit coat and a flat top hat, that cigarette tilted off his lips and his blue eyes entrancing her under the yellow streetlights on those cold stone steps.
Photo Credit: Creative Commons
In the end, we are a wisp:
A leaf upon the current, but ever closer
to the ground, The steam dissipating into air, the dying
light on the valley as the mountain blocks the glare.
we are a moon flower closing slowly
as morning finds it’s lair: A long slow breath
sucked in, and it’s held
for eternity there. We are footprints in the snow, drawings
in the sand. We are earth bound and bound
for the ground. We are a whisper
in the wind quickly snatched away: A rain drop from the clouds
that never hold one shape. We exist only to be
these sudden fleeting things. Life last no longer
than a matches flame. The only thing we trust
to survive the earthen chains is the soul
we guard from devilish things. So if you ask if I believe
in God, it will seem like a silly inquisition. If we believe in nothing
then our soul isn’t living. With a body chained
and bound it’s our soul that frees us from the ground.
All I smell is cigarettes,
And the sound of the tracks
Against metal wheels racking against the whiskey in my blood.
It’s a midnight train to nowhere full of beggars and thieves,
As society would have everyone believe.
I am known only by association.
Which label should I be?
The pickup starts slow. She cranks over, but she’s a little cold. I probably should get that battery checked, but she keeps cranking so once again I let it go – until another day. She comes to life with a breathy roar telling me she didn’t want to start today, but she’s a trusted thing and has always got me from place to place. She growls for a few minutes more before settling into a quiet purr. As I drive there’s a cup of coffee set between my legs. It’s strong and hot and spiked, of course. For the most part, I drink it black but today I added chocolate and peppermint. The winter wind crept in last night while I slept in my bed, tucked in under a million blankets covering even my face. I daydream about my bed on these cold and wintery days.
I write on two occasions: when it’s cold and when I’m troubled. In the summer, I hardly sit still long enough to write, and when I’m happy no words come to mind. But when it’s cold, when your breath comes out in tangible frosted puffs as if exhaling smoke from a wintry cigar, I feel alive. My body works harder to keep my heart warm, but my heart prefers the cold. Something about that internal struggle between a heart that craves the cold, but needs the warmth to keep beating frees the words within my mind; to swirl out into the world as tangible as the breath that escapes my parted lips.