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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic


Submitted: March 21, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 21, 2018




By Alexander Guinevere Kern

Copyright, A. G. Kern



Settled delicate, this urge to root and quit

Camping the fields, in orbit like the moon.

Here, silverpoint prayers etched in snowfall

Tether to flanneled arms, alight my hair.

Embers flash in the fire, gasp and crackle,

As I rewrap my rag of a foot in the last town's news.

County fathers read my fortune: move on, Gypsy

Or die. Deep my need to stake the tent, but left.

Over this village, clouds nose into harbor

And bless with frosty exhale, bless . . . bless.

Backdropped by a dove sky, a steeple spire

Hones Heaven, urging its naked cross

Higher, still higher! Gold-painted pinnacle seeker

And I, the horizon-hunter, seem the only quick

This twilight. Fields, flesh, feather, fire

Essentials of life - snow stuffs in its white bag.

No need for gypsies has this place of worshippers

Or palm-readers, tarot cards or visions.

You confess no belief in Magic? Religion?

To no land loyal I wandered, cart and fiddle,

Ethics, culture, costume,

Odd as a comet from a dark address. 

To discover this cross and I are burning brothers

Courting a cold town draped in ermine, 

Amused and scoffing at us both, Gypsy and God.

We speak the same arcane tongue, and trick with faith.

The will alone enables faith. Hear my voice, I, Rom!

Will free my donkey's heels, sweat muscle, work

To finally own warm shoes! No more sallow, sneaking thief

If ever I was, I had to eat. Blue-nailed, snow-bearded

I'll dwell through winter's atonement. The townsfolk

Will of me know nothing 'til Spring winds rumor

My violin's voice over their wall. I scorch

All these foul cards . . . the wheel! The crystal!

Shall root my foot to rock, dream strong of building,

And unpack my life, this wagon, for the last time . . . last time!

~Copyright 1986

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