| Author |
 Topic  |
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2174 Posts |
 Posted - 10/10/2016 : 17:08:57
|
| He consorted with angels exquisitely versed in mortal ways. The loud moments. The blossom in the blood. Hearts at the brink trapped in the mechanics of time. Dreams lying broken on the floor. The sadness in them. He captured it all in his paintings. He leaned into the easel and his redemptive art. |
 |
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2174 Posts |
Posted - 10/10/2016 : 17:12:06
|
| They had seen the light. More than once. Portal of transformation. He said it was beautiful. A delicate mist. She said it was short sticks of lightning that crackle and hiss. They both said they were not afraid. |
Edited by - Ailinn on 01/25/2020 13:57:09 |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2174 Posts |
Posted - 10/10/2016 : 17:14:07
|
| "It's your paranoid nature to look too much into things," my friend Mirella says. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2174 Posts |
Posted - 10/18/2016 : 19:21:33
|
| They're out on the street mining sunshine. Pockets full of match books and ball point pens. He likes Marina Bank's best. Both blue and black ink a block from the harbor where in Winter they'll sit outside with bowls of hot chowder in the fog. But this is Autumn. The Bay and the Pier and the palm-studded sky. The red setting sun slipping under the Bridge. The single-runway. The Star. The Embarcadero. The Sailor and the mute Fortune Teller in the Fall-threaded light aware of an air of enchantment. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2174 Posts |
Posted - 11/01/2016 : 14:19:39
|
| In the province of memory they sit on the corner drinking cup after cup under extravagant sunshine. Mona Lisa's sly smile across India. Jacaranda and vanishing bungalows climbing straight up to the Park. The reflection pool with its lotus and lily pads. Mosaic domes and fountains. The magic carousel. Flocks of seagulls sweeping over steep West Laurel Street where the cars go airborne and the jets and Interstate 5 fly over it all. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2174 Posts |
Posted - 11/01/2016 : 14:29:52
|
| Another time this happens. He's stuffing rolled newspapers along the sash and the sills in a house on Vertigo Hill. A torrent of rain rushes the panes and loosens the turret's slate shingles. He's trying to quiet the wind whistling through the transom. Through the plaster walls and high mantel. A flash of white lightning slices the wide sky which at 10am looks like midnight. It's Sunday morning and all hell breaks loose pulling them into deeper water. These so stubborn two. "The truth under all the truths," he says. She hears it as a prayer. |
|
|
|
Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
Posted - 11/05/2016 : 05:40:52
|
This was the same bargain promised for longer
than she had been alive. It recommends ongoing sacrifice.
It is the dry bread given to the hungry.
It is a wild promise enabling the poor to sleep and dream.
It is the bare patch of ground on the reservation
where nothing grows. It is the old dilemma, a poison,
and we sell it to one another as medicine.
It is a river we cannot drink from.
It is the fear of winter.
It is the eye that does not see. |
|
|
|
San Diego
Swinger
508 Posts |
Posted - 11/07/2016 : 01:34:29
|
It's good to see you here, Doug.
Hope life is treating you kindly. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2174 Posts |
Posted - 11/15/2016 : 17:28:24
|
| They spoke their wishes and never tired of Once upon a time...stories. The quick climb into memory's elastic clock. Those long ago heart-driven years. Curious children intent upon naming each infinite blade of grass. Her fingertips stained with India ink. His imagination stunning the unprepared air. "In the morning..." she said, "I want coffee. A walk on the beach. What do you want?" |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2174 Posts |
Posted - 11/15/2016 : 17:33:07
|
| And so it continued. Murals of untraveled roads appeared on the cliff side walls where the children gathered around him at the high tide mark. Sometimes he'd touch their chins or the tips of their noses with his manifest brush. How they cried out in delight for his colors. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2174 Posts |
Posted - 11/19/2016 : 12:34:58
|
| His art so obvious and so hidden. His infinite...but selective patience. His moods multi-faceted like a jewel. Half in sunlight half in shadow the grass trembles and the trees step out of his way when he grows quiet with condensed chaos. A little capricious lightning at the horizon. The tyranny and consequences of indifferent time. Heart on the line when he leans back on the deck with his palms resting on his knees listening to the gulls epic stories. He closes his eyes then. His old closed-eye grin. |
|
|
|
Joe Z
Windchimer
USA
1819 Posts |
Posted - 11/20/2016 : 08:50:54
|
"His art so obvious and so hidden."
Now coming to you live right outside the AM band... |
|
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2820 Posts |
Posted - 11/20/2016 : 10:25:50
|
Take me down to the river Jesus
And wash away my sin
I need a little help getting
Out of this hole I'm in
Just a hand or a strong breeze
To lift me from my knees
And I'll be back in the air
and flying free.
I knelt by the side of her bed in the dark
Said, Honey, why would you leave me now?
She turned away and in a voice so soft but oh so clear
She said,
You left me for whiskey, you left me for women,
You left me year after year.
I always stood by you, I always waited
I cry every night, but you never hear.
This is where I get off, it's over and done
but never forget the reason I'm through.
I didn't leave you, it was you that left me
It never was me, it was you.
I knelt by the side of the road in the dark
said, Lord, why have you forsaken me so?
You let him slip away just as we became friends
The pain from that night will never ever end.
He turned toward me and in a voice so soft but oh so clear
He said,
You left me for whiskey, you left me for women,
You left me year after year.
I always stood by you, I always waited
I cry every night, but you never hear.
But, this is where you get on, walk to the boat and ride
The river isn't deep and it only looks so wide
But never forget the reason this came true
I didn't leave you, it was you that left me
It never was me, it was you
Son, it never was me, it was you.
Take me down to the river Jesus
And wash away my sin
I need a little help getting
Out of this hole I'm in
Just a hand or a strong breeze
To lift me from my knees
And I'll be back in the air
and flying free.
https://youtu.be/-ZkMFh-si_8
|
Edited by - buckman on 11/20/2016 10:26:41 |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2174 Posts |
Posted - 12/03/2016 : 17:43:23
|
| Mist-kissed nights in the wheelhouse. Abalone light in the galley charting ornamental stars. Salt-scoured sea-bright mornings. Waves effervescent spray. Zing on the line. Fish shining. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2174 Posts |
Posted - 12/03/2016 : 20:30:25
|
Talisman fountains spilling behind verdigris gates. Neptune and Poseidon. Venus afloat on her shell. The glitter boulevards temptations below. His sound in the house with tile floors and blue shutters. His waking and sleeping. His voice in those high hills in the shadow of The Sign and The Cross. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2174 Posts |
Posted - 12/10/2016 : 18:30:04
|
| They lived in the perpetual present. That's not to say they didn't save memories of the future and the past. But the shape of his hand on the hourglass turned their days. Sweet sun-flooded bungalows off India. Jets skimming construction cranes perilously perched on high rise rooftops. They watched the neighborhood surrender to valet parking at the corner market. Fairy-lit forests popping up at the curbs. Casa replaced with Chez. "...and tomorrow..." he said, "...there'll be doormen and doves in the lobby." His prescient vision. His accurate...days gone by. |
|
|
|
Joe Z
Windchimer
USA
1819 Posts |
Posted - 12/16/2016 : 12:11:34
|
| Writing the story of Mickey Newbury was exhilarating… eye-opening, soul-stirring and illuminating. In a word, CRYSTAL. But on some shadowy evenings, when I sailed too far out to sea, the exploration turned hard… dark, rocky and petrifying. In a word, STONE. |
|
|
|
San Diego
Swinger
508 Posts |
Posted - 12/20/2016 : 10:30:53
|
-for Joe Z.
...and then a flash from the lighthouse window...
|
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2174 Posts |
Posted - 12/20/2016 : 10:39:56
|
| A maritime warehouse and salvage yard. Rigging blocks and porthole mirrors. Weather stations and vision-full spyglasses. Shipwrecks and disaster. Chronicle of days gone by. They wear gloves to sort through this treasure. Haul it out in the salt-heavy harborside sun. A pair of nautical lanterns. Brass lamps for a kitchen window. |
Edited by - Ailinn on 04/09/2019 18:02:32 |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2174 Posts |
Posted - 12/20/2016 : 10:46:43
|
Holy coastlines and mystical seas. Water not on any nautical chart. Benign neighbors and year-long fruit on low branches. He settles into the old rocker. Adjusts the logs on the grate. Sips his tea or brandy. Glow over the stove where the kettle stays warm and the clock chimes only the odd hours. They're deep in the warp and weave of it. Caught in the undertow. Smoke floats across bluff tops from Christmas tree-lit campgrounds. Embers adrift in December's sky. |
|
|
|
Topic |
|
|
The Nightly Vigil