the ugly writers

Gypsy Cabin Blues

Holding tight to her green and arid sierra shawls, she peers over a fresco valley set in leprechaun gold. Like a megalithic Buddha she rests on a boulder's shoulder beneath a thulian sky lit by a gingerline disco sun.

Gypsy Cabin Blues is a poem written and shared by Pasithea Chan to The Ugly Writers under the theme After The Storm for the month of June.

 

Gypsy Cabin Blues

 

FB_IMG_1590030308921

 

When watchet mornings, break their laconic cries
in cerise pink dawns, breaching clouds, she steps out.
She picks up her verditer moss skirt and slips on
puke barks for slippers to sit on a Xanadu ledge.

There she combs her coquelicot clay hairs
from morning dew and fastens her chartreuse
grape braids with periwinkle violets
kissing a carpet of oxblood anemones.

Holding tight to her green and arid sierra shawls,
she peers over a fresco valley set in leprechaun gold.
Like a megalithic Buddha she rests on a boulder’s shoulder
beneath a thulian sky lit by a gingerline disco sun.

There, she sips rainbow rays that race in cones
to unicorn tones dazzling bastard amber rocks
with flame burnt brandy leaves on cypress trees
and sinoper wheat spikes growing by creeks.

Later at noon, she sings in lusty gallant blossoms
tunes of fairouz blues cascading from waterfalls
in somersaults for zephyrs, laughing away ivory clouds.

Sometimes her songs seep behind onyx mountains
across the border framing a valley of dreams washed
by an Australien Desert with citrine and mustard folds.
There beauty’s ebb and tide is all that a heart can behold.

When night falls she undresses nattier moonlit skies
to bathe in metallic and khaki stars bubbling incarnadine
celestial bodies like venus and mars in denim blues
giving hearts queues to overwhelm minds’ iqs.

All is quiet until the gypsy flutes bleed their tunes
as their drums lead the valley to drink its luminous
boos pulling the heavens stars into photon showers
from shooting stars trailing mikado comets for comments.

I miss my brick gypsy cabin with her plunging neckline
for a porch and her seductive drinking habits, but things
change in life, especially with greed and endless wars.

Maybe I will see her once more who knows!

Author’s Notes:

All the colors here are new colors and things are not what they seem (swear words are not swear words, you can google my color selection).

The gypsy here is my cabin house in the mountains during my childhood. It is situated on a bolder with two overlapping sierras as a background wrapping it like a shawl and with a porch that is deeply overlooking and outwards the majestic fresco Bekaa valley with its two sides: the green and the desert only framed by the grand syrian mountains.
In the morning, the sun rises beneath my balcony from a blanket of mist that rises to show a lower red sky where the sun becomes the disco ball with rainbow colored cones for lights until the valley is visible as carpeted colors like a patchwork quilt of blues, greens, reds, yellows, pinks, and oranges.

The place used to be full of real gypsies from Lebanon, Iraq, Syria and even Turkey.

But war made that place a forgotten memory. In the morning we’d wake up to their flutes and sleep at night to their drums and sword and shield dances. At night the valley becomes a sea of light with ebb and tide from the desert’s sands joining hands with the sky’s stars and the sky would feel like it’s about to fall on you each time you have falling stars or comets pass by.

 

I hope you enjoyed this piece. thank you for reading.

Inspired by:

 

 

Please support Pasithea Chan by reading her previous posts here. You can also find her brand of poetry on Facebook.

daily revelations the ugly writers

Creative Flow

the ugly writers

the ugly writers

0 0 vote
Article Rating
Default image
Pasithea Chan
Impressionist who enjoys writing poetry in symbolism laced with philosophy. https://twitter.com/RogueMalachite
Subscribe
Notify of
0 Comments
Inline Feedbacks
View all comments
0
Would love your thoughts, please comment.x
()
x