Gypsy Fortuneteller Poem by James Walter Orr

The clouds were ominous as death;
As dark as sin, as black as night.
It seemed that nature held its breath;
Not one leaf moved, within my sight.
Stars spangled low, and in the south,
Were wiped by some tremendous paw,
Or passed some monster’s horrid mouth
Into the beast’s gigantic maw.

I bought my ticket, then stepped I,
Into the fortuneteller’s tent.
The storm’s moan raised its eerie cry;
The crowd, to find safe shelter, went.
The fortuneteller was about
To trail her fingers ‘cross my palm,
When all the walls of hell blew out,
As one great blast destroyed the calm.

Words don’t exist to tell the crude,
Raw power unleashed by that crash,
Nor tell by half the magnitude
Of that stupendous cosmic flash.
The Gypsy girl, in terror clasped,
My unread palm against her breast.
Our strength had drained, our breath was gasped;
We collapsed on her cot to rest.

The beat of hail, sporadic light,
And maelstrom of the crashing chords
Of thunder roaring in the night,
And lightning’s over-whelming hordes;
When from what passed, my breath was found,
And knew I then the world would stand,
Could not shut out the heart-beat’s pound,
That beat against my captured hand.

The tent pole leaned against my neck
And pinned my body on her own.
We moved and squirmed beneath the wreck,
While moods and other things had grown.
Escape was tried, to no avail,
By accident, our lips then met;
Our touching caused a brand new gale,
That our escape attempts upset.

Some form tore underneath the tent,
A man’s voice shouted out, “Marie”!
I cursed this interruption sent,
To break some spell that captured me.
Her heart-beat’s skip disturbed the charm;
Her full breast slipped beneath my hand.
The kiss upon my palm was warm.
She joined the nearing gypsy band.

Rain ran in cascades down my legs,
And camouflaged the evidence;
Then washed away the final dregs,
And gave a strange relief of sense.
The storm was passing toward the east;
The gypsy band some cover found.
I looked around, hoping at least
To see my gypsy hanging ‘round.

Reluctantly, I turned toward home.
I went to bed, but failed to sleep.
My mind was fixed: with them I’d roam;
I must have dozed; not very deep.
Next day I checked, without delay
The gypsy band had left no trace.
The rain had washed all sign away,
And only mud was in its place.

I never had my fortune told.
My future path, I do not know.
The moon-lit path they took is old,
And leads where dreams of gypsies go.
My hip will always hold the heat
Where her hip touched against my own.
My palm will always feel the beat,
Of her heart, where the seeds were sown.

The seeds of love will flourish there,
And emanate some sweet perfume
That charms round her the very air,
Where love’s perpetual plant will bloom.
The day I smell her lovely scent;
The day I see her splendid form,
We’ll both forget she ever went,
And me, I’ll nourish of her charm.

High rear the mountains of the west,
That form my tiny valley’s fence;
The endless years that I invest
In waiting, hoping, someday hence,
I’ll hear the bells that still adorn
The bridles of their prancing steeds,
And know once more why I was born:
Oh, how I hope that someday speeds.