Mickey Newbury Web Board
Mickey Newbury Web Board
Home | Profile | Register | Active Topics | Members | Search | FAQ
Username:
Password:
Save Password
Forgot your Password? | Admin Options

 All Forums
 The Back Porch
 Open Topic
 The Nightly Vigil
 New Topic  Reply to Topic
 Printer Friendly
Previous Page | Next Page
Author  Topic Next Topic
Page: of 163 Lock Topic Edit Topic Delete Topic New Topic Reply to Topic

Lee F.
Firefly

USA
2550 Posts

Posted - 11/12/2004 :  10:02:45  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The shadows creeping down the wall eating the dappled sunshine that had painted the wall with cloud figures of every shape until all was ruled by the gloom. Turning on the lights swallowed the shadows in a flashing of power except for the stongest shadows that hid behind the sofas,paiently waiting to reclaim their fiefdom.
Go to Top of Page

Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 11/12/2004 :  19:34:31  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
She wants him on the street. Gold locket watch snug in his pocket. Pistol in his new boot. Laughing when he falls through that hole in the sky. And there he is. White shirt shining. Stepping over cracks in the sidewalk with clouds around his ankles. Whistling a tune that makes her sway and lean against him.
Go to Top of Page

Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 11/12/2004 :  19:40:57  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Tall bolts of lace. So delicately fine I said to the Rep, "Somebody must have gone blind making this." "Probably," he said, "it's a hazard of the textile industry." Makes me think of Monet growing the flowers he painted.
Tonight a hot air baloon crashed in a field of horses. The people scrambled out. The horses moves as one. In panic. From the noise of air escaping and flames roaring to ignite. The gondola slid on its side. Fire gone. Rainbow nylon collapsing. Finally they got it in the truck all tidy and drove off to tomorrows sunset.
Go to Top of Page

Ron L.
Swinger

USA
675 Posts

Posted - 11/12/2004 :  23:29:47  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
James traveled that forest road along
the river as the wind began to rise and
the trees were singly softly, soon to
be heard in full force. He walked all
that afternoon past dead lumber mills
and empty houses smiling with cracked
window teeth. He found the camp ground
close to dark with an open tool shed
and in the fading light, sat down and
contined reading about Stan heading for
Vegas to meet the Devil.

It rained most of the night as he kept
warm with a half empty fertilizer bag.
At dawn, after sleeping better than he
ever would have thought, he continued
his trip to the Sea. The rain was gone
but the wind was strong and as always,
heard the surf long before he reached it.
He stood on a hill beside Wedderburn and
gazed at what looked like black and
white watercolors running together a
little offshore.
The waves were huge and they fought with
the outbound flow of the Rogue. From where
he stood looking up and down the coast at
untamed magnificence rushing to the land,
he had a thought about the Ocean:
You cannot argue with it.
Go to Top of Page

Ron L.
Swinger

USA
675 Posts

Posted - 11/12/2004 :  23:34:31  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"Ya know, I think God sent "West Wing" to give us hope."

Mickey Newbury, October 31, 2001

Edited by - Ron L. on 11/12/2004 23:35:18
Go to Top of Page

Craig
Firefly

Kyrgyzstan
3793 Posts

Posted - 11/14/2004 :  04:28:23  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The timbers of the old house creaked constantly from the blustery wind. The wooden door, loose in its frame, sadly bangs like an old, used drum, keeping step with the gusting wind. No light but an old white gas lantern in the middle of the room. It is a beacon for the few moths left to winter over to dance and bounce around, that night.

Morning arrives. The waves of the Blue Norther pound the southern shoreline, bringing with it a cold penetrating rain. Who would have thought a leaky, old weather beaten cabin would provide three marooned souls with shelter. Wading out into the cold waters, oysters are gathered and opened with numbed hands from the bitter cold. The warmth from the portable stove provides a moment of relief from the cold as the oysters sizzle as they are warmed and cooked.

Darkness covers us like a cloak as we slowly eat and savor each bite.

Hours later a very faint, yet welcome sound is in the far off distance. It is getting louder...a boat making its way through the cold, winter night.

The old place no longer exists, one too many Northers took it away. It is like it was never there, swallowed by the waters. It is nothing more than a few timbers left on the edge of the saltgrass marsh, a constant reminder of the cruelties of nature and the agelessness of East Bay. But one time, it was sanctuary.





craig
Go to Top of Page

Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 11/14/2004 :  17:45:47  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"...a Plan is nothing more than another word for Dream. Nothing wrong with dreaming. Once again I fall into my dreams... So close your sleepy eyes...and sail into the sky..."

~ Mickey Newbury ~
Go to Top of Page

Craig
Firefly

Kyrgyzstan
3793 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
Go to Top of Page

Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 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.
Go to Top of Page

Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 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.
Go to Top of Page

Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 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.
Go to Top of Page

Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 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
Go to Top of Page

Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 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...
Go to Top of Page

Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 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
Go to Top of Page

Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 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...
Go to Top of Page

Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 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~
Go to Top of Page

Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 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.
Go to Top of Page

Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 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.
Go to Top of Page

Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 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!
Go to Top of Page

Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 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.
Go to Top of Page
Page: of 163  Topic Next Topic   Lock Topic Edit Topic Delete Topic New Topic Reply to Topic
Previous Page | Next Page
 New Topic  Reply to Topic
 Printer Friendly
Jump To:
Mickey Newbury Web Board © 2003 Mickeynewbury.com Go To Top Of Page
Snitz Forums 2000