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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
 Posted - 01/13/2005 : 18:25:19
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| They move to New City in Grail County. A place connected by trestles bridging the high and low water. A house hidden away in the woods. Small and haphazard. Inventing itself around them. He keeps adding arched prism windows. A belfry strung with many raindrop shaped bells. The parapet all around he carves out of pine, felling the trees with a stroke of his thumb. Oh, nicked finger, heart full of vows. She guards the daliness of life. The jig-sawn joinery hours. The candle-gleam on the crooked glass-fronted cupboards. The sky in his eyes when the sun comes to rest at his shoulders. |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 01/13/2005 : 18:26:47
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| On the way home tonight on I 5...a snowy white egret in the lagoon. A good omen. That makes two. |
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Craig
Firefly
Kyrgyzstan
3707 Posts |
Posted - 01/14/2005 : 16:34:46
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The Anvil. The centerpiece of the smithy, the center of the universe. Each anvil has its own spirit. Some ring, some are quite dampened with no resonance at all. Each one different, but somehow, each one the same.
...he rises from his stooped position one last time. One more fire, one more blade.
He raises his hammer and "strikes the iron while it's hot". He strikes again and again until the dull sound turns to a ringing. "Back in the forge with ya!", he exclaims. "A man can go to Hell for hittin' code ahrn!"
He waits patiently, as he has many times before. Waiting for the right color, waiting for the right heat. The steel in the forge starts a low hiss, a spark or two comes from the fire. The piece is singing, telling him it is time to go back to the anvil and to be hit with the hammer. An act he has repeated for what seems like forever.
The old bladesmith is doing the only thing he knows. "This will be the best one" he says, as is his custom to say to himself every time he performs this ritual. He moves in perfect unison with the dance.
The dance. They always dance on the walls of the old smithy. Everytime he works, they dance. The shadows, with their elfen ways, stay to the walls, keeping rhythm with the firey forge and jumping with the sparks of each hammer blow.
He lifts the piece from the face of the anvil, looks over it once again with a keen eye. He lightly taps it to straighten it until it is perfectly true. He marvels at his handiwork as he examines it one last time.
It is done, it is finished. This last one. The iredescence fades as the fire in the old coal forge slowly subsides. The figures fade away at each passing moment. The shadows on the wall will be no more. The glimmer of hope is gone. It is now over...there will be no more.
The forge is now cold,
the anvil rings no more.
Don't write what you don't know boy, they'll know it when you lie.
- When I heard Newbury Sing - Jonmark Stone
The truth lies between the lines
- Mickey Newbury
edited to make it straight and true |
Edited by - Craig on 01/15/2005 07:54:59 |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 01/14/2005 : 21:59:12
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| Always late. On Friday. Promises kept. Kept always. The night music. Gregorian chanted. His wings folded. His wings. "So wake up in the mornin', bright eyes," he says. |
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aussiedave
Rocker
Australia
472 Posts |
Posted - 01/15/2005 : 02:10:17
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"stunned and shaken someone said Son she don't live here nomore
she left this house four years today they say she's lookin' for"
*
some Georgia farm boy.
~Mickey Newbury~ |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2685 Posts |
Posted - 01/15/2005 : 12:48:23
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Nothing is Lost
Deep in our sub-conscious, we are told
Lie all our memories, lie all the notes
Of all the music we have ever heard
And all the phrases those we loved have spoken,
Sorrows and losses time has since consoled,
Family jokes, out-moded anecdotes
Each sentimental souvenir and token
Everything seen, experienced, each word
Addressed to us in infancy, before
Before we could even know or understand
The implications of our wonderland.
There they all are, the legendary lies
The birthday treats, the sights, the sounds, the tears
Forgotten debris of forgotten years
Waiting to be recalled, waiting to rise
Before our world dissolves before our eyes
Waiting for some small, intimate reminder,
A word, a tune, a known familiar scent
An echo from the past when, innocent
We looked upon the present with delight
And doubted not the future would be kinder
And never knew the loneliness of night.
Noel Coward
http://members.tripod.com/buckmaniac/index.htm |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 01/15/2005 : 17:48:01
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| Their cloth filled and the tall ships glided past Cabrillo Light and Point Loma to join the Star of India with her flying, angled sails rocking in the harbor. The Lynx, the Lady Washington, and the Hawaiian Chieftain. The Lynx with 4500 square feet of sail showing, and mast towers a hundred feet high. They fired their cannons as they neared the docks. Their smoke drifted over the water. I could have been...1810... |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 01/15/2005 : 17:56:09
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| On the desert...winter shades are drawn against the fickle Santa Rosa's. Tin-type sky at 6am. Sepia-colored mornings. She likes the way he butters and slices the toast. In points followed up with honey. He pulls his chair closer to the open oven door. A habit from when he was colder. When they lived in the other country hundreds of years ago. Before the sails were set and they were cast adrift upon the water. Lashed to the planks barefoot and blindfolded. Bound wrist to wrist. Asleep on a sea she could not fathom or name. "One life many times," he says when he teaches her to fly. The remembered futures reflected in his eyes when he takes her into the sky. |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2685 Posts |
Posted - 01/15/2005 : 22:09:23
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I hafta step out of character here... We should all stand and appla8ud the last paragraph and so many that have come before it........I thank God evry day for art such as this....... HB
http://members.tripod.com/buckmaniac/index.htm |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 01/16/2005 : 18:57:02
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| Asleep on the wing. No signs posted. No dashboard maps. No triple-A-ready-route directions to read. And nothing green to eat. Absolutely. Nothing. "Tell me about that..." she says again on a day adding minutes of light. A day past the grey Winter Solstice. He is never impatient. He understands time. Her fragile wrists ticking. He understands her need and her prayer. |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 01/16/2005 : 19:05:34
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| My friends Lupe and Mirella are on their way. We're wearing our bell-trimmed shoes. To eat nachos and drink Stu's fine margaritas. Plan next Saturday's wedding buffet. Lupe's bringing special lime-flavored salt. Mirella's bringing her baby blow-torch for the creme brulee. Mr. Gardener and Catherine both love Mexican food, and oh!... Catherine's dress is so beautiful... |
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Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5390 Posts |
Posted - 01/16/2005 : 22:07:34
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What was said to the rose that made it open
was said to me, here, in my chest.
What was told the cypress
that made it strong and straight,
what was whispered the jasmine
so it is what it is,
whatever made sugar cane sweet,
whatever was said to the inhabitants
of the town of Charqgil in Turkistan
that makes them so handsome,
whatever makes the pomegranate flower
blush like a human face,
that is being said to me now.
I blush.
Whatever put eloquence in language,
that is happening here.
The great warehouse doors open.
I fill with gratitude
chewing a piece of sugar cane,
in love with the one to whom
every that belongs.
What was said to the rose to make it open
was said to me, here, in my chest.
Rumi
(1207-1273) |
Edited by - Doug L on 01/16/2005 22:12:40 |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 01/17/2005 : 20:08:42
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| Late to get home on Monday. Our son Jon called with the history of this day. "God bless Martin..." he said, "and Clarence Dean." The Los Angeles motorcycle officer killed January 17, 1994 when the Northridge quake hit at 4:31am and the Antelope Freeway collapsed atop the Golden State Freeway. "Ma, from then on we went to sleep with our boots near the bed. We'd gone to Trader Joe's the night before, (a local market) a hundred bucks of groceries. We were rich! Now we wake up with the bureau landing on the bed hearing screams. Streetlights touching the ground arching back and forth. Fourth of July splinters. Our floor is broken glass all over." Their building was condemned. Their vehicles were buried. They were like something in a petri dish for a few weeks. Don't touch them. Leave them alone. I remember it so clearly when he tells me. How they jumped out of their skin every time the phone rang. How they couldn't stop drinking water. I said, "...11 years, Jon? I can't believe it. |
Edited by - Ailinn on 02/09/2013 17:16:22 |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 01/18/2005 : 19:51:08
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| My Father and Mother were the ingredients for crazy. Something I have to watch out for. Alive in my temper all the time. A slow fuse burning. But you wouldn't know it if you lived with me. I learned young, if you stand still and appear calm in front of grownups you can do anything. My Daddy gave me a gold ring of rosebuds the day before my 9th birthday. The next day they were gone. Priests and reporters. "Oh, honey, oh, honey! Gonna be fine!" I knew they were lying but felt bad for them not knowing what to say. Brought to the funeral palor to dress them. Pick the clothes. Her dress bright yellow with blackbirds flying across her breast. Every piece of jewelry in the house I could find. Her face intact. Defiant and beautiful. My Daddy's face with an opening high on his forehead where you could see he was sewn together. "Fix him!" I said, and they did. Combed his hair lower to cover it. It was my Daddy who put me to bed at night. Kissed my closed eyes. He was the safest place in the world. My Mother was different. Like watching a movie where you keep waiting for her face to appear up- close again. Fire Irish. Gypsy-dark hair and eyes that flashed and flashed. A little mad. Late afternoons the Hotel guests played croquet on lawn that sloped to a seawall. The men wore white shirts without ties and drank whiskey. The ladies wore straw hats and drank from tall glasses with striped stirrers and leaves floating. Clink-clink-clink. Bells on the glass. My Mother directed the waiters with a wave of her hand in that watery light. Never imperious. Just there. Trays of peaked napkins. Sandwiches the size of silver dollars. All the vegetables curled or fluted. "Finger food," she called it. She moved among them and laughed. And hit the balls every once in a while straight through the hoops. My Father never took his eyes off her. His jewel. "Lace curtain," he called her, and like a lace curtain she floated across his scenery. He was 60 when I was born. She was 24. I remember being put to sleep on the back seat of a convertible. Looking up through palm trees to a moon as they cruised the Boulevards. My Mother turning around to make sure I was asleep...reaching in the glove compartment for a kerchief for her hair...scooting over close beside him with music on the radio. No sad nights. No sad days. |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 01/18/2005 : 20:01:18
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| At Swindlers Heart Cove she rides her bicycle to the water side of town before the sun sets. She hurries. She flies. He's waiting where the coast curves to bright markets. Where they have to walk the bike across the sandy wash at Dark Moon Bay. Across the tracks and through the sheltering eucalyptus. As when they were children and took the knife to their thumbs to blend the blood. When he first talked to her about the sky. When he traveled through her heart like short-circuited lightning. Like live wires spliced into stars. Yes, it's true he told her how he bribed the moon. But the moon was willing. Helpful too. Telling her he already knew...everything. Under what sky are they traveling tonight... |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 01/19/2005 : 19:03:32
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"So comes the Bard. Charged with myth and memory. To the fire he brings his song. His cup of History. His command to...dream! He puts his mouth to hers. She tastes the sudden Truth he speaks through dreams to her. The Hallows will be lost and Paradise found again. So sayeth the seekers of the Grail."
~Book of Durrow~ |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 01/19/2005 : 19:13:56
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"...the ship is well-provisioned. The Sea is silently still. A light breeze is finding its way. Nothing... Nothing to fear. Nothing to harm you. In this Universe... I believe... Every chance meeting was carefully planned...an eternity ago."
~Mickey Newbury~
21 February 2001
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 01/20/2005 : 18:12:21
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| I was sent to an orphanage in a town with wooden sidewalks. Had to ask for everything in French. If you wanted it. Your bed, your linens, your bath, your food. The nuns wore wide white hats that made them look like they were flying. And two-color blue habits. Very beautiful. They spoke French and did not smile. I did not speak French. Didn't want anything bad enough to learn it. Could say my prayers in Gaelic, but they didn't care. Stubborn, they called me, already planning my cure. After two days I stole money from the Mission Box and got a lift to the Railroad Station. First time. |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 01/20/2005 : 18:25:05
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| Affinity for trains and sailing ships. Move me to where I want to be. When I knew Stu was leaving for boot camp I threw caution to the wind. Hard to do with a bunch of nuns sniffing the air for fire. Union Station at noon. Knew the time and the track and the train. Accidentally bumped into him. "Oh, hi," I said. He didn't know my name. "Does your babysitter know you're out today, kid?" he said. Smartass s**t-eatin' grin. We rode in the doorway together. Where the cars join. Swaying to that sound trains don't make anymore with the seamless rail. So close to him I could see his pulse beating in his throat. All the while he's looking over my shoulder checking out the action in the cars. I had a new dress. And high heeled shoes. How that dress belled out when I jumped before the last platform ended. 40 miles from home. I broke one heel jumping. Called a girl at school for shoes and a ride home from her brother. For the shoes and the lift and the lie I had to do her chores all summer. Months later I got a letter from him. When I saw the APO address my feet left the floor. "Bet you never expected to hear from me..." he said in pencil. |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 01/20/2005 : 18:55:28
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Thinking of weddings...
Here's how Stu courted me. Finally. He calls after being in France two years playing basketball for the Army. He wants to pick me up. Friday night. My feet leave the ground. My heart leaves the planet. He pulls up to the curb. I jump in. He heads out of town. There were back roads then. He looks over at me and says, "Nice night for a murder." He whistles. He doesn't say anything else. "Where are we going?" I ask him. "Drive-In," he says. More whistling. 'Is he going too fast for me to jump out of this truck?' I'm thinking. I remember the kiss but not the movie. "Pick you up tomorrow," he says. Doesn't ask. Tells me. He starts coming by. Two or three nights a week. We drive to all the beaches. Drink gallons of coffee. Argue everything. Every question I ask him he answers. He's the smartest man in the world. We have nothing in common. I'm crazy about him. He doesn't tell me I'm pretty or nice or anything. My left foot is in my red wagon and my right foot is pushing the ground. "You're funny, kid," he says. Haha. Brings me back to school every night for curfew at 10pm. Then heads downtown to check out the action in Sherry's Bar and parking lot. This goes on for a couple of months. One night he hands me a cup of coffee and a jelly donut on a paper plate. ? "Eat it," he says. I pick up the donut and there's a diamond ring covered with sugar sitting on the napkin. I put the ring in my mouth. "Marry me or goodbye," he says. Whoa! Big leap for love enen though my heart's on fire. I'm under-age and need the Churches permission. The Priests trip over their cassocks getting pen to paper. The closer the clock ticks to D Day the more scared I become. Now Stu comes up with tricks and stories. #1. He drops me off one night. As I'm stepping out of the truck he reaches under his seat and hands me a package. Black velvet box. Layers of rosy tissue. Inside in wax-sealed cut-glass bottles are all the fragrances Chanel makes. Some they don't even sell in the USA. He tells me a story. How he carried this perfume "...all over Europe...looking for the right one...etc., etc., etc... ...so this is for you..." he says solemnly. I'm sitting in tears with my mouth open. Years after we were married I found out he came home with a dozen. "Lost, probably," his shoulders shrug.
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The Nightly Vigil