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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
 Posted - 10/30/2005 : 17:46:01
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Item in the San Diego Union:
Kentwood in the Pines
An airborne wild turkey struck a motorcyclist on State Route 79 yesterday.
Two turkeys were walking across southbound Route 79 near Royal Drive about 11:15am., said Officer Brian Pennings of the California Highway Patrol.
One turkey began to fly and struck a southbound motorcyclist in the chest. The impact caused the rider of the 2001 Harley Davidson Softail to cross into the northbound lanes and go into an embankment.
The 56 year old man hit a manzinita bush and rolled over twice. He was thrown from the motorcycle and suffered abrasions to the right side of his face and complained of back and chest pains, Pennings said.
The turkey that hit the man died, Pennings said.
The fate of the second turkey wasn't known.
*
(Probably worrying about that Thanksgiving rumor.)
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 10/30/2005 : 17:54:19
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...and in the LA Times:
The city of Malibu has a message for its residents: When a big quake hits, don't wax up the board and head to the beach.
"Never go to the beach to surf a tsunami wave!" the guide states in bold letters.
The Malibu brochure urges residents to immediately head to higher ground.
But would anyone really think of surfing a tsunami?
"You just never know," Davis, the initiator of the warning said.
* |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 10/30/2005 : 17:57:54
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| Locally, there's a contest in our town to name a new restaurant. First Prize is dinner for 4 with wine. The menu they're composing says "...to offer internationally-accented California cusine. Stu says that means you can eat the flowers. |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 10/30/2005 : 18:08:08
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| ...so...when the air grew too thin to be useful they moved to a cottage by the sea. Scarred cliffs rose around them. And the high sky's blue. Trumpet vine spilled out of the sandstone. The sun set early under a narrow bridge where tracks crossed the salty inlet. Light slipped from the sideboard every evening just as supper was served. Here he'd pause in the middle of his story to light nightly candles. Then the trees would step forward to lean against the windows and listen. Content when the plot ambled or changed its course. A curved story walking out of his hands. A votive flickering in his soot-smudged palm. |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/01/2005 : 22:03:32
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| We're back at The Lost Hotel. Armed with our kindergarten glitter. |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/01/2005 : 22:10:35
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| 75 degrees at 10pm. Santa Ana has the leaves curling on the trees. Scritch-scratching at the windows begging to come in. The air smells like biscuits burning. November's erstwhile message. Some evenings after dishes they row out to the ship. Gradually disappearing. Frail, but still with enough silhouette left to warm the kettle in the galley. There they sit on rough planks under stars. He, in love with Orion's bright three. She, with mute Cassiopeia. They drink the tea of rememberance until the night delivers its dark. Faithfully. And on time. |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/02/2005 : 19:22:34
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| Off Mulholland. The man lays his heart on the table. The woman puts the peppermill down. Stirs the stew with a long wooden ladle. The golden arrow under her shirt. The place where her heart used to be. He plants his boots on the old oaken stretcher. Coffee steaming under his nose. Beyond the cove, sacred trees. Shelter for the ship silently rocking. There's a moon in the attic. Stars on the stairs. A blue light in his eyes. Still burning. |
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Karen Runk
Firefly
USA
4904 Posts |
Posted - 11/02/2005 : 20:24:58
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I can see it all now. mmmmmm
I can hear the waves.....like the cello.
Karen Runk |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/11/2005 : 20:55:21
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| The little house in the Cove. Pine cupboards set cater-cornered. Salt settling on the finials of the old iron bed. Reliquary compartment hidden in the bureau drawer. Curlicue patterned. His cap and coat folded neatly on the window seat where he watches the tall ships arrive. Pirates and Sailors. Renegade Saints. Loves abandoned refugees. She leans on his navigational instruction. Leaves his sea shoes by the door. Leaves the scrolled gate to rust open. The crushed stars, undilluted on the floor. The path he walks across, well-lit now. Despite November's unreliable light. |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2685 Posts |
Posted - 11/11/2005 : 21:14:56
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October has given me so little; November must have more to give... The crew waits for my direction.... I have little else to give them except to go North...
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
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Karen Runk
Firefly
USA
4904 Posts |
Posted - 11/11/2005 : 21:21:11
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Be thankful for many things. Life, music, children, faith, freedom, love, etc......
I'm so thankful that God loves us. What else is life about?
Besides you and I have birthdays a day apart. heh heh 
Let's celebrate!!!
Karen Runk |
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Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5390 Posts |
Posted - 11/11/2005 : 22:49:27
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The Abnormal Is Not Courage
The Poles rode out from Warsaw against the German
Tanks on horses. Rode knowing, in sunlight, with sabers,
A magnitude of beauty that allows me no peace.
And yet this poem would lessen that day. Question
The bravery. Say it's not courage. Call it a passion.
Would say courage isn't that. Not at its best.
It was impossible, and with form. They rode in sunlight,
Were mangled. But I say courage is not the abnormal.
Not the marvelous act. Not Macbeth with fine speeches.
The worthless can manage in public, or for the moment.
It is too near the whore's heart: the bounty of impulse,
And the failure to sustain even small kindness.
Not the marvelous act, but the evident conclusion of being.
Not strangeness, but a leap forward of the same quality.
Accomplishment. The even loyalty. But fresh.
Not the Prodigal Son, nor Faustus. But Penelope.
The thing steady and clear. Then the crescendo.
The real form. The culmination. And the exceeding.
Not the surprise. The amazed understanding. The marriage,
Not the month's rapture. Not the exception. The beauty
That is of many days. Steady and clear.
It is the normal excellence, of long accomplishment
Jack Gilbert
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Edited by - Doug L on 11/11/2005 22:50:26 |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2685 Posts |
Posted - 11/12/2005 : 13:01:32
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Lang..... You and Roison are such a treasure.... oh my God.....
Thank you, Newbury for bringing these people into my life..... There is not enuf gold to pay Mick for what his songs and meeting you folks has meant to me....
OK, back to your real lives, Knuckleheads.... Hank
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/12/2005 : 18:18:30
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| Through veiled green mesquite trees she talks with her hands. He listens with his heart when she trips over clouds walking backwards. "One life many times," he tells her teaching her to fly. The future in his eyes when he takes her into the sky. How his blue hair burns the pillow. |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/12/2005 : 18:41:07
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Hank~ About Mick and writing. He played with words. Created his own magic. On the fly with his quick-silver mind. When words entered his ear, his heart rearranged them correctly. Intrepid taskmaster. Allowing no slack. "Write, write, write!" he'd say. "The candle is burning, and... I...don't want to look...at a blank piece of paper...or...an empty white screen. Sooooo..." His chin would lift and fix me with his steady blue gaze. "Ah, those bad old days back in Salem," I'd say. "Too late, hahaha," he'd say. Trouble was, once he heard a line you couldn't take it out of his head. No 'erase' button. No escape. He infused his own meaning on the words. He imagined a community where readers were interpretive artists too. He very much loved this idea. I enjoy your work. Love to you and Ralph.
Roisin
PS The Hudson Valley must be very beautiful this time of year.
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Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/13/2005 : 18:52:32
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| Standard time. The kettles tune. Steaming late Fall's kitchen window blind. "Okay," she says. "This is how the heart works," he says. Laughing in a coastal town where she chooses mangos and avocados under a green and white striped awning. Patting the fat tomatoes. Still afternoon sun-warmed. She has bells on her shoes. Tied with invisible fish line. The moon of memory burns. The nights lay down together. The perpetual stars spin in their fatal insomnia. "Flame. Not sparkle," he says. Again. |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2685 Posts |
Posted - 11/15/2005 : 21:31:31
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The horse stopped at the river...
She knew it was where I hid the moon...
She skittered,
she danced,
oh, how I loved when a horse danced...
She loved when she found
My secret place...
There were so many places that she
Had never found thet I
Could never tell her...
If I told her
I would have to leave her...
So many places yet to find,,,,
She has yet to find the sun....
Rev Buckman
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2685 Posts |
Posted - 11/16/2005 : 07:58:28
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There are thoughts which are prayers.
There are
moments when,
whatever the posture of the body,
the soul is on its knees.
--Victor Hugo |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2685 Posts |
Posted - 11/16/2005 : 08:59:07
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Mom and Dad took me to the
Old Madison Square Garden in 1959
To see the Roy Roger's Rodeo...
The Sons of the Pioneers sat right
In front of us
Tall on their horses and sang
Cool Water and the horses never moved...
When they sang Tumbling Tumbleweeds
The horses danced sideways like they
Really liked this one... |
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Karen Runk
Firefly
USA
4904 Posts |
Posted - 11/16/2005 : 10:21:09
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Oh lucky you. That was my kid's dream to see Roy and the whole bunch. I had to settle for Saturday matinees, or radio programs.
But, I have Lois to fill me in on things. Her last name isn't Spencer for nothing. 
I try to catch Riders in the Sky when they come to town. The draw a big crowd.
Karen Runk |
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The Nightly Vigil