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Ailinn
Windchimer

1674 Posts

Posted - 02/24/2005 :  19:25:37  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Old fashioned bathroom. Porcelain tub up on legs. Towel draped loosely around his waist scraping beard off with brother's broken razor. His early morning identity whirlpooling down the drain. And there, the old, rusty key again. Showing up where he left it. On the dresser he loves. "Beveled glass all around. But the doors are cracked. Both of 'em. Right down the middle. Like a broken heart. Silver comin' off the back of it. An' hardly no mirror left at all. I jus' love that thing though, honey." he says reaching for his first cup of coffee. In the kitchen he sits with his back to the stove. Heat scrolling across his shoulders. He tips his chair back defying gravity. Plants his worn boots on the polished oak stretcher. Here comes this morning's story.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1674 Posts

Posted - 02/24/2005 :  19:32:31  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Cars parked every which way on the shoulder of the dangerous Del Dios Highway. Windshield wipers whipping away. Waiting for the Dam at Lake Hodges to spill. First time in seven years. The lake was on its way to becoming a tree farm. A cheer went up when the show started. The water broke free. No longer trapped or lonesome. West of the Dam it surged downhill toward home some twenty miles away. The shining Pacific Ocean. The CHP stayed busy. Trying to keep traffic moving, and disperse the cheering, honking crowd. Crying out over their loudspeakers, "Tow trucks are on the way!" Hot Dam!
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1674 Posts

Posted - 02/25/2005 :  22:34:41  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
We've got hot-petaled poppies nodding under all the retro-fitted bridges. Serape colors of the sun. Finally blazing on today's opening flowers. Workers picking strawberries in five inches of standing rain. Aqua and yellow slickers laying empty on the ground. Oh, delusional sunshine. In our town the cliff came down on La Costa Avenue. (Now closed.) Slid into Batiquitos Lagoon at the Braided Pepper Flower and Produce Stand. Operating for over 40 years. A longer way around to the beach now. For two days all construction stopped. Us too. The clean, clear air trembled waiting for the big diesel cats to roar. To slice up the profit pie.

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Ailinn
Windchimer

1674 Posts

Posted - 02/25/2005 :  22:49:05  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"...nothing can harm you, sooooo... Close your eyes. Sail..."

~MSN~
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1674 Posts

Posted - 02/26/2005 :  13:16:10  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Chloe had a sense of style when she waitressed. She brought class to the Diner with those handkerchiefs pinned to her breast pocket. White handkerchiefs with tatted edges in rainbow colors. Lavender for Monday. Saturday was red. And for holidays she found this sparkley thread. Soon we all took up the hankie habit. They looked like prom orchids sittin' up on our chests. Cora Jeanne perfumed hers but that only lasted 'til noon when Rudy who drove the big rigs for Southwest Trucking said, "Cora girl, get your Evening In Paris outta my meatloaf and 'taters, please!" They was sparkin' each other so she didn't take no offense. Then Chloe came up with the hat trick thing. Little fanned paper tiaras that made us look like queens. The tips went up, and the cook took to wearin' clean jeans. Chloe's lifetime love was Mortimer. 'Morty-face', she called him. She'd run her pearl-painted fingernails through tufts of white hair whispering around his earlobes. They'd go to the Firehouse Saturday nights and eat roast beef suppers. "Roast beast," Mortimer called it, "hahaha!" They'd both dress-up fine. Chloe in her satin blouse and fringed leather vest, and Mortimer in his fresh, Chloe-laundered shirt. Chloe pushed starch to the next generation. That shirt stood up by itself. "Man, I could cut myself on this!" Mortimer said fussin' with the buttons. He wore a bolo tie with a big chunk of turquois and polished boots. They sure had a high time together. More 'an thirty years ago. When Mortimer passed, Chloe went over to the Home. Then that young singer feller came by. You know, the one who used to sit in the corner booth drinkin' coffee and smokin' cigarettes. He had that beat-up brown satchel full of writin' papers he's spread all over the table. Saw him waitin' in the Lobby lookin' out through the big picture window where Chloe was takin' the sun. "Hurts me to see her like that," he said. "All closed up in her nightie...no shoulders. Bothers me nobody comes to see her," he said. I clearly remember him sayin' that. And the pained look in his eyes. "You did," I said. "Yeah, well," he said, and followed the attendent down the hall. They got on real swell, though. An' he took to stoppin' in every other week. Brought his guitar sometimes. Yeah. You'd hear them both laughin'. He sang about the weather alot. Sunshine and rain. Oh, what was his name? Shoot! It's right on the tip of my tongue. Blue eyes he had. Truly blue.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1674 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

1674 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

1674 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

1674 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

1674 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

1674 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
2701 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

1674 Posts

Posted - 03/04/2005 :  22:23:07  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Mavericks. Half Moon Bay. Grey when I saw you drop into it. Awesome sliding down that 30 foot face. Next is Wiamea. Dave is there with a new camera. Epsom salts and duct tape. Love to you, Greg San Clemente. King of the big wave.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1674 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

1674 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

1674 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

1674 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
1785 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

1674 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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