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Ailinn
Windchimer

1809 Posts

Posted - 09/07/2006 :  18:40:30  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
There's a retirement home at the bottom of our hill with "a special neighborhood for the memory impaired". It's been there three or four years but we still call it new. Very beautiful. Gazebos and brick pathways edged with high flowers. Saturday nights they have dances. Musicians in white tux jackets bussed in on a Cloud 9 Shuttle. There's a traffic light at the corner. Three and a half minutes long. (Stu's timed it. Several times.) We can hear the music coming through the ornamental windows while we're waiting for the green. See couples dancing under the dimmed chandeliers. Their silhouettes twice life-size on the curtained patio doors. They move so gracefully. As if in a dream. And the songs are from another era. Reminds me of Chole and her "dear Mortimer."
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1809 Posts

Posted - 09/09/2006 :  19:51:52  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Today was for Katrina. We floated leis on the waves at 6am with our feet dangling over our boards. The tourists have gone home and the beach is back to the locals. Low tide was at 5:13am. Air and water 71 degrees. Between the tsunami and the hurricanes the kids conscious lives have changed. Our son Jon recently moved a few blocks away. "If the wave comes will it knock Uncle Jon's house down?" Cameron asks. "Yes," I say. "But he'll come up the hill to our house." Now Cam worries if Jon has enough gas. $2.77 at Costco tonight.

Thinking of you, Ron.

Edited by - Ailinn on 05/05/2013 13:10:15
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1809 Posts

Posted - 09/10/2006 :  19:11:37  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
A more somber morning. Life Guards taped off the area where two rough brush rafts waited to be floated out to sea. Twenty surfers towed them beyond the breakwater. At 9:11 they lit them with flaming sage branches. Two columns of smoke rose from the horizon into a cloudless blue sky. The 101 Surf Center's yellow plane flew low over the water. Not with its usual 30% OFF SALE sign trailing but with the waving American flag.
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aussiedave
Swinger

Australia
506 Posts

Posted - 09/15/2006 :  09:49:37  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Send aussiedave a Yahoo! Message  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
....dancing shadows.....

a [poe]m
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2703 Posts

Posted - 09/15/2006 :  19:49:51  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He tried to find his way
Out of the darkness
He tried hard he really did
Drowning in an ocean of pity
He'd done evrything
To keep it hid

He's had enough of evrything
He's had enough of his fears
He's letting go and letting it out
He's thru drowning in his whiskey tears

The road was dark and
There were no signs
Just the headlights from his car
It didnt matter he knew the way
He didnt have to go very far

He stopped the car
Walked across the grass
He laid down on her grave
He talked for an hour
Til the sun came up
There was nothing left to save

He's had enough of evrything
He's had enough of his fears
He's letting go and letting it out
He's thru drowning in his whiskey tears

He told her it was over this time
It was over and it was done
His back was right up against the wall
There was nowhere left to run

This morning is the last time
Its the last time is what he said
He stood up brushed himself off
Walked away and shook his head

He's had enough of evrything
He's had enough of his fears
He's letting go and letting it out
He's thru drowning in his whiskey tears...


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

1809 Posts

Posted - 09/16/2006 :  17:47:14  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He crossed the water with pollen-dusted feet. How? She did not ask him. She remembered the moon's slanted silver. The amber-lit galley fading in the clotted clouds. The dream-driven fog rolling in. The crying shore birds lifting into the sky. The wind holding its breath when a ghost ship slipped by in the Harbor. Its cargo of broken hearts broken. Its slow hours tolled by bells.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1809 Posts

Posted - 09/16/2006 :  17:55:11  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Days end finds them at the fire. She lies silently by his side. The dark comes down with stars. Their faces and hands are still. Their silhouette shoulders touch in the deepening dark. He turns and reaches for her. His breath leaves blisters of ice on the salty air.

Edited by - Ailinn on 05/05/2013 13:15:17
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Craig
Firefly

Kyrgyzstan
3779 Posts

Posted - 09/17/2006 :  04:15:15  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Sabrina fair
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;
Listen for dear honor's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen and save.


~ Milton
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1809 Posts

Posted - 09/17/2006 :  18:01:36  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Brightest Lady, look on me;
Thus I sprinkle on thy breast
Drops that from my fountain pure
I have kept of precious cure,
Thrice upon thy fingers' tip,
Thrice upon they rubied lip;
Next this marble venomed seat,
Smeared with gums of glutinous heat,
I touch with chaste palms moist and cold:
Now the spell has lost its hold.

~Milton~

PS Craig, I thought you were a Tennyson man.

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Ailinn
Windchimer

1809 Posts

Posted - 09/17/2006 :  18:08:48  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Mourning doves in the archways late afternoons. She grew more observant when his handwriting strayed. His copious notes. His lined pages of observation. His same up and down slant coming slower. The dear y's extension. The dangling g's and j's. Still stars and exclamation points in the margins. "More coffee!" he'd cry before the cook could slip out of the kitchen. Before the sun left the County. Before the children rushed in from their games. When night came she sat in the cinquefoil window. Chafed her chapped hands and prayed.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1809 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
3779 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
3779 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

1809 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

1809 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
3779 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

1809 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

1809 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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