The Gypsy Sings: a trilogy to celebrate the gypsy in the soul

By Debra Talbert

The Gypsy Sings is a whimsical, sometimes farcical, occasionally fantastical collection of voices - all raised in celebration of the gypsy in the soul. It speaks to the inner life, the outer silliness, and to the flashes of immortal brilliance that release the gypsy in us all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Take The Lead Consulting
• Release date: Mar 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9780967326344

Debra Talbert

Debra Talbert is an author whose work includes both fiction and non-fiction genres. When it comes to her unique style as a writer, she describes poetry as her "native tongue," with the rhythms and intimacies of that voice finding its way into all aspects of her creative process. Originally from Los Angeles, she found her passion as a writer and artist growing up in the shadows of the entertainment industry. She now resides in the Pacific Northwest and finds her inspiration in the poetry of the sea, and the trees.

Book preview

The Gypsy Sings

THE GYPSY SINGS

A TRILOGY TO CELEBRATE THE GYPSY IN THE SOUL

DEBRA E. TALBERT

CONTENTS

Prologue

1. Gypsies

Gypsy in the soul

Voices

2. Pirates

Hobo

Dreamer

3. Magic

Two Cups

Twenty-One Spells

Last Chance Cafe

Second Kiss

Full Moon

Life Time

~

About the Author

Also by Debra E. Talbert

About the Artist

Illustrations

For Kathryne Patricia, the gypsy

So, what's this about?

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Humans, sort of.

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What do you mean, 'Sort of?'

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It's about the part of the human experience that is not experienced…in the standard sense.

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That made about as much sense as the humans themselves. Silly, fragmented creatures. Think and feel one thing, do and say another. Most annoying. Silly experiment is more like it.

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It’s about their inner experience.

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They have an ‘inner’?

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Oh, Yes. Many would say that their ‘inner’ is the real thing. Some maintain that the 'outer' is perhaps an echo, no more than a shadow of the inner being.

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So why doesn’t somebody introduce them to each other, these inner/outer beings. Frankly, in my considerable experience with humans, they could use all the help they can get.

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That's it.

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That's what?

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The Human Experience. They must find each other. The inner and the outer. And, in the finding, find the Self.

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What? The Self? They have somebody else in there?

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Not exactly.

---

Humor me. The Self would be?

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The constant. The inner. The outer. The Whole.

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I need a cup of tea.

1

GYPSIES

Because women

are, after all

(always have been actually)

gypsies

and because there is

very little to be done

(next to nothing in fact)

to quiet

the gypsy in the soul.

Gypsy Sings

VOICES

July 11

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Dear Zane:

---

This morning I woke with an unusual sense of stillness. I had been dreaming about the mysteries of life. It was a philosophical, Zen kind of awakening. It was like opening a door to a higher realm. This morning, I woke up with the poet. This morning was not like other mornings. Other mornings, I find myself wondering who this surly stranger is I woke up with.

I used to believe I would write a poem that would help the world find its rhythm. I dreamed of being filled with noble words when the teaming masses would cry out for liberty. In my vision, I would race to put pen to paper when the voice of justice would speak her elegant wisdom. I was called; I was compelled to bring my rhymes to meter with the great and the near-great.

Lately, however, the voice of justice is frequently drowned out by the battle drums of some twentieth-century militant warrior woman, warming up her opening arguments in the case of woman vs. world. This one, the militant, growls a lot. She creates messes, and well, noise, and makes it damned hard to craft a decent poem.

In the interest of my art, I have often resolved to cut off all contact with her. I have sought to take my mission to higher ground, to transcend her penchant for dissension by reaching for a purer consciousness, an inner stillness, a higher power, and sometimes a vegan diet. But for all my disciplined efforts, about twice a week, she dumps her alfalfa sprouts and quinoa sandwich in the compost bin just outside the Greek bakery around the corner, sneaks in to order chocolate-dipped baklava and a double espresso, pulls out a trashy novel, and gets back an hour late from lunch.

Zane, as you can imagine, I am at my wit's end. All my attempts to control her rebelliousness have met with utter failure. For example, last week on the way back from the baklava debacle, when she stopped for a moment to pick walnuts out of her back molar, she happened to catch a glimpse of Monroe, the Brazilian jiu-jitsu instructor at the Martial Arts-R-Us dojo on Fifty-third and Baxter, who admittedly is…inspiring. She made such a spectacle while trying to get his attention that a bunch of people assumed it was a flash mob, stopped to watch, and blocked traffic. Then security intervened because they were scaring the black-belt students.

In her defense, Monroe does have arms like oiled oak from swinging that bo-staff around. And a chest that a Himalayan gorilla would be proud to pound. I wonder if all those kicks and leaps and stuff are what cause his thighs to look like Roman Temple Pillars? Did I mention the ponytail? I digress.

Zane, you know how much I honor your wisdom, your sense of the eternal, and so I bring my dilemma to you. I must ask for your advice about what to do with this unpredictable, man-crazed, gypsy-souled alien creature who has so side-tracked my path to enlightenment. Any recommendations you can offer would be greatly appreciated. Please respond as soon as possible. Situation desperate.

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Anxiously yours,

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Amanda

Dear Amanda:

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Thank you for your letter and for trusting me once again with your concerns. I am sorry to hear you are having trouble with your