A Tale of Two Stories

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Pagan Women

Unto you I have the most humble pleasure to share a tad of a tidbit, nay a snip of a snippet,

A modest tip of a tippet might also be the end to the whimsical tale of decadent fun and games.

But I digress for tads, snips, and tips are but punctuation marks in a sentence quite deep, no, broad.

Amid the spinning of yarns and the telling of tales lived a colorful forest maiden, quite stunning in all.

strange tree

The bounty of her forest swaddled those within, carefully bending to all but graze their softness

Tall majestic trunks sport thick muscled arms that stretch ever so boldly over the electric horizon,

The canopy lends itself to life both above and below, both unaware of their symbiotic state

Such a land called the maid oh so many eons ago, back when things were still raw, primitive.

Dark rich soil begat all sorts of green and brown; majestic trees and a multitude of plant life grew

Forest Maiden

So skip a bit in your head and imagine the rest…come on, you get it right…..Well……Still waiting….

Oh, so I see, you are a shrewd one to get me to tell for but a slip of a hint, yes a clue do you see

For this maiden was first and her forest her world and she has lived in every generation since then.

That colorful forest maiden who journeyed across the new land to take her rightful place

Queen Mother of the Natural World, bringer of life to that which once was cold and barren,

Mother Nature

So Mother Nature has a history, don’t we all….perhaps my foray into a tale such as that one is spry

Yes, that one, with flowing words and neat symbols of lands never existing, nor able to be

But all we did try, to pull one away, and then found ourselves both captured and willing

For tales do possess, but for a short bit, and as iron-laden ink moved on to the screen,

So each must have a beginning and end, for no finish comes easy without a start, not pretend

So back to the track, that is where I go, for my tale there has been waiting, hidden inside.

Sleeping Woman

Wake my love, gently cast off the comforting weights of your slumber, and smile yourself awake.

For as certain as I am that light will give itself away to evening, that truth can always find hope

And your smile, the one beholden to naught, it shall make walls of ice give way to healing waters

I’ll be there as your eyelashes flutter at the first hint of the morning light at your window

Take my hand and rise to meet me, for I surely would cherish even a moment against you

Oft do I think about the many hearts smitten as the multitudes have shared but a moment of sight?

Tis a gift to share to light to many and never yet to ask for a traded favor nor a word of exchange

Flower-Crown

Truly this is a time, a time like others, simply a moment of eternity captured for our vision

Yet the morning must eventually lead us to the day, and finally journey with us until dusk

A find myself catching breath and holding it at the sight of my stirring angel, I too am smitten

Each unfolding moment is an eternity of sensual pleasure albeit overwhelming to the eyes

For a gentle rise in your chest as the breath of life makes its momentary passing-by

Or a lifting of a soft shoulder, so slightly, so gracefully, and how it settles back into bliss

So shall you see the moments of you that are forever held deep in the recesses of my mind,

Each alone could spur volumes of words and libraries of volumes and cities of libraries

Yet even then should I be unable to speak the phrases that are only visions of my thoughts

Gypsy Eye

Could I state that the color of your eyes brings visions of the oceans of the world, dark and deep,

With an expanse that reaches for as far as we can realize, yet never able to fully measure up

My pallet for color would need the morning blue of the endless sky after a light summer rain

Every rock, stone, pebble, and grain of sand would make up the beaches surrounding the pupil

And centered is an ebony orb, which I am told might be the secret to the womanly soul held deep

Yet has the softness of compassion and pure wonderment at the sights and sounds around it

For page upon page can I invoke the words which pale in comparison to the real thing

But I must progress, and share with you my love, the knowing vision I have when seeing you

eye

Your beauty has no compare, yet I shall continue to try and match it, for that is my way

My moments are many, and each of them is remembered forever as it should always be

Caught in my tale of telling you about yourself from the angles I see you live and breathe

Tis easy to see, is it not, for the ease of sight can often be the ease into other things that we must see

As sight tells the tale and inner-sight paints the canvas the forever hangs in the corridors inside

And the many angles of those corridors lend their hidden places to the ones who carefully look

And nestled in those nooks and crannies of areas not hidden, but carefully cherished and placed

There you will find my work, not out of sight, and never out of mind, for that wouldn’t work

You will see a simple man with simple words, well….maybe a bit more than simple in the wordiness

And letting them speak for me (in order to make the tips, snips, and tads stay out of the way)

Hiding

Verily, verily I say unto you, even I too find myself borrowing a choice tidbit of old verse,

I say unto you, hear my sonnet and review my words for they bring meanings for moments and minutes

Each second they whisper new meanings and with their silken tendrils wrap themselves around you

My love, I do again find myself bringing forth an apology for how I have digressed

In a random sort of way, I am dancing with you…my thoughts and the many memories of you

Dance with me in the quiet stillness of this gallery that so often I refer to as my mind

I shall certainly bow deeply and reach forward on bended knee to your outstretched hand

Would you recall all the minutes and seconds and hours of dances we have spent?

wiccan-priestess

Can the moments be measured and value proposed I should ask, knowing that the answer is nay

Can one simply look to the rarest of gemstones and casually measure the carat worth?

Might you walk near the famed canvases in the Louvre and off the cuff shout out a monetary figure?

Is time a matter of minutes and seconds, and if so, how does one set a standard?

Whenst I spend my time thinking of the love we share, my clock internal, breaks from its cycle

Fortunate multitasking becomes a focus of energy and gentle musings of time we shared

meditation

Perhaps mediation into meditation might bring about a fix to my circular ramblings

Yet if we give ourselves to mediation from someone who might not be meditating, then, it may be

But then again it may not be the moment which defines the love we share and gives us measure

Pish posh, I must dismiss the thought of a mere mortal measuring the length and breadth of love

Tis true that it is plausible to imagine that this double long sheet of rambling words mean nothing

And one might also write off the writings of a man mad with the intoxication of your scent

Passion

For a hatter would certainly understand the precarious swings on the pen navigating paper

Yet can somehow the casting of an event called life be the divination of something above us

For no more can a bird be a tree or a stream flow to the heavens, can I be convinced

These words are mine, and I give them freely to you, since they actually are part yours

All my body, soul, and my words too, are yours for the rest of existence, as it has always been

And though many feel it takes a special day to pry out the buried feelings they feel

I do not, yet I shall be honor bound as a true romantic to uphold this day and its stance

Even a sight of a gentle rose opening its bud timidly, then with more feeling can explain

Just how it feels to see you raise your drowsy head and lend forth to the world a golden smile

Looking

Nor shall a fall windstorm, with its swirls and twirls, carefully lifting and serenading that around it

Be capable of meeting the feelings of those first dance steps we have taken so many times

And no ocean or sky can be used to describe the endless vision in your sparkling eyes

Perhaps my digression has been easily seen through as I posed a story split amongst two topics

The lines that separate were merely laid at great distances but not with great abandon

For as they too are brought closer and offer themselves to a woven tapestry of nature

And wrapping their mother in her bounty, can we truly see the connection you share

Goddess

thegypsy

Owner/Admin at The Gypsy Thread
As a hopeless romantic at heart, Ralph indulges in romantic poetry, but also allows his mind time to wonder across all subjects.A master of vocabulary and word-use, Ralph has a writing style that gives his works their own life, often giving his readers just enough information that they end up doing additional research on his subject matter.
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