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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
 Posted - 11/26/2006 : 16:50:37
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| Fog-bound days. In 1360 he crossed the crumbling cliffs blindfolded. A spatter of rain. Then another. The wind battered the grey flumed coast. The briny wide ocean bared its sharp teeth below him. Sometimes the wind broke him. Sometimes the keening harpies serpent songs did. He arrived out of breath with a story that rhymed. The sea house invented itself quickly around him. The kitchen with its long plank table and hand carved chairs. The candle's constant invitation. The open oven door. The aisling's incantation when the dark came down. |
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Craig
Firefly
Kyrgyzstan
3793 Posts |
Posted - 11/26/2006 : 20:32:19
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Deafened by the strife-laden wind, not able to see no more than what is heard through the blindfold.
Is it truth...or just the wind?
craig |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
Posted - 11/28/2006 : 19:36:29
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The sea is crystal clear tonight
The wind is up the sails are tight
But I can see no harbor lights
I can see no land in sight
The sea is crystal clear tonight
I can see the harbor lights
At last I have the land in sight
Where there is someone waiting up for me...
~Mickey Newbury~ |
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Karen Runk
Firefly
USA
4925 Posts |
Posted - 11/28/2006 : 20:06:14
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Where did that come from? 
Come on Ro, tell 
Karen Runk |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
Posted - 11/29/2006 : 18:43:57
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"I am asleep in the upstairs bedroom. Rolled up under a big goosedown coverlet as light as the mornin' air. The window...cracked. 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~ |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
Posted - 11/29/2006 : 18:46:24
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| Dark now. Stars coming into the heart of it. And the black silhouette trees. As if the leaves were painted on the sky. |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2825 Posts |
Posted - 11/29/2006 : 19:16:06
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I love this old room... The figurines on the tabletops, the dusty pictures on the walls, the white bearded handsome man that sings his waltzes quietly in the corner... The friends stopping by on the odd nite.....
But, Oh what a pallette the Irish Lady paints with! Her colours from The West set my heart ablaze!
I could listen to her paint all nite...
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
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Edited by - buckman on 11/29/2006 19:18:06 |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
Posted - 11/30/2006 : 18:30:59
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"...stepping into this three-quarter moonlit night to say... Sleep well... Dream."
~Mickey Newbury~ |
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Craig
Firefly
Kyrgyzstan
3793 Posts |
Posted - 11/30/2006 : 18:34:39
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"I usually sit pensively in the shadows of the corner of the room. Once in a while, just once in a while, I may have something to say..."
craig |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
Posted - 11/30/2006 : 18:38:27
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| "Before you leave to know everything brush those clouds away from the sunshine!" she cries. "Take your sunglasses off," he tells her. Her starry tears when the stairs grew steeper. Her belled shoes, water-logged. Dust rising in fistfulls under his feet. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
Posted - 12/01/2006 : 18:07:28
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| "...before the cold sky closes... Hold on to the ones you love. Like today was the last day in the Universe," he says. She says, "...finished the wings. Do we fly now?" In pictures she's still smiling at the Post Office. No numbers under her chin. Her fear is the only thing he will not allow. She becomes fearless in his house of miracles. |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2825 Posts |
Posted - 12/01/2006 : 20:00:35
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Yeah, Mick.....
Funny, it's a three quarter moon in NY , too, tonite....
I guess we're still two bits short of havin a buck, but let's make a night of it anyway.....
They lit the tree at Rockefeller Center last nite, wanna go over with me and Becka?
Then we go to St Patrick's...
Then the Bitter End, then the Lone Star, then the Bottom Line....
[[OK, Rev,you know none of those places are there anymore, don't you?]]
Yeah, Ralphie, I do....
But, neither is Mick,
He won't know....
HEY YOU THERE....... DON'T TELL HIM......
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
Posted - 12/02/2006 : 16:52:14
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| "...if this were a true story...and it is..." he said. A two-sided border story. Dangerous centuries behind it. The small space where they waited. The rusty gate. Palm trees exploding above the chimneys. Shore birds patroling the balcony rail. Soldiers guarding the scarred garden pathway. Her heart-shaped spade driven deep into rock-riven soil. His talisman heart banging against her ribcage. Blood-light blinking from her ruby-stung ears. Blisters rising on his interrupted life line. One night he showed her where the boat was hidden. Their shoulders touching in the tarry dark. The astonishing stars. The moon's bright sickle above them. His gaze so grave. Her smile so free and brazen. |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2825 Posts |
Posted - 12/02/2006 : 19:33:20
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You have crossed all boundaries tonight of word usage and colours and art.... I am stunned once again at the newest painting on the wall....
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
Posted - 12/03/2006 : 15:29:27
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One waltz around the room, then, Reverend...
"...to days gone by..." |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
Posted - 12/03/2006 : 15:33:09
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"..write...Write...WRITE....the candle is burning at both ends and time is short. DAMNNNNN.....those steps are rough!"
~Mickey Newbury~ |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
Posted - 12/03/2006 : 15:41:44
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| When Chloe went back to braids Ezekial figured he had the inside track. An' him gettin' that job with Lamont Whitefeather. Sure puffed up his chest some. Assistant to the Tribal Chairman, hah! Hell, everybody know'd it was jus' that shiny new black pick-up that got ol' Zeke the job. Jacked-up and tricked-out like the Border Patrol. An' them high-tone mounted lights a' flashin'. Funny how fickle some hearts are. Love's a distraction, fer sure. An' he was a hard-hit man. Pinin' after Chloe ever since Mortimer passed. Mortimer an' Chloe, now... Well... That's another story. Somebody on the jukebox singin' to the smokey room for quarters. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
Posted - 12/03/2006 : 15:52:23
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| At the white-walled Asylum Cafe squirrels chatter in and out of the ice plant and thumb-size dragons skitter across the courtyard. He sits with his head in his hands at the corner table. His view is infinity. Striped lemon light and blind flowers. Perpetual song birds. Both sun and moon up high everyday. And the chockfull-jewelry-store-lit-up night sky. His eyes slide out the side window to where small wishes are caught in a pepper tree and wind chases the racing clouds down the sand-blown arroyo. "Ah, Senor," Hernando says, fresh pot in hand. Hot coffee at the end of Eden. |
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Craig
Firefly
Kyrgyzstan
3793 Posts |
Posted - 12/03/2006 : 17:38:39
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GREEN, in the wizard arms
Of the foam-bearded Atlantic,
An isle of old enchantment,
A melancholy isle,
Enchanted and dreaming lies:
And there, by Shannon’s flowing,
In the moonlight, spectre-thin,
The spectre Erin sits.
An aged desolation,
She sits by old Shannon’s flowing,
A mother of many children,
Of children exil’d and dead,
In her home, with bent head, homeless,
Clasping her knees she sits,
Keening, keening!
And at her keene the fairy-grass
Trembles on dun and barrow;
Around the foot of her ancient crosses
The grave-grass shakes and the nettle swings;
In haunted glens the meadow-sweet
Flings to the night wind
Her mystic mournful perfume;
The sad spearmint by holy wells
Breathes melancholy balm.
Sometimes she lifts her head,
With blue eyes tearless,
And gazes athwart the reck of night
Upon things long past,
Upon things to come.
And sometimes, when the moon
Brings tempest upon the deep,
And rous’d Atlantic thunders from his caverns in the west,
The wolfhound at her feet
Springs up with a mighty bay,
And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side,
Strung from the heart of poets;
And she flies on the wings of tempest
Around her shuddering isle,
With gray hair streaming:
A meteor of evil omen,
The spectre of hope forlorn,
Keening, keening!
She keenes, and the strings of her wild harp shiver
On the gusts of night:
O’er the four waters she keenes—over
Moyle she keenes,
O’er the sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow,
And the Ocean of Columbus.
And the Fianna hear, and the ghost of her cloudy hovering heroes;
And the Swan, Fianoula, wails o’er the waters of Inisfail,
Chanting her song of destiny,
The rune of the weaving Fates.
And the nations hear in the void and quaking time of night,
Sad unto dawning, dirges,
Solemn dirges,
And snatches of bardic song;
Their souls quake in the void and quaking time of night,
And they dream of the weird of kings,
And tyrannies moulting, sick
In the dreadful wind of change.
Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles, wail no more,
Banshee of the world—no more!
Thy sorrows are the world’s, thou art no more alone;
Thy wrongs, the world’s.
The Banshee
~ John Todhunter
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2825 Posts |
Posted - 12/06/2006 : 19:08:35
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So, Melinda, did you enjoy the nite with the full moon?
Last nite Melinda showed up... This time She had the gun...
I told her I would take her to the Hudson to see the full moon, but we spent the nite fighting, then making love, then fighting, then making love...
Pity, I so wanted to show her a good time....
Rev Buckman
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
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The Nightly Vigil