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aussiedave
Rocker
Australia
472 Posts |
 Posted - 09/15/2006 : 09:49:37
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....dancing shadows.....
a [poe]m |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2684 Posts |
Posted - 09/15/2006 : 19:49:51
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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
Swinger
1441 Posts |
Posted - 09/16/2006 : 17:47:14
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| 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
Swinger
1441 Posts |
Posted - 09/16/2006 : 17:55:11
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| 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
3702 Posts |
Posted - 09/17/2006 : 04:15:15
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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
Swinger
1441 Posts |
Posted - 09/17/2006 : 18:01:36
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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
Swinger
1441 Posts |
Posted - 09/17/2006 : 18:08:48
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| 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
Swinger
1441 Posts |
Posted - 09/17/2006 : 18:18:41
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| 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
3702 Posts |
Posted - 09/23/2006 : 20:50:44
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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
3702 Posts |
Posted - 09/24/2006 : 14:56:15
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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
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Edited by - Craig on 09/24/2006 15:05:20 |
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Karen Runk
Firefly
USA
4902 Posts |
Posted - 09/24/2006 : 15:34:05
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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
Swinger
1441 Posts |
Posted - 09/24/2006 : 20:13:47
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| 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
Swinger
1441 Posts |
Posted - 09/24/2006 : 20:21:38
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| 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
3702 Posts |
Posted - 09/25/2006 : 18:12:19
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...the jokers plainly out of view. |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1441 Posts |
Posted - 09/26/2006 : 19:12:49
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| 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
5390 Posts |
Posted - 09/27/2006 : 01:46:37
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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
Swinger
1441 Posts |
Posted - 09/27/2006 : 21:16:13
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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
Swinger
1441 Posts |
Posted - 09/30/2006 : 18:05:51
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| 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
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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.....
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Edited by - Bob C on 09/30/2006 20:28:40 |
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Ailinn
Swinger
1441 Posts |
Posted - 10/01/2006 : 17:21:39
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| 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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The Nightly Vigil