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Ailinn
Windchimer

1833 Posts

Posted - 02/27/2005 :  18:40:59  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Cameron says, "RoRo, I can burp louder than Isaiah and he can burp louder than anyone in Grade 4. He can burp the scale!" "The scale?" I say. Cameron sings, "Doe, a deer, a female deer, burp!" That's great, Cam, I say, not knowing what else to. "Honey, does it make sense that a kid named Isaiah is best known for his burping skill?" I ask Stu. "Ummm. Sure, babe. Got any more of that salsa?" he says not looking up from the LA Times crossword puzzle. Saturdays and Sundays are the hardest. Jeffrey's in the kitchen with Ethan, his sleep-over friend. They're dumping straws full of sugar down their little gullets. Tiny granulated pyramids shining on the counters and kitchen floor. "Hey! That don't fly in Ro Town!" Jon says. "Your names are Ted and you drive the bus. You're BUSTED!" Jon gave them both hell and a bucket. On TV, a semi flipped and dumped its load across the 5. Closed a lane at Palomar and Poinsettia. "A non-injury accident..." the traffic helicopter said, "...frozen chickens." "Not anymore," says Stu. Never noticed how long the kids eyelashes were 'til they fell asleep in their mashed potatoes.

PS The secret ingredient in Shepherd's Pie is nutmeg.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1833 Posts

Posted - 02/27/2005 :  18:47:51  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
When I was 8 my Daddy took me to a gym. A guy named Sully with a cauliflower ear taught me how to make a fist and hit a bag. Big clock on the wall behind it. "Hit the clock, kid!" he shouted. "Pugilistic Art," my Daddy called it. "Punch through, honey! Punch through! Right on that chin. A target that beckoned clearly. He went down. His eyes closed. His lights were out. Birdies singing so sweetly in a halo around his head. Uh-huh. Still, he wanted to go another round. "Heh heh heh..." he said. "5 Aces."
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1833 Posts

Posted - 02/27/2005 :  18:57:30  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
A woman steps out of Adam. She stretches her arms above her head. Her fingernails rake the sky. Contrails on the beginning blue. "Pixels," God says, able to see the big picture. She shakes out her long, damp hair. The ground around her brightens. The sun shines down. Her eyes fix on a dark figure moving. She recognizes the shadow as her own. Adam moans. She's curious. She squats down beside him sleeping. His even breathing, a nuanced music in her ear. She places her hand on the wound beside his heart. His breath deepens to a sigh. His eyes stay covered. At the edge of The Garden, part forest, part jungle, part National Park Reserve, she unbraids the lassoed vines and slips into the leaves. Adam awakens. Shakes his head and rubs the sand from his eyes. He sees the footprints. Smaller than his own. He stands. He moves toward the sharp-edged green.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1833 Posts

Posted - 03/02/2005 :  20:29:23  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Birds were up early. Ravens and crows. The difference being one pinion feather. Or, "a matter of a pinion," as my neighbor, Ray, an avid birdwatcher loves to say. All falling up arguing with the sky. And the wind was so busy. And the sun's spangled light. Inventing new shadows where it finally touched down. Birds of a feather not all the same. Water skiing. Some slipping in fast-footed landings. Others, timid on tiny hinged hydraulic legs. All this happening in bright sunshine. After nine inches of rain.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1833 Posts

Posted - 03/02/2005 :  20:39:49  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
When I was a child I lived in a wet City. Special clothes for weather. Red Riding Hood Cape. Only blue. Hidden pockets for secrets and charms. Cloudy marbles called Queen of Peru. Then the curtain came down on that life. Circumstance made me prematurely observant and on guard. A finger in the dike kind of mind. Now my charms are in two carved wooden boxes. And my secrets, well... I gave them to you. View from my slow stained glass window tonight. Moon just a little present in the sky. Caught deep in the warp and weave of it.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1833 Posts

Posted - 03/03/2005 :  20:11:19  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
How can I tell you all the things
I regret? How can I tell you
I never loved enough? How can I
speak of shame, never having spoken
of it before? And in what voice
should I speak, and how should I approach you-
with my shoulders back, as though I am proud
of who I am, proud that I am
now human enough to confess? If I am

to speak to you, it must be
in a low voice- you will have to lean forward
to hear me; my breath will touch you,
lightly, on your cheek. And your breath too,
will touch me, like the thinking of a god
who never speaks, but is listening.

[Richard Jones]

I am telling you now.
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2703 Posts

Posted - 03/04/2005 :  21:27:05  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
It is 30 degrees, but it is almost Spring in the Hudson Valley...
I can almost smell it coming...

I ride NorthEast for many days
Where to be October
Means something...
Where I ran and fished and hunted
As a child and learned the ways
Of the woods and of the Great One...
The trees are aflame in
Their private moondance of fire...
Against the blue of My Hudson
Reflecting the cliff faces of Storm King
It plays the illusion the Old Ones called
Riverdeep mountainhigh...
I smile to think of my Other family
Now gone on high that walked this riverbank
With me so long ago...
They were so like the October trees,
Aflame and dancing with color and
Great beauty just before their private
Winter came and turned them gray...

In the creeping darkness,
I whisper a prayer
That they would
greet me in the spring
As the trees will,
Reborn and ready
For another fling
Around the Dancefloor...

Rev Buckman

http://members.tripod.com/buckmaniac/index.htm
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1833 Posts

Posted - 03/04/2005 :  22:24:22  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Evenin', Rev.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1833 Posts

Posted - 03/04/2005 :  22:31:37  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Sandpipers are sleeping. Somnambulistic gulls. Folks raising their hands in slow motion. Surreal greetings. As if in a dream. "Imagination," he says walking backward down the beach. Their bare feet leaving slight depressions in fog-damp sand. "Door to the right or wrong dark," he says. "My kitchen is too full of chores to practice virtue," she says. Her cupboards lined with ocean-polished stones and seashells. Currency for the next world. When the wave closes out and washes into white water his quirky, obstinate magic appears. Oh, dream-riddled nights. Morning webs in the jasmine.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1833 Posts

Posted - 03/05/2005 :  18:13:27  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
She replaces her pictures on WANTED posters. This keeps him off-guard for a while. But she runs out of pictures. She runs out of time. She starts falling toward him. He comes with his heart full of coincidence. He whispers love in her ear. His name is a password through a six-century locked door. Beyond his ship the sea stays silver. Above, the blushing sky fills with the sun's exotic light. On shore, a house with a thatched-roof porch. Seven slanting stairs built into a slipping cliff. DANGER, the signs say. KEEP AWAY. She sails into his safe-harbor embrace. The bed blocked in moonlight. The baskets of pyramid stars.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1833 Posts

Posted - 03/05/2005 :  18:14:49  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"...and the wands came to the great hall of Tara..."
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Randy Brown
Rocker

USA
185 Posts

Posted - 03/05/2005 :  18:47:23  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
My mockingbird came back this week, but he didn't have a song for me this year. He has come back every Spring now for almost 6 years, usually on the first warm day and sat on the electric pole outside my shop and gone through his new repertoire until I come out and chastize him for his loudness. I got on him for coming back to soon anyway and it seemed to cheer him up some. I don't know how he knows that first day of warm days, but he does. He flew right over my head and landed in the hackberry tree by my studio and let me slowly approach him to a distance of about 3 feet. He eyed me with first his left eye, then the right like he was asking the question, why is it so cold. It's supposed to be Spring. Maybe he knows the world is somehow moving out of it's delicate balance these days. Perhaps the weather is acting up where he spends the winter too. It was good to see a friend that cold Thursday, even if he wasn't happy enough to sing. I talked to him a while about the state of things and how crazy the weather seemed to be all over the world and he nodded his gray head in agreement and flew----- North?
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Jonmark
Windchimer

USA
1787 Posts

Posted - 03/05/2005 :  20:51:46  Show Profile  Visit Jonmark's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Beautiful snapshot there, Randy.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1833 Posts

Posted - 03/06/2005 :  21:18:59  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Here she comes trailing her long fingers in the sea. Her mad pockets full of sand and tide tables. Let her pass by my door without knocking. Without shadow. Without turning her head my way. Transparent Lady. I see through her. And my arrows are ready. My bow and my quiver. Let her walk on toward her dark dawn. Her mute, luminescent distraction. The anchor of her days. The sun locked inside a locket around her neck turning to cinders. I'm weary of her angle and perspective. Her view through the silhouette trees. Weeping birds and sighing branches. The clouds cloudy diffusion when the Shaman slips in. Everyday. The same. Every afternoon and evening. His Sorcerer's mirror image. Seen through a curtain of green mesquite. His clothing outrageous for the time and the place. His Round Table attire befitting Arthur's realm. Or is her confusion the result of the bitter black tea he presses upon her? She grew to expect him. Retreated from the brighter world. Took to retiring each day earlier. A few minutes at first, she allowed. Feigning some simple malaise. A headache. A slight fever. A dizzy spell. She shuttered her sea windows. Draped them with heavy brocade. "All to no avail!" I shouted. Soon the sun will come with its daylight cymbals. And he with his nicked finger and heart full of vows. His voice of many colors. What clothes will he be wearing then? His suit of mail? His falconers glove? His sharpened Excalibur sword? "Take your sunglasses off," he'll say.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1833 Posts

Posted - 03/08/2005 :  18:56:28  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
See the compass on the counter still journeying on its own. The maelstrom in the garbage disposal seconds away from slipping all that sweetness down the drain. He likes the oranges freshly squeezed and knows the difference. She takes his ecstasy for granted. With the coffee and the eggs. With the bacon's sputtering conversation. With the buttered toast and jam. Kitchen music. Standard miracles everyday. His voice entreating. "Let yourself be backed into the corner you're trying to stay away from," he says. His nodding profiles grinning through the steam.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1833 Posts

Posted - 03/08/2005 :  22:09:56  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"Answered prayers. Happy day. Nothing can harm you. Dream now."
~MSN~
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1833 Posts

Posted - 03/10/2005 :  18:35:35  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
There's a place beyond the canyons east and inland. Nine miles of real forest with its own moon and no city light. Roads there have names like prophesy or music. Bresa de Loma Spur, No Rain Road, Nine Notes, Sacred Acre Way. True fire land with blue views through eucalyptus trees to water far away. This is where they meet. In the middle of the night. In the cameo tamarisk grove. Where they talk about life for five minutes. Then move on to the business at hand. Inventorying the sky. You might think this is impossible with the small instruments of Earth. But it's not. His surveyer's tripod sets up in the palm of his hand. Of course the stars play tricks, for stars are playful. Appearing and disappearing in the blink of an eye. But his astronomy-eyes are accurate and no stars escape his vigilant gaze. Not one. There is no time-clock at the edge of the grove. And dawn breaks at different hours. Then they find themselves on their backs with their eyes closed. Waking up with the rest of the world.
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2703 Posts

Posted - 03/11/2005 :  03:48:05  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
400 posts... What a piece of work,
Milady... HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOORAY!!!! The crowd goes wild,women weep, grown
men cry.... Ralph eats a sardine and goes to sleep....
All is as it should be... Rev Buckman


http://members.tripod.com/buckmaniac/index.htm

Edited by - buckman on 03/11/2005 03:50:12
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1833 Posts

Posted - 03/11/2005 :  22:06:29  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Thank you, Reverend Buckman. Blessing's to you and a big bear hug to Ralph.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1833 Posts

Posted - 03/11/2005 :  22:26:09  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
In the beginning she wondered one day. Then night came with his knuckles lightly rapping on the door and an armful of astonishing vegetables. None green. She pulled books from the kitchen counters and shelves but found no recipe for blue or silver. And no pictures to identify this harvest. 'Butter,' she thought, 'can't hurt.' She couldn't remember how or why she knew he loved butter. They'd been crowded beyond that white fence for so long beneath the perpetual lawn. Park benches they sat on. Napping. Under a different sun. More young and old arriving each week. And when he finally awoke no one spoke or blinked or breathed as his voice rose and fell up and down the scale and his hands flew as if they were free.
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