| Author |
 Topic  |
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
 Posted - 05/27/2018 : 21:44:25
|
| Air 71, water 64. Mostly sunny. Back to you, Blaine. |
 |
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 05/30/2018 : 18:30:46
|
| Wild dogs and freight trains. Rails cradled in dust. Sky full of fever. Horizon fractured with light. The ground humming under their feet. Afternoons at the easel painting what he can see. His intense concentration catching green. "Every leaf has a reason to be there," he says, drinking tea with a name like a hurricane. He likes the heirloom edge on copper hours. Everything saved. His palms up and open. His prayers on their slow way to Heaven. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 05/30/2018 : 18:39:45
|
...on the condition of anonymity... When he walks in. Along the fault line. Powder blue sky with condors. Wind farms eerie flicker and roar. Sanctuary of a dream in the heart's wild places. "...holding your heart out of harm's way..." he says, one hand on the wheel racing away from. 112 degrees. Faces and hands pins and needles. Shimmer mirage on the windshield. Who can say if they knew time was a number? What is truth? What is trust? What is wonder? |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 06/08/2018 : 16:28:36
|
| Old photographs. Time-stalled places. Mecca and Niland and Salvation Mountain. The surreal sea visited decades ago. Slab City and Bombay Beach. "Sanity's a choice here," he laughed, "hahaha." Death Valley shadows on an eerie Last Supper. Two names on the Rhyolite Station. Ghosts at home in that arid dark. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 06/08/2018 : 16:32:19
|
| North of the dam rooms are cold and AC frost etches the windows. Dusty weather. Uneasy ground shift. Logo note pads in hotel desk drawers. Triple A maps. Living Bibles. No frame around the big picture. No clocks in the apocalypse casino. |
Edited by - Ailinn on 07/25/2020 18:01:24 |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 06/08/2018 : 16:38:47
|
| "El lugar sin pasos," the gardener said. The place with no footprints. Odd assortment of plants in blue pots on the sills. Little house on the coast with stone patio. Cold summer deck slick with rain. Clouds scuffing the sky that morning. Sea sounds beyond the fog. Photo of him with his back to the sink drinking coffee in black and white. Lantern reflection on the window glistening mystery. |
|
|
|
San Diego
Swinger
508 Posts |
Posted - 06/16/2018 : 18:10:10
|
| Well... Salem is always strange. Especially if you're driving through at night. Gloucester, "They that go down to the sea in ships..." Cobbled Newburyport. Salisbury Beach Fun-O-Rama. Fried clam land. Coastal towns narrow zigzag roads. Historical plaques on the houses. White steeple churches. Broken fieldstone fences. Darker air and heavier water. Fireflies and lawn croquet. A game I played in another century. Curtains covering the windows. Smaller, sweeter strawberries. Places where you know Summer ends. |
|
|
|
San Diego
Swinger
508 Posts |
Posted - 06/23/2018 : 16:19:03
|
| Ogunquit and Kennebunkport. York Beach Goldenrod Kisses where they make taffy in the window. Cranberry soap in the scrimshaw shop. Fortunes Rocks house where the tide left the Atlantic in the driveway. Clam cakes and lobster rolls. Chowder. Homemade ice cream and whoopee pies. A row across Etherington Pond. The dishes I left behind. (Don't stand there looking so long.) Towns where the past is alive as the present. |
Edited by - San Diego on 11/20/2019 14:23:48 |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 06/23/2018 : 16:29:00
|
Tourists. Street trees. Kites in the sky. Sun over everything. His white shirt shining turned up at the cuffs. Curb crowded with exotic flowers. Birds of Paradise preparing to fly. His face clean-shaven and open. His eyes so grave when he stops mid stride. Reaches out and takes her sunglasses off. "Don't say anything," he says. Across the boardwalk the tambourine man. His streamers. His colorful racket. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 06/27/2018 : 17:46:58
|
| Fortunes Rocks dark marble. New Wingland, he called it. Fire rings down the beach. Grounded stars. The moon's elliptical pull on the tide. "I'm trying hard not to..." she said. His head tipped back laughing, "hahaha." Flurry of sparks in the air. His high-bridge nose and charcoal-smudge eyebrows. His chin leading with endless questions. "What do you think of...?" he said. She said, "You, Senor. I think only of you." |
Edited by - Ailinn on 06/28/2018 00:31:52 |
|
|
|
Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
Posted - 06/29/2018 : 16:12:52
|
She's Persian. A real beauty.
The dark eyes so deep you drown.
Accent from her first language, Azeri.
Grew up in Mashhad, city of mosques.
When the revolution was stolen
she was 22, a goddess in mini-skirts
and bellbottom slacks. Nobody liked it
when the religion took over.
That's what drove her to leave and come
here, to the shores of Iona,
her apartment overlooking the mud flats
her hijab a kite, the wind
lifting her hair like a wing.
DL |
|
|
|
Jonmark
Windchimer
USA
1791 Posts |
Posted - 06/30/2018 : 06:16:03
|
| Good to see you, Douglas. Look forward to meeting her someday. |
|
|
|
San Diego
Swinger
508 Posts |
Posted - 07/02/2018 : 18:09:47
|
| Doug- Nice to see you here. I remember you two sharing a cookie once. Wishing you both much happiness. |
|
|
|
San Diego
Swinger
508 Posts |
Posted - 07/02/2018 : 18:13:41
|
Horizontal lightning over flat Kansas corn. Chasing the sun on the last flight home. Seat belt sign across most of America. If we exited on the tarmac I'd have kissed the ground.
|
Edited by - San Diego on 11/20/2019 14:25:50 |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 07/08/2018 : 16:25:37
|
| She's handy with a camera. Knows what to keep in the frame. He doesn't like posed photographs. Spontaneous moments she saves in a box marked Thanksgiving Recipes. Surprises out the window. The sky up late. White flowers in the clouds. "I painted it to slow it down..." he says. One hand waving. One hand shading his eyes. |
Edited by - Ailinn on 07/16/2018 18:10:07 |
|
|
|
Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
Posted - 07/10/2018 : 22:52:53
|
I had a dog named Banjo and a girl named Muffin
I'd just blew in from Texas and I didn't know nothing
I found my way around this town
with a friend I made named Guy
Who loved Susanna and so did I
Now there was this run down shack on Acklen Avenue
That I shared with Skinny Dennis
And a poet name of Richard Dobson
who had a novel he'd never finish
That's when Johnny Rodriguez, David Olney
and Steve Earle first came through
And every other guitar bum whose name I never knew
Old School Nashville, Harlan Howard, Bob McDill
Tom T Hall go drink your fill and blow us all away
There was this tight-rope-walker
who called herself the queen of Poughkeepsie
Who ran away from the circus
with some roustabout redneck gypsy
They were Townes Van Zandt fans prone to combustion
They fought like dogs in Spanish
and made love in Russian
I wish Newbury and Buck White
would drop on by the house tonight
Things have changed round here, you bet,
but it don't seem much better yet
I first met Willie Nelson with some friends at a party
I was twenty-two years old and he was pushing forty
There was hippies and reefer
and God knows what all
I was drinking pretty hard
I played him this ****ty song I wrote
and puked out in the yard
Old School Nashville, Harlan Howard, Bob McDill
Tom T Hall go drink your fill and blow us all away
Rodney Crowell, 'Nashville 1972'
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhZtiNXnCXE |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 07/13/2018 : 18:17:51
|
"There's this place..." she says. "I got lost there." "C'mon..." he says, "...let's see if we can get lost again." |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 07/13/2018 : 18:25:28
|
| Thorn gate. No hum from the highway. Rock slide road in a bowl between two mountains. NO TRESPASSING county sign at the dirt junction. A warren of cactus-choked lanes. "What risk...?" he says laughing. The two of them under wide Kodachrome skies. Everything knee-high alive around them. Overhang of tangled branches. The grass greening up like cresses at the edge of the lake. Cast the line in the shelter-shadow places. Let the clouds pass over while you wait. The breathtaking double strike. The irrefutable connection. Prism light on the dusty windshield. Intermittent static on the long ride home. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 07/16/2018 : 18:13:58
|
| Deep water. Mica-flecked air. White rooms with curtains billowing. Gantry cranes across the Bay. Newspapers. Coffee. The toast burnt a little. Elastic clock on the counter. His deep blue presence. His indelible stare, "No rules..." he says..."...jus' start talkin'..." |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 07/16/2018 : 18:20:39
|
| ...big city... But the neighborhood was small. The corner market had hot bread before seven. The beat cop knew the shopkeepers names. You could order one slice of pastrami. A pickle. A piece of cheesecake. Eat it standing on line. Subway stairs down the block. Carbonated blood in the tunnels. Underground thunder when the stations blur by. Sandwich boards on Broadway. Backstage assignations. The Camel man's perfect smoke rings. Headlines on the Zipper. The park trees folded their green jackets in Fall. The sky growled in December. Slush in the gutters. Snow in your boots. The Met Knights in their armor. The one with the star... |
|
|
|
Topic |
|
|
The Nightly Vigil