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Craig
Firefly

Kyrgyzstan
3744 Posts

Posted - 11/16/2004 :  18:03:58  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
I sit, exhausted. The words extracted have brought their toll. I have toiled over and pondered each and every line and phrase, for the feeble attempt to bring forth a thought worthwhile.

I am just a shell of the person I was when I first began. Nothing left, nothing gained. Just words. Words that are hollow, words that are empty. Never worthy of the the thoughts, never worthy of the experiences of life.

I am just a wordsmith, hammering and forging sentences to shape a story...until the next time.





craig
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/16/2004 :  19:58:41  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He appears like good luck. Before the day leaks out. Before shadows step from smudged corners. He walks through the dream-makers tent under the sky's high blue infusion. Nicked finger. Heart full of vows. His voice of many colors. The nodding flowers widen under his feet. When the sun finally stalls in melancholy splendor, egrets and cormorants gather his fallen feathers for their fledgling wings.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/17/2004 :  19:21:26  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
How he loves the fresh-baked bread and harsh coffee. She watches his hands. How they curve around the cup and finger the dense, grain-flecked crusty slices. He likes the butter cool but not chilled. Served in a small white crock. He likes to finish a slice or two before he starts talking. This morning...a hummingbird before his eyes flying at right angles. Searching for the brightest food in the yard. Wooed by red. It's ruby and saphire throat throbbing with a sound that's not notes, but...a squeaky kind of music.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/19/2004 :  22:36:49  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
MY WORK

I look up and see them starting
down the beach. The young man
is wearing a packboard to carry the baby.
This leaves his hands free
so that he can take one of his wife's hands
in his, and swing his other. Anyone can see
how happy they are. And intimate. How steady.
They are happier than anyone else, and they know it.
Are gladdened by it, and humbled.
They walk to the end of the beach
and out of sight. That's it, I think,
and return to this thing governing
my life. But in a few minutes

they come walking back along the beach.
The only thing different
is that they have changed sides.
He is on the other side of her now,
the ocean side. She is on this side.
But they are still holding hands. Even more
in love, if that's possible. And it is.
Having been there for a long time myself.
Theirs has been a modest walk, fifteen minutes
down the beach, fifteen minutes back.
They've had to pick their way
over some rocks and around some huge logs,
tossed up from when the sea ran wild.

They walk quietly, slowly, holding hands.
They know the water is out there
but they're so happy they ignore it.
The love in their faces. The surround of it.
Maybe it will last forever. If they are lucky,
and good, and forebearing. And careful. If they
go on loving each other without stint.
Are true to each other--that most of all.
As they will be,
as they know they will be.
I go back to my work. My work goes back to me.
A wind picks up over the water.

~Raymond Carver~
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/20/2004 :  19:00:57  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Took the kids and their sleep-over friends to story hour this morning. Pocahontas and Pilgrim tales. Next, pancakes at the 101 Diner. The place with the dolphins and big red candy apples on the walls. Yellow Submarine on the jukebox. Then to the mountains for apples. Not all the way to J. town. Too many tourists on Saturday, but three quarters of the way to a house like Hansel and Gretel's. All fretted and scalloped with hearts cut out of the shutters. Bushels of apples for pies. Different kinds. And pumpkins and cranberries. And squash and praline pecans. Coming down off the summit, at the end of a crooked road, the Fortune Teller's cottage. I gave her your palm to read. Life goes on for hours.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/21/2004 :  20:35:26  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Hang this wreath high. Expect no flash or dazzle. Flame, not sparkle. A story with a common thread. A simple stitch repeating itself. Loves urgent embroidery. He stands on the balcony. Hands in his pockets. Looking down on the narrow courtyard where spiders spin silk through the jasmine. The far-away pointy stars whisper. Striped light on spiny branches. Hard work from November's sunset. She looks in her transparent heart, surprised at the arrow left there. Be glad. Be thankful, he says. But the Apostles are still queuing up in the cafeteria, ransacking their pockets for spare change. Or standing on corners with cardboard signs signs while traffic speeds by and the five o'clock sky fills with wings.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/22/2004 :  20:18:50  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Driving home on the twilit 5 tonight, quiet trains beside us. Almost silent. The seamless rail. No clickity-clacking. At the end of Camp Pendleton is the big rail yard where they wash the AmTrack and the Coaster and the Metro Link. The Coaster is two shades of beautiful blue. The Metro Link is white. A ghost train.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/23/2004 :  21:33:18  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"I am asleep in the upstairs bedroom. Rolled up under a big goosedown coverlet as light as the mornin' air.... The window...cranked...honeysuckle vine...crawling by...leaving the fragrance of a thousand tiny white flowers. The wind dancing with the branch of a young cottonwood tree...too close to the house...no place to grow."

~Mickey Newbury~
October 2001
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/23/2004 :  22:07:41  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Curved gravel road. House in the trees. On rose-bound porches waiting for the last loaves to rise we take turns with tea towels chasing the yeasty perfume. To you... Sleeping under your "goosedown coverlet as light as the mornin' air." Fresh bread baking! We hear your footsteps on the lemon-polished stairs...
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/24/2004 :  19:07:15  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Started baking at 7am. Because we are a big family. All day, music tight in my ear. (How many of us cooked with our headphones on?) Calm sea now after a beautiful sunset. Stars sitting on the water. Sage and yellow feathers to bless the fleet tomorrow. On our last trip to farmers market this afternoon...pierced trays of fresh figs and flickering candles. Surfers shining in full wetsuits, and a beautiful lady in a long fur coat and flip-flops flagging a taxi on the PCH. Our oven timer is ticking, and Cameron's cutting hearts and moons out of the paper towel napkins. Before we sit down at the big table tomorrow...Happy Thanksgiving to all and much love to Newburyland!

Edited by - Ailinn on 11/12/2012 18:39:38
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/25/2004 :  19:57:27  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
...and the place on the desert where you can walk into the turquois sky. Where the old ones still are. The people before the Anasazi. They're not saying what they know. Hot stars. Estrella de caliente. Where God pulls a light show out of His hat every night. Now we need flagged notes that go fast. Kitchen music. For putting this long day away. Cinnamon behind one ear...vanilla behind the other...
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/25/2004 :  20:09:24  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"...es tan corto el amor, y tan large el olvido..."
Pablo Neruda

"Your house sounds like a train at noon:
bees hum, pots sing,
the waterfall catalogues what the soft rain did,
your laugh spills out its trill like a palm tree.

Arriving like a country boy with a singing telegram,
the blue light of the wall talks with the rocks, and there--
climbing the hill, between the two fig trees, with the green
voice--
comes Homer in his quiet sandals.

Only here the city has no voice, no mouth, nothing so
relentless, no sonatas, shouts or car horns: here,
instead, a quiet collocation of waterfalls and lions

and you--who rises, sings, runs, walks, bends,
plants, sews, cooks, hammers, writes, returns--
or have you gone away--?-- (then I'd know the winter had
begun).
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/25/2004 :  20:11:17  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The above is also Pablo Neruda.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/25/2004 :  20:25:52  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
...from the north they came...where the lights dance on a crystal sky across the land of the Midnight Shadow. For many generations they traveled with the Northstar to their backs until they reached a Sacred place in these mountains. From the north and south came wisemen with their Sacred writings. From the Northern edge of the World, one group...from the Southern edge the other... They meet. They are referred to by the flatlanders as The Old Ones. Day and night they are watched over by the chosen ones. Do not disturb them... They are known only...to the wild dogs.

~Mickey Newbury
November 23, 2000~
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/26/2004 :  16:45:56  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He rests with his hands folded on the scrolled iron table. A little sunset smog standing behind him. Doves coo in oval arches. The Mission Church across the courtyard tolls the hour and half hour. There are always bells. And bougainvillea's papery leaves whispering across the terracotta. He turns to a tray of mosaic fruit with its stained glass primary colors. He chooses a warm plum. The east wall glows with western light where the sun descends in angles. Soon the right dark comes down.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/27/2004 :  18:28:08  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
At Swindlers Heart Cove the sea comes in aslant under trestles, and a congregation of feathers wait on the wires overhead. For sunset. Five minutes and five miles away. Liquid light plays over the water. The omni-present tomatoes look forlorn in late November. She's grating cheese in the little house. Popping herbed loaves in and out of the oven. He's pulling the next trick out of his invincible hat. "Be prepared," he says. A star melting in his hand when he lays his heart on the table. Blame the tide bringing the seashells back to shore. Blame the mountains falling down to the sea sometimes tripping in up to their ankles. Blame the palm trees bursting like green umbrellas upon the bluedark sky. Blame the silver moon.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/27/2004 :  18:33:47  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Doves in the palm trees. Mice in the ivy. Bless these children growing up at the edge of the sea living their wet lives in water. Bless the quiet flowers. Jasmine and gardenia. Bless the fine sand sifting into courtyard corners. Bless the lizards huffing and puffing by the verdigris gate. Bless the aisle of burning stars above us. Bless the vanquished and the cherished. Bless you...most of all.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/28/2004 :  17:39:07  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Night came late and morning early. A racket. Kids sliding down the stairs on cardboard boxes at 7am. Feel the house shake? Me and Stu drink coffee. Three strong cups. We haul them all to water. We follow Stu to the salt marsh grasses at the edge of North America. The sky is half full of sea birds. The sun is deeply shining. Stu walks with his seven foot bamboo pole. The pied piper leading his ragged parade. He needs a haircut. He looks like Poseidon. The lowest tide slides in at 4 o'clock. He says we'll leave work early and hit the Mall mid week when the lots aren't full. Beyond the beach, traffic on the PCH freezes, but the curbside florists do okay. Poinsettias and prickly holly. And the Batiquitos Lagoon rises under I 5. Now a peddler on our street. A knife-sharpening tinker man. He'll also tell your fortune. Ten dollars for the month ahead. The rest of your life for twenty. "The honest-to-God real deal," my neighbor tells me. Cameron brings him a bag with sandwiches and two cans of Coke. "Turkey," the tinker man says. "Ham. We don't have any more turkey," says Cam. After supper Stu and I will hide out in the garage by the washer/dryer going full tilt. Music from the truck. Red and radar-green lights glowing. Nobody will find us. They never think to look here.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/28/2004 :  17:47:24  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
...one other thing. Sad because it might be ending. The dark-brick Boyle Hotel in L.A. built in 1889. A haven for Mariachis. They travel light without suitcases. Just their instruments and a clean shirt. A way station on the way to San Francisco. Chicago, San Diego, New York... "...the womb of..." they say, black hair and white shirts shining. Cummerbunds and side-studded trousers. Soft ties blowing in Santa Ana's dry wind. No, this is not Santa Monica. Here the vihuela players sing Amor Eterno under white doves flying and icy chandeliers. Los Angeles, save the Boyle!
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1594 Posts

Posted - 11/29/2004 :  20:19:59  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Late to get home. The children are hungry setting the table quickly making the silverware shiver and jump. We walk this beach in every season. This evening...a man standing alone playing a golden flute. Notes riding on the air up the cliff. And a blind man walking by. Panama hat. Red-tipped cane. Wife beside him and two little kids. Listening to the flute and the water. One hand on his stickstaff. The other...fingertips barely touching the back of his wifes very beautiful neck. They're vacationing here. From Arizona. "Do you always have music on your beaches?" he asks. "Mostly guitars," I say. Farther down, a man from Australia. Rick. Flying hand-made-one-of-a-kind kites. A bug with fringy eyelashes and wings big as rooms. A sea serpent dragon with a 50 foot streamered tongue. He invited me into his camper. Gave me a glass of warm Mango Madness Snapple. "No ice. I don't drink anymore," he says, "now I make these." He showed me dozens of designs. Phantasmagorical. Rick. From Australia. I thought of Karen in her new Post Office. I wish I'd asked him what part. Of Australia.
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