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Ailinn
Windchimer

1841 Posts

Posted - 09/17/2006 :  18:18:41  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
A simple story with a common thread. A plain stitch repeating itself. Late summer days at the edge of the ocean where they walked, not in a straight line but bumping up against each other. Side to side. And backwards too. With wide gestures so it was easy to see them coming through the plum-lit afternoons. When they allowed themselves to be seen. When they were not invisible. Time stopped. Or started with the locket watch he kept in his pocket. He'd come to a crack in the boardwalk and stop. Not blinking or breathing. A quick flash of silver. Nicked finger. O, heart full of vows. His light and dark wisdom. Their optimistic thumbs. Weeds triumphing through the timbers. So the tide continued to rise under their bed. The sea house went on inventing itself around them. Arched prism windows at Swindlers Heart Cove. Eaves strung with bells. Her hands folded on the monogrammed counterpane waiting for his.
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Craig
Firefly

Kyrgyzstan
3790 Posts

Posted - 09/23/2006 :  20:50:44  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Two departed, one returned.
Face first into the wind.
They climbed higher
And climbed.
One down,
One up.
Noise.
Excitement.
People shouting.
Talking and waiting.
One soul returned, alone.

craig
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Craig
Firefly

Kyrgyzstan
3790 Posts

Posted - 09/24/2006 :  14:56:15  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
She comes in no different than a deer entering an open meadow from the safety of the dark, hidden woods. Nervous, senses in full alarm, she surveys the surroundings hoping to go unnoticed. Carefully, hessitantly, she walks to the back of the small store past the magazine and newspaper rack. This young girl not quite seventeen, spies her quarry. In her haste, she picks up the small package. With a purposeful nonchalance that isn't quite convincing, she returns to the front of the small store and places the package on the worn countertop without saying a word. Trying to hide her shaking hands, she pulls a wadded ten dollar bill from her purse and hands it to the woman behind the counter. The cashier, sensing the young girl's embarrassment doesn't break the silence of the scene. She hands the change back to her customer, which replies with an unsolicited, soft-spoken "thank you". The quietness of the small store is broken once again by the small bell on the front door as it closes.

Alone and afraid, she will find the answer to her frightening suspicions.

Craig

Edited by - Craig on 09/24/2006 15:05:20
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Karen Runk
Firefly

USA
4925 Posts

Posted - 09/24/2006 :  15:34:05  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Send Karen Runk an AOL message  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
This time she has the bbq ribs already for the big hunting trip. He has his shells loaded, his gun sighted in, his camping gear ready. "This may be my last year", he says. "You've said that the last couple years", she countered. He will be traveling with others, so she will have her own transpotation at home. She remembers when he left for another hunting trip, took the truck with her purse under the seat and he didn't come home for 5 days. She discovered how resourceful she could be when that happens.

Karen Runk
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1841 Posts

Posted - 09/24/2006 :  20:13:47  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The curtain lifts as if blown by a benevolent wind. She looks up. Sees his cards spread out on the table. His deck of shining Aces.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1841 Posts

Posted - 09/24/2006 :  20:21:38  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
When they lived in the other country hundreds of years ago he told her how he bribed the moon. His hand stayed at the small of her back. Steering her through the storm-tossed see-saw days. One full moon night he took the knife to their thumbs and commanded her to dream. They sailed back to the steeple-topped town in waning Autumn. The clock in the Village tower pushed it's dark time against the sky. Already the leaves were falling to the ground. They gathered smooth stones to frame the cottage windows. He mixed his mortar and affixed his Celtic brand. His days were spent bent over nubbins of charcoal. She beside him with her bright needles and colored threads close to hand. Three cobbled blocks away his ship rocked in the Harbor. Its lit lamps glowing faithfully through the fog.
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Craig
Firefly

Kyrgyzstan
3790 Posts

Posted - 09/25/2006 :  18:12:19  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

...the jokers plainly out of view.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1841 Posts

Posted - 09/26/2006 :  19:12:49  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Late Autumn evenings at the Puppeteer's house. The spent branches press closer at nightfall. A fretwork of empty trees. Their silhouettes insistence at the window at the stroke of twelve. The joinery hour when he tucks bits of bright cloth and peacock feathers over their whittled frames. Smoothes their wooden hinges with the rasp of his calloused thumb. Binds the backs of their pine-pegged knees with bits of worn chamois. Rubs the whorled prints of their delicately dowelled fingertips with warm oil of clove. He heats the iron at midnight. The smoke from the brands on their jig-sawn hearts rises into the air like incense.
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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5432 Posts

Posted - 09/27/2006 :  01:46:37  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Sheepherder Coffee

I used to like sheepherder coffee,
a cup of grounds in my old enameled pot,
then three cups of water and a fire,

and when it's hot, boiling into froth,
a half cup of cold water
to bring the grounds to the bottom.

It was strong and bitter and good
as I squatted on the riverbank,
under the great redwoods, all those years ago.

Some days, it was nearly all I got.
I was happy with my dog,
and cases of books in my funky truck.

But when I think of that posture now,
I can't help but think
of Palestinians huddled in their ruins,

the Afghani shepherd with his bleating goats,
the widow weeping, sending off her sons,
the Tibetan monk who can't go home.

There are fewer names for coffee
than for love. Squatting, they drink,
thinking, waiting for whatever comes.

Sam Hamill



http://www.myspace.com/mickeynewbury
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1841 Posts

Posted - 09/27/2006 :  21:16:13  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
And is the magic world to die with you,
the world where memory keeps
life's purest breaths-
white shadow of first love,
voice that went to your heart, hand
you wished in dreams
to keep in yours
and all loved things
that touched the soul, the deeper sky?
And is your world to die with you,
the old life you reshaped your way?
Have the crucibles and anvils of your soul
been working for dust and for the wind?

~Antonio Machado~
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1841 Posts

Posted - 09/30/2006 :  18:05:51  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
LA day. Saturday morning the caterer's van arrives early. Cherry scones and anise rounds. She places the blistered loaves before him. The fresh butter and sticky fig jam. She knows his ship is on overtime in the harbor. Black cloth unfurled and a ruby at the top of the mast waiting. She doesn't say anything unnecessary. Their blood is not unmet. "So give 'em a hand now!" the Director demands for the benefit of the out of towners. A crew with a Stedicam zooms in on blocks of flagged tarps. Weeds waving up through the pavement. "A Christo event?" a stranger calls. The Sailor nods as the crowd gathers around the sound trucks. He sees the desert and the deep blue sea. All the sweet places in-between. Two sides to every border story when the sun rises over four counties.
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Bob C
Swinger

USA
1147 Posts

Posted - 09/30/2006 :  20:24:17  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
And through the night he finds
In the darkness and mist he sees
His greatest fear to face
the lost hopes and dreams
the mistakes and dead ends
He chose in the race
Alone now staring at the beast
it is him.....


Edited by - Bob C on 09/30/2006 20:28:40
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1841 Posts

Posted - 10/01/2006 :  17:21:39  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
She goes to Confession. Down on her knees. The man behind the screen isn't paying attention. He's so intent upon teaching her a new language. Coarse salt and a pyramid of limes. The bougainvillea's papery leaves conspiring with scorpions in the courtyard. All harsh light and brittle beauty. The hot wind licking the enameled blue plates. The hummingbirds hovering before exotic spiny blossoms. Their irridescent wings in thrall. The coastline disappearing from his eyes with its memories of shipwrecks and disaster. His heart finally giving up the lust for Durrow's fog-bound shore. "...Shh..." he says, and gives her absolution.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1841 Posts

Posted - 10/01/2006 :  17:23:03  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"...the quiet in between the words is what's important..."

~Mickey Newbury~
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Craig
Firefly

Kyrgyzstan
3790 Posts

Posted - 10/01/2006 :  17:41:01  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Listening to Mickey's music in the course of two millenium, it is the quiet. My own writings patterned finding pause, a well placed comma, or three dots...for an exclamation of pause, the quiet. I see that a lot, it comes natural, to me, thanks to Mickey, it is from nowhere else.

The pause...a time to reflect, a time to think, a time to reason...until the next thought. Lyrical wisdom, delived in that wonderful southeast Texas accent, very familiar to me. One I tried to lose for a number of years but returned back to me...in spades.

Craig
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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5432 Posts

Posted - 10/02/2006 :  01:21:34  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

Space, the bound of a solid,
Silence, the form of a melody.

Alice Meynell


http://www.myspace.com/mickeynewbury
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booty
Sitter

USA
93 Posts

Posted - 10/06/2006 :  22:26:27  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

Upon the Nadir

Bounded, yet unlimited by the confluence of two faithful branches
Where the coming together broadens communions flow, once chosen
By the peerless Native Americans to honor from fox run open spaces
I often walk their pollen paths, while flowers are still dew beladen.

There on the precipitous banks, diminishing alongside Sinking Creek,
I see where exuberant beavers instinctually chump on trees
With flashing crimson coats so sheening and sleek;
Working from their domestic free of malice and debaucheries.

About fifty years ago I so local walked the traversed ties
Before the generous road was regal built, evín now long last,
Yet wet an ineffaceable line in Bartonís pristine fisheries,
Where the creekís clear pools beheld no amoral past.

And as I walk among the stockade and many pavilions,
I have time to reflect on the distance of oneís insufferable duty;
And I see Iíve widened the depth of my many provincial dominations,
Inherent to be, conjoing the learned of heavens foremost beauty.

Itís here amidst the majesty of red oaks, black walnut, and yellow popular,
I see metaphorical tracks to endear the promised writ, both doe and buck;
While of mystery wedded, a pinion owl whoís the scholar
Reading a book, unanswered still, what lays interrogatively stuck.

And in the divine ambiance of natures single family with many friends
Thereís joy, as children together play, and at this high water mark
Of my stay, where undaunted I access my indulgent odds and twilight ends,
I see it is of an original decree that contributes forever; the lovely of my Park.

Such sovereignty that indigenously forgives without and resurrects from within,
And sets aside for all eternal walks to one day in itself up there enjoy,
Profoundly unmoved by the narrows of selfishness and punitive disdain;
Does innately stand here, beholding what will never be seen again.

robert knowles
~boots~










Robert Knowles
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Craig
Firefly

Kyrgyzstan
3790 Posts

Posted - 10/10/2006 :  19:26:09  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
There is no wind after it rains...

craig
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2703 Posts

Posted - 10/13/2006 :  18:00:02  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
HEADING FOR TROUBLE [The First Dance With Rebecca]

I've a feeling I'm heading for trouble
It's The nice kind, it comes at the start
Like your insides have become just a bubble
And The first thing to pop is your heart...

I promised myself I'd build walls so high
That no one ever could climb
But plans go astray, one comes along with a way
That drives you right out of your mind...

When you narrow it down, shut out the crowd
There's sometimes a chance for a light
With eyes used to dark you might still see a spark
Darlin, I want to hold you all night...

I've a feeling I'm heading for trouble
I tried the bottom, it's time for the top
I've nothing to say, seems I've lost my way
The train's goin too fast to stop...

I promised myself I'd build walls so high
That no one ever could climb
But plans go astray, one comes along with a way
That drives you right out of your mind...

When you narrow it down, shut out the crowd
There's sometimes a chance for a light
With eyes used to dark you might still see a spark
Darlin, I want to hold you all night...


Hank Beukema - RevBuckman Publishing -2006



http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2703 Posts

Posted - 10/13/2006 :  18:01:05  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
There's a song I've been singing
But I could not find the words
There's a tune I've been humming
But I could not find the chords

There's a face I've been seeing
Evry nite in all my dreams
There's a voice I've been hearing
In the rivers and the streams

I guess what I'm tryin to say
Is to give me just one chance
I guess what I'm askin is
Can you risk one real romance...

There's a song I've been singing
But I couldn't find the words
There's a melody I've been hearing
In a key I've never heard

There's a face I've been seeing
While she was seeing mine
There's a lot of hurt to go thru
Before you see it's time

I guess what I'm tryin to say
Is to give me just one chance
I guess what I'm askin is
Can you risk one real romance...


Hank Beukema RevBuckman Music 2006

See more of my writing at:
http://www.mytown.ca/beukema/
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
[NOW INCLUDING AUDIOS]


http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
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