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Ailinn
Windchimer

1671 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

1671 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

1671 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
2701 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

1671 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

1671 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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aussiedave
Swinger

Australia
506 Posts

Posted - 03/12/2005 :  02:00:27  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Send aussiedave a Yahoo! Message  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
he was a victim of his own circumstances........the year was 1971.......the lonely motorcyclist gunned his machine into tomorrow.........leaving his past far behind.......only to find it appearing around the next bend in the road........so quick to catch up......he accelerated his machine faster so he could get away again.........the faster he rode his machine, the faster the past caught up to him.........he finally slowed down, stopped, turned around and headed back the way he came.

.....his ghosts welcomed him back with opened arms.

he knew he had to find a faster motorcycle.



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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 03/12/2005 :  04:44:02  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
I love this ol saloon... or is it a church? Maybe a little bit o both... Thanks, AussieMan... HB

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

1671 Posts

Posted - 03/12/2005 :  19:15:57  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Each year it enters at night. A surprise. Last night was the night. An opiate. Intoxicating. Honey and orange entwined. On the balcony and in the courtyard. Surrounds like a cloud. Breathe the breath of Angels under Heaven. Scent of the Victorian Box tree. Magic in southern California. Seeping in through the windows. Slipping through the keyhole and under the door. Weaving into the sheets so we fall asleep drinking it in. A tree of plain green leaves until the night it blossoms. Clusters of luscious small creamy blooms. The flowers open and release their sweet fragrance. For a week. Only at night. Seduction. Sudden as love. Now we're going to a restaurant to eat spaghetti and drink Lorenzo's fine wine. To celebrate Kelly's last weekend before she leaves to join Dave in Maryland. Our family and friends. A gang. A place in San Marcos where they give us our own room. Where the garlic bread never stops arriving and the kids can draw on the paper tablecloths. And when we come home the scent will be waiting. Will catch us before we even get to the door.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1671 Posts

Posted - 03/12/2005 :  19:21:02  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
For AD. "Our past is longer than our future," she says. He says, "No. One life...many times."
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1671 Posts

Posted - 03/13/2005 :  11:26:16  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He swings her up in the saddle behind him. Her arms go around his waist. "This is it," he says. She says nothing. What more do you need to know? When she shrugs her shoulders they ride away.
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aussiedave
Swinger

Australia
506 Posts

Posted - 03/14/2005 :  22:59:06  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Send aussiedave a Yahoo! Message  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
......he loved her with a passion, with a passion, such a passion...........that it melted the snow atop of Mount Everest. Oh my GOD did he love her, did he love her, oh how he loved her so. The mountain it crashed to the sea, thats how much he loved her, oh how he loved her...................


......isolation............. is a solitary word.

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Ailinn
Windchimer

1671 Posts

Posted - 03/15/2005 :  18:02:38  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The fog clears. And the clouds. The sky is a window at the horizons flashing edge. The east wall glows with western light. As if through a diffusion filter. She wanted to be a photo journalist. A painter. A cowgirl. June Christy. Jesse James. Something Cool. Do you know the song? "Something Cool/I'd like to order Something Cool/'Cause the weather's so hot/And believe it or not/I'm feelin' so blue/" She drives her hundred daily miles. Steers clear of Crazytown. Except when there's a Detour. Torchlight and music spilling across the Coast Highway. Gentlemen in white shirts shining. Ladies with bright flowers in their hair. She walks through the tunnel of life looking side to side. Peripheral vision. A magnet drawing her eye. Yes, it's true he told her about the alternate route where new colors bleed through every line. Showed her his unscrolled maps with their viney, final red destinations. "Here, and here, and here," he said, "soooo..."
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aussiedave
Swinger

Australia
506 Posts

Posted - 03/17/2005 :  19:53:50  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Send aussiedave a Yahoo! Message  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"incandescent light" my torch for you, he said. "I shall hold onto it *** Forever"

a light that will never go out,even the gates of hell cannot quench the flame. the sparkles spill out, their continuous waves envelope eternity itself.



'isolation' is a house with walls and a roof......... but no windows.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1671 Posts

Posted - 03/17/2005 :  20:32:19  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
And they walk out on to the green, green lawn...

Our small house is all porch and patio. More outside than in. We're eating corned beef with horseradish sauce. Colcannon and Whiskey Cake. A crowd here, of course. To the Porch... Happy Saint Pat's and sweet dreams!

Love and blessings to The Wizard!
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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5425 Posts

Posted - 03/18/2005 :  01:09:04  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
One fine red-haired lass named Ryan Maloney,
dressed in subtle shades of green, showed up
at work today with whiskey cake for all of us.

Tonight, en route to the radio station, I stopped in
at Trixie Mazappa's place. She fed me spinach tortellini
with pesto sauce, and I got to see Koozle's new guitar,
the one Billy made her for her birthday.

Some days you find the holy city of Byzantium
at every turn in the road.
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 03/19/2005 :  05:40:30  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
As the song played on the radio,
I said to the Irish bartender in Slattery's,
Oh, that's nice, an instrumental of Raglan Road...
He yelled at me, THAT'S NOT RAGLAN ROAD,
I KNOW RAGLAN ROAD AND THAT IS SURELY NOT RAGLAN ROAD....
We went back to our drinks and our conversation,
but when the set was finished the announcer said,
And that was Raglan Road by Nightnoise....
My friends all clapped me on the back
and the bartender slunk away to wash somes glasses of stale Guiness...
Whenever I am doubting myself or lonely or sad,
to this day, I yell out THAT'S NOT RAGLAN ROAD,
with a little Irish accent and it always brings a smile....
Hank

http://www.mytown.ca/ev.php?URL_ID=102470&URL_DO=DO_TOPIC&URL_SECTION=201&reload=1111238850

Edited by - buckman on 03/19/2005 05:42:56
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1671 Posts

Posted - 03/22/2005 :  19:26:41  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Mick liked Spring. Enjoyed its arrival finally at his window. "I awoke to a Monet morning," he once said, and, "This is why we have rain." Susie's garden was just beyond the glass door in the entry off his bedroom and she has a green thumb. I imaging him walking around upstairs. (Is Heaven upstairs, and does it have windows?) Creating his art and his mischief in equal parts. Tonight when the stars come he'll be winking at us thinking all is as it should be. Happy second day.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1671 Posts

Posted - 03/22/2005 :  20:48:20  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"I'm stealing my friends Volkswagon,
pushing it out of his driveway while he's sleeping,
rolling it down the hill toward Silver Lake
to get the beat-up old beauty started.
Mine is a long, dangerous journey
requiring a stolen car, an assumed name,
the mind of a thief, and the heart of a sinner.
I'm saying good-bye to Los Angeles at last,
to movie stars and La Casa Bonita,
to the Times and Hare Krishnas.
I'm ripping the suit off my back
as if it were in flames
and throwing my shoes out the window-
two dead birds on the side of the road.
I'm flying down the Hollywood to the Santa Monica,
the 405 to San Diego,
smuggling what I need to survive
in Bibles hollowed out with a razor-
tapes of Bach and Miles Davis,
photographs of my beautiful childhood
and photographs of the agony
of my youth and first loves.
I'm hanging a ribbon of thorns
from the rearview mirror,
turning up the radio
and singing "Unchain My Heart,"
improvising, changing the words, making the song
an anthem for martyrs and saints.
After crossing the border
I'll travel by night,
sleeping by day on the empty beach
or in caves in the mountains above the desert.
So no one will suspect me,
I'll wear a serape like the old Robery Bly,
a white linen suit like Faulkner.
I'll master the art of disguise,
walk with a limp,
speak with an odd, hard-to-place accent-
could be French, could be Romanian.
In the small villages,
with my sunglasses and zinc oxide,
my Bermudas, straw hat, and camera,
I'll look like a Swedish tourist.
I'll abandon the Volkswagon
and slip through Mexico and Honduras,
be tempted by Belize,
but will lose myself for good
in Equador or Uruguay.
I'll take a room above a quiet taberna
and lie in bed all day, remembering.
The doors of my balcony will be open
to let in dreams or memories,
the curtains- if there are curtains- blowing
in the breeze from the ceiling fan.
And perhaps, in Paraguay or Peru,
I'll be forgiven. I'll enter
the little white adobe church,
the one with the painted wooden Madonna
grieving in her green and yellow gown,
silver-blue drops of paint on her cheeks.
Kneeling at the altar,
light pouring through open windows like grace,
I'll bow before the priest,
kiss the hem of his robe,
kiss his bare ankles and feet.
Finally I'll begin to weep,
knowing at last the hungry flames
of the candles have devoured
whatever dream was meant for me.
Beyond prayer, beyond blessing,
there will be nothing for the priest to do
but bow his head and watch me cry,
laying his hand on my shoulder
as if I were his long-lost son
and he my father."

Richard Jones
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Joey L.
Swinger

USA
1365 Posts

Posted - 03/23/2005 :  00:30:01  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
T.S. once told me ... (or so I shall paraphrase ...)

"we shall not cease from exploration,
and the end of all our exploring,
is to arrive from where we started,
and know the place for the first time ..."

How many times have we arrived ... from where we have started???

A friend in time and space,

J3

The Future's Not ...
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