| Author |
 Topic  |
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2825 Posts |
 Posted - 09/03/2006 : 21:03:27
|
The rain comes and changes
Nothing...
I must still face that
which threatens to
take it all away...
They say that time
ia the healer but
I am out of time...
As I face him in the dusty street
Evrything we have built
Depends on my right hand...
I feel the rain on my face as
I see his eyes change...
I see the flash of his fire as
I hear the sound of my gun...
Nearer my God to Thee...
Rev B
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
|
 |
|
|
San Diego
Swinger
509 Posts |
Posted - 09/03/2006 : 21:19:00
|
Article in the San Diego Union Tribune.
"RATTLESNAKES UNDERFOOT San Diego has more bites than anywhere else in the state. In late summer rattlesnake babies are born and are harder to see so there's more chance of running into one. Remember, rattlesnakes are important members of our natural community. They will not attack, but they will defend themselves. Don't try to capture them for pets. When you touch snakes you better expect to be bit. Most bites aren't accidental but involve intoxication and/or a dare, like the 26 year old man who tried to kiss a rattlesnake and ended up being bitten on his lower lip. Bite victims should go to a hospital emergency room where they will be given antivenin. To avoid being bitten, if it's rattling, back off. And don't try to kiss it."
Frogs, now... That's a different story. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2196 Posts |
Posted - 09/09/2006 : 19:51:52
|
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 |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2196 Posts |
Posted - 09/10/2006 : 19:11:37
|
| 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. |
|
|
|
aussiedave
Swinger
Australia
509 Posts |
Posted - 09/15/2006 : 09:49:37
|
....dancing shadows.....
a [poe]m |
|
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2825 Posts |
Posted - 09/15/2006 : 19:49:51
|
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/
|
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2196 Posts |
Posted - 09/16/2006 : 17:47:14
|
| 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. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2196 Posts |
Posted - 09/16/2006 : 17:55:11
|
| 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 |
|
|
|
Craig
Firefly
Kyrgyzstan
3793 Posts |
Posted - 09/17/2006 : 04:15:15
|
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 |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2196 Posts |
Posted - 09/17/2006 : 18:01:36
|
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.
|
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2196 Posts |
Posted - 09/17/2006 : 18:08:48
|
| 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. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2196 Posts |
Posted - 09/17/2006 : 18:18:41
|
| 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. |
|
|
|
Craig
Firefly
Kyrgyzstan
3793 Posts |
Posted - 09/23/2006 : 20:50:44
|
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
|
|
|
|
Craig
Firefly
Kyrgyzstan
3793 Posts |
Posted - 09/24/2006 : 14:56:15
|
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 |
|
|
|
Karen Runk
Firefly
USA
4925 Posts |
Posted - 09/24/2006 : 15:34:05
|
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 |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2196 Posts |
Posted - 09/24/2006 : 20:13:47
|
| 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. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2196 Posts |
Posted - 09/24/2006 : 20:21:38
|
| 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. |
|
|
|
Craig
Firefly
Kyrgyzstan
3793 Posts |
Posted - 09/25/2006 : 18:12:19
|
...the jokers plainly out of view. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2196 Posts |
Posted - 09/26/2006 : 19:12:49
|
| 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. |
|
|
|
Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
Posted - 09/27/2006 : 01:46:37
|
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 |
|
|
|
Topic |
|
|
The Nightly Vigil