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Ailinn
Windchimer

1591 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

1591 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

1591 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

1591 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
1782 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

1591 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

1591 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

1591 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

1591 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

1591 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

1591 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
504 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

1591 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

1591 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

1591 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
504 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

1591 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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