*Gypsi.Ami*

A dreaming free spirit, true poetic, creative deep to the core of my soul…. i write poetry…write what is felt.... Life is an ever-changing, inspirational canvas… i care, laugh, hurt, cry, love….all so much, way beyond...all captured in words.

[gypsi-ami]

The night raves,

standing in its rapture- from the deep of my bones, the clouds climb over my mind to clear the sky,

constellations reveal on my skin in the light of moon, evaporating such haze

As I look up, shadows speak in secrets to the warmth of the wind

the perfection of it all-  insatiable with will, in hope, thoughts carry my kiss from the night to the days…….

tumbling sure- crisp in notion….. for where it is meant ……

[gypsi-ami]

your touch creates me-

in our blackout, the infinite

dripping in kisses and glistening starry skin –

 freely, truly skied in the mirrors reflection- you hold me there- looking into me

 the plush of my soul – I walk my hands down your spine while

you leave your lips on me-

to wear you,     only! –

as I speechlessly, melt into you…..

on fire…..

[gypsi-ami]

May 30th,

A day I can never find the right words or sometimes speak at all.   So, as always, in poetic fashion I stay true and say what’s in my heart, feel what’s in my heart….a heart which most of the time remains, honestly…. pretty broken in the poignancy of the day.

When your mother dies, there is a moment not only your heart, but your whole soul explodes into bold flying pieces of wonder, loss and hurt. 

Never are you pieced back together as the same person, as with any loss or life changing event.  

My mother took her very last breath, May 30th. 

I think of her every single day and there will always be a deeper piece missing inside,

for she was there when I took my very first breath of life and I was there when she took her very last breath of life.  We are connected forever, throughout lifetimes and memories.

For everyone who knew her she was kind, selfless, heartfelt, beautiful and so much more than words can express.

I am proud, lucky and blessed to have had her as my mother…..

Love to you, Madre, always, forever….. Infinite…….  

[nepovratan]

“Creativity is on the side of health - it isn’t the thing that drives us mad; it is the capacity in us that tries to save us from madness.”

Jeanette Winterson (via booksandpublishing)

[gypsi-ami]

broken lovely.........

[gypsi-ami]

breeze of fools..............

[gypsi-ami]

Look in my eyes, deeply,

I’m a soul

climbing on invisible rings trying to reach an understanding

Falsified words, no honor, no truth, no love

each step, my heart breaks on his empty sorries

etched like sweet stained glass shattered to the prime colors of pictured pain

not even aware of the caused devastation now revisited as his vacant words drown in my tears.

Hurt all over again.

While, he’s smiling on the beach with the girl he chose, twice

 then

And now again.

after

a second chance given, blows in the breeze of fools.

And

I happen to be one.

[nightsleepandstars]

I am astonished in my teaching to find how many poets are nearly blind to the physical world. They have ideas, memories, and feelings, but when they write their poems they often see them as similes. To break this habit, I have my students keep a journal in which they must write, very briefly, six things they have seen each day—not beautiful or remarkable things, just things. This seemingly simple task usually is hard for them. At the beginning, they typically “see” things in one of three ways: artistically, deliberately, or not at all. Those who see artistically instantly decorate their descriptions, turning them into something poetic: the winter trees immediately become “old men with snow on their shoulders,” or the lake looks like a “giant eye.” The ones who see deliberately go on and on describing a brass lamp by the bed with painful exactness. And the ones who see only what is forced on their attention: the grandmother in a bikini riding on a skateboard, or a bloody car wreck. But with practice, they begin to see carelessly and learn a kind of active passivity until after a month nearly all of them have learned to be available to seeing—and the physical world pours in. Their journals fill up with lovely things like, “the mirror with nothing reflected in it.” This way of seeing is important, even vital to the poet, since it is crucial that a poet see when she or he is not looking—just as she must write when she is not writing. To write just because the poet wants to write is natural, but to learn to see is a blessing. The art of finding in poetry is the art of marrying the sacred to the world, the invisible to the human.

Linda Gregg, The Art of Finding (via haveapoemwithyourcoffee)

[gypsi-ami]

***

I know a girl who looks for stars only made of powder to wish upon….

So, when the wish is lost and blown apart

what remains will only leave her covered in star

dust

……………

[gypsi-ami]

***

I see the lights of the storm surrounding the sage of my heart.

 Rain pours down in thunders wake, until I finally taste what beautiful must feel like.

Glistening drops of heavy unhappiness reach the ground,

as it hits,

rain splits apart, remembering what it was like just to be born

and

evaporates in a humid halo, reaching for the story of where it is meant for this world.

Rain, light, thunder runs as one like my spirit and heart, splitting apart, I wait

In the storm

to find my way

and its song is strong, powerful, mystical

guiding my story

with an awkward beauty, this mystical water may just save me

anointing a path with light, wind, strength, soul beauty

I watch it pass in the night and hope

And, I look out my open window as a midst baptizes me, speaks its pain and I listen

 finally to calm….it walks away

all I hear in the faint distant is,

Goodbye

[gypsi-ami]

So much is said of the night, haunting in the wisdom of fears which arise within, face to face with shells of reality washing up to the moon soaked sand,  no colors in the vision,  just the purity of white illuminated against a black sky bouncing off the shimmer of stars, lives the purest moment of the day solo, brightness of silence enhances the ghosts of thought and mind envisioned in the deep sleep isn’t easy, yet the wheel of thought is satisfied better in dreams, comfort envelope azure skies, flowers smell fierce, people are creative falling into art, standing to walk over water, burning the fear as fuel to chance forward to live their dreams.....

[gypsi-ami]

On the star’s porch, I watch crystals form in fog…. as the distance lifts spirits from their sleep, I reach out my hand in the fade of a whisper to steal the star’s rain, yet all I feel are falling roses…… lone lovely standing in the rose drenched stillness, Iridescent, grasping for life’s reason......

[gypsi-ami]

***

in the land of plenty...there are mother's lost, surrounded in sunflowers sitting in the sand, drinking tea, smiling at the real of heaven, knowing they are at the beach of god, walking by ocean's water to signal their loved ones...colors collide in a rainbow sunset confirming the grandiose is more then thought and understanding. Time, signals, love, laughter will arrive soon, as memories.....

[gypsi-ami]

*skied secrets*

I look at the moon and imagine all the pain it may see…. Witness to lost souls adrift in the wind’s patience…. dying to feel…. beneath a cloud’s veil, fogged in the shadows of the sun….. Its talent mixed in hues of voiceless wonder….holding the skies secrets only the lucky wanderer knows…. only to be…..a piece of breathless moonlight ……..

[gypsi-ami]

*in words* (Saint of the Impossible)

Why now, I wondered,

had my thoughts been brought to this point,

staring at an antique perfume bottle adorned in pink and gold with a puff of airiness you could only sense.

I stared at it on a Thursday morning and you called on a Friday night.

(If the world were to leave you tomorrow would you miss it? Or would it miss you?)

“I have no forwarding address to hand off. Please, take my mother’s perfume bottle on her dresser.

I’ve always wanted you to have it” he said

“Did you get my picture of St. Rita?” I asked

“Yes, Saint of the Impossible.” He said

I have no sense of the time and feel I’ve dreamt the words, but can’t be so sure as I open up to the validity of the voice I’ve known for so long yet rarely hear; only from time to time as late as 2am.

I lay here thinking of the possibility of destiny,

Fog blowing up off the morning bay

Giving rise to a sun of essential proportions, which you’ll need to see to fuel you through the rest of your life,

and betting it still is not all grandiose once you take it in because it’s always bigger and better in thought.

So I rise to grant entry to the splendid and depressed life calls home.

I miss you, DTeez.

And it seems to be all I’ve been doing these days.

But I’ve let you go into this abyss I call forever hate.

These overwhelming emotions can’t escape this fortress already brewing on overspill.

Each day I try to let another piece slip off to reasoning and I don’t care.

(But secretly I do, like everyone who just pretends day by day to have a little bit of happy in reach.

Intentions are welted up to the measure of what is, not what could be.)

And you called.

Only at 11pm and the sounds of the South,

An image of where you could be standing at that moment you thought of me and dialed in a haze to

your

past

not

your

future.

You constantly visit my voice and yet never quite hear it; your feelings are in bits and pieces,

but perpetuate my love for you,

How am I to understand your words, “I’m crazy about you.”

(Upon hearing validation of words only with the knowledge it may be.)

You break my heart; break my heart every time I leave your voice.

Conversation is gone in waves that will never return, never knowing if you got sucked into an abyss.

You may surface again, but my doubt is unfulfilling.

The perfume bottle you speak of,

Smells of roses set back in a garden where you could hear your sisters play Joni Mitchell records

till infinite unconsciousness;

breath forms from my lips through the cool New England weather to leave white smoke

and

a filter rendered film you’d walk through,

10 years full of variations left to destiny.

“DTeez, listen, knowledge is scarce and doesn’t come readily available.

Where had the world taken you?

Have you landed in an alcoholic haze of intelligence at the ‘House of Pain’?”

I know the number has changed and Berkeley Ave is vacant to a party that once was, as ghosts haunt the halls and leave openings for new ones.

I’ve located the perfume bottle and placed it in the palm of my hand, and memories of Rita swirled in fragrant posies.

Lovely Rita, his mother, I had never met, but stories of her multiplied with our friendship.

She lived on many days and died on just one.

Rita evoked thoughts of Beatle’s songs; her background music to a houseful of chaos,

in her sickness DTeez had purchased Rita one birthday wish

and

His hope? This bottle had a genie.

Here a man telling me of his life in Lowell, MA.

The ambition to bad-boy hood with a tenderness utterly exposed with his smile;

Usually, he checked in every few months primarily to make sure I hadn’t run away for a brighter future.

(It’s always nice to know he is still breathing and not skydiving through heaven.)

DTeez,

Proposing the perfume bottle,

Proposing his hand,

Proposing the rest of his life, not alone, but not with me.

Cradling a piece of his legacy,

I could have been a part of if only he filled his lungs with courage,

but I’ve let it go to only know he does indeed love me,

In words.

The perfume scents his past and when I stare I see him.

(You left you’re only love behind and you know it.

If the world were to leave you tomorrow would you miss it or would it miss you?)

Eventually, the tragedy of though, worry of my life will subside.

The ranting fragrance makes me feel lost upon hanging up and lost, so lost,

you know what you do and just refuse to face.

Epilogue

Moments, I clutched the perfume bottle ready, just about to flee with my belongings and become a tattooed nomad with the person I never expected to find, DTeez.

Although still in flux, thinking about the packed bags and all the happenings I have yet to leave behind.

I’m not giving any notice, I had decided on this impromptu trip for years, all in my mind, but now was the only moment I would get in this life, to live in the land of lies

amongst a sinful desert blowing around secrets now one wants to claim as their own,

drenched in an attempt to evaporate

this impossibility.

Never to be hearts.

*by Amy Keefe*

[gypsi-ami]

*starless*

The sky is starless tonight…..

creatively hidden in the fog of heavens…..seeking invisible answers

[gypsi-ami]

*salt*

He knows the may be face of his mother drawn on our refrigerator, like the Virgin Mary who never was; an unwilling model of motherhood.

What a night @ 1:37 altruistic mending. He rises; he needs salt for his throat.

He will put salt in warm water to soothe his spirited vocals.

Before leaving the bedroom for the kitchen, searching for his childhood, I’m usually half

slumbered.

He looks at me and unknowingly gives me chills, he has always been motherless and I’m not aware of what that is like.

He is an interesting person, kind, yet with cries to be healed; his pain runs so deep he doesn’t have a name for it, unrecognized.

“I’ll be right back”, I sense his journey with a hint of hesitation, the same step most mid-nights when he can’t sleep.

He will innocently wander to a teaspoon hoping for something sweet to expire.

I imagine he holds the dark blue Morton’s container, the one where the young girl holds an umbrella to shelter the distain, most like him, and

pours blended whiteness to rub on the raw.

His visit to the kitchen is alone, taking care to guide me from his hurt.

He never knew his mother, he met her just once and his father traveled, just not to where he was or is.

He carries that look of forgotten, but always returns smiling with a plastic cup filled with created salt water, and sometimes he spills a little bit on me and laughs.

His parents raised him well by leaving, if he had them, he’d never be the man I see.

‘To be or not to be’, sometimes you need to be alone with yourself and most nights you just need a

little salt.