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Ailinn
Windchimer

1613 Posts

Posted - 10/14/2007 :  17:11:28  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
His walking shoes hidden in the high grass. His wise eyes and cracked-in-half laughter. His wings. His folded wings. The touched stone. The gate left open. Dirt on their hands when they land back on earth mining sunshine.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1613 Posts

Posted - 10/14/2007 :  17:15:41  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Adam stretches and winces. Reaches for the tender place. The space where his rib used to be. His quirky magic. His heavy hair. His heart in a white cup waiting.

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Ailinn
Windchimer

1613 Posts

Posted - 10/16/2007 :  21:32:55  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He shows up at the back door wounded. A bloody basin on the table. Bandage on a spool. Suspicious History. Move your fingers, now. Blink your eyes. The scrolled maps roll off the table. Eden on the floor. Thursdays the fog rolls in. Long fingers when he reaches across the sky.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1613 Posts

Posted - 10/18/2007 :  17:59:59  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He sets sail when the tide is ebbing. Fog on the water. A wind more caught than free. A salt breeze lifting his heavy hair curling in intricate detail under his uniform collar. Imagine his hands plotting the navigation. His curved thumbs. His eyes set with sooty fingers gazing out on perilous seas. The stowaway's loom below decks...listing to port.
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BarbraG
Windchimer

1812 Posts

Posted - 10/18/2007 :  19:33:56  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"A wind more caught than free" ....... that's beautiful.

BGee
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 10/20/2007 :  07:45:59  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
It was her last birthday before she died.

We made love for the last time
For the first time in a year.
She felt herself as old and tired and ugly and
I loved her slow and sweet in the dark,
Like when we were younger and
Full of life and beauty...

She cried and whispered,
Thank you.


~*~
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1613 Posts

Posted - 10/20/2007 :  18:00:33  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The stowaway's story. Sangria nights. Requinto guitars. Trellises where Double Delight roses float big as saucers on the lemon-lime air. Sugar winds and turquois water. Waves crashing like miracles on shore when he drops anchor at the weather-worn dock. His cold fingers warming. His white shirt shining. His charitable imagination and lifetime lease on transient Purgatory. The Earth spinning on its uneasy axis under intrepid stars. In the wings the cast of characters assemble.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1613 Posts

Posted - 10/20/2007 :  18:11:32  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The lights dim. The curtain rises. The narrator...downstage center on a straight-backed chair...opens his eyes and blinks. Leans forward and shakes his cloudy head as if to clear it. He tells the first story. Sun and rain. Melancholy coastlines. Nature's apocalyptic portfolio. A timpani sound. A diffused light behind him. The outline of a man and woman running against a scrim of lightning-striped sky. The narrator nods to them hurrying by him. The road loops and levels. Climbs again. Past the scarecrow with his hat full of ravens. Past the late blazing poppies swaying in slow motion on the hill. Past the sun setting under a narrow bridge where tracks cross the sliver of inlet silver now. A back-lit moon rising out of the ocean. A curved story walking out of his hands. The narrator stands. Candles clutched and guttering. A shiver of alarm when he holds up his soot-smudged palms.
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 10/21/2007 :  16:09:04  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Marionette on a string.
Looking up and wondering.
Faultless creation gone astray
While searching for fun in the wrong places.
Carnival music as background
turning to cacaphony like the
steam in the calliope
isn't up to the job.

What's a poor wooden boy to do?

~*~
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1613 Posts

Posted - 10/21/2007 :  19:25:55  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Please pray for California. Winds at 108 mph on Laguna Peak. Breaths are being held in many counties. I remember the Harmony Grove fire. 1996. My son David insisted I go up the hill where the canyons were roaring bowls of Hell. So loud, even with our cheeks together we couldn't hear each other. It burned to the ocean randomly taking out houses. Pop-pop-pop and another house was gone. We were ordered to evacuate. All the pictures and sacred items tossed into pillow cases. Vehicles loaded. Everyone on our street sitting in driveways in beach chairs at 3 am. A surreal block party. Our walls were soot-streaked. Our faces were black. Our tears were wild and unstoppable. Weeks of chainsaws clearing everything on the hill.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1613 Posts

Posted - 10/21/2007 :  19:29:39  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Lois, I thought you lived near Pepperdine. Are you okay? I live on the coast in North County San Diego. Julian's on fire. And Santa Isabel at the foot of te mountain. Everytime we had a fire Mick would call... "You and the kids...get the hell outta there!" He was more accurate than the live coverage on CNN.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1613 Posts

Posted - 10/21/2007 :  19:34:25  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Their first fires were small and mortal. Sparks under his fingernails. Fistfuls of light put out early. Light slipping from the sideboard every evening just as supper was served. There's the bouquet of lavender from Trader Joe's. The Apache teardrop. The four leaf clover. The colander of cloudy berries. The lattice-work dough. Salt and sealight through the blue shuttered windows. Her love-lit face turned to his when he closes her eyes with ashes. When the man lays his heart on the table the woman puts the peppermill down.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1613 Posts

Posted - 10/21/2007 :  19:38:38  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He puts the ticket in her pocket. The talisman. The charm. The place to hold on to while he's gone. Union Station's terra cotta tiles and eight-point stars. Its high-wheeling chandeliers. White flowers in the clouds everyday. The vine-entwined fences of Eden poking into the sky where he paces the long platform waiting for the train to arrive.
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BarbraG
Windchimer

1812 Posts

Posted - 10/21/2007 :  21:20:01  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
My husband has gone to bed and my little dog lays at my feet. She
loves me. Or, does she love him and just tolerates me ? I don't
think I want to know the answer to that one, because I love her,
anyway. She's loyal, faithful, true, runs around in circles
and jumps up and down when I return home, even if it's only been
a few minutes since I left. She stares at me with those big little
black eyes looking out from behind her white poodle curls. The
whole neighborhood is in love with her . . . well, all except the
cats. But, where did she come from ? We know nothing about the
first two years of her life, before she ran away from her first
loves. I named her Missie, but what could her name have been in
the family who loved her first? And, another question is how do
you lose a white toy poodle with big black eyes that seem to look
inside your heart every time she looks at you ? And, why wouldn't
you look for her when she's as sweet as my Missie ? But, it's okay
that you didn't, for your loss was my gain. I just know this much.
She won't get away from me, not like she did you. I've got my eye
on her. So what if she loves Roy more than me. So what, indeed.
I love him more than I do her, too. So, there ! Poor Missie.
She has the worst home. She doesn't get any food, no water,no warm
quilt to sleep on in her bed, no attention, no love at all. Poor
little Missie. Poor little thing !
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 10/24/2007 :  21:49:17  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Timbukto to Tucumcari
Anybody seen the Sugar Plum Faerie?

Meeting of the mines.
Temporal lobe in Space.
Rave on, Planet.

Time-soon- to put out the candy and
Wait for the terrifying spectres
With their little bags of fat
To come walking thru the wildfire...
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 10/27/2007 :  07:49:03  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
When I got home Lincoln was
Waiting for me...
He said, Where you been,
I've had supper
Ready for an hour....
Man, Abe, It's always the
same with you
Nag nag nag....
I know, I'm sorry, he said,
I've been thinking about
Gettysburg again....
Y'know, he said...
I never thought that punkass speech
Was anything
I even said it, I said that nobody
would remember what was
said here today....
But that's all they ever
remember....
That one sorry five minutes
I said, Abey......
Babey....
That Four Score stuff is what did it
Once you say that
you lose em for at least
two minutes
While they try to figger
out how much that is
By then, they figure that
Whatever you said
musta been good cause you were
talking about dead soldiers
And there's no better way to
get a crowd to cheer....

I know, He said,
I just wish that they
Would just ONCE
Remember
Some of my poetry....
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1613 Posts

Posted - 11/01/2007 :  18:02:59  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Nightmare pieces. Broken streets. Broken songs. Newspapers on the dashboard. Ashes on the floor. Water to jump into. The great, gray waves steep escape. Cheeks of smoky children pressed against the screen door. Their tear-stained, cherub faces. Soot collecting at the corners of their cupid-bowed mouths. Ranch hands in smoldering Levi's. Frantic animals in east county corrals. The camel man with his pride of screaming peacocks. Singed horses and dogs. Headless chickens. Muck of blood in country-cruel yards. (Shh! Hold your breath 'til it's over. No, he can't hold his breath!) Yes, he was there to save her. Swimming against the tide. Running the wrong way on a One-Way street under eucalyptus going up like match heads. The Sheriffs in their dusty, licorice boots fast on his heels. The children trapped in melting canyons. Cyclone wind plotting their fate. No Divine intervention against aneurysms exploding inside their small heads. Smoldering graves on Starvation Mountain. Smoking cactus and the charred silver-black of new burn. A cargo of broken hearts in the harbor. All the "yea" and "nay" sayers sailing away under the curved, spindle bridge. "You've had wings before," he tells them, "you'll have them again."

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Karen Runk
Firefly

USA
4924 Posts

Posted - 11/01/2007 :  18:32:30  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Send Karen Runk an AOL message  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
.......I assume all is well in the O'Rouke household.

Karen Runk
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 11/03/2007 :  07:12:03  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
His raft had drifted for days
When he saw the lighthouse thru the fog.
The man that arrived on this new shore
Was no longer the man that had
Set off all those months ago.

So
Bang the drum slowly, mates,
For
The victory is hollow.
What's been gained has fallen short
Of
What's been lost...
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Jonmark
Windchimer

USA
1782 Posts

Posted - 11/03/2007 :  15:22:28  Show Profile  Visit Jonmark's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
For we are the same things our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, we feel the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.

Abe Lincoln ~ poet
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