Sunday, July 11, 2010
Who is a friend
Some days it is just a distance that I share with a friend, they tired of me, me tired of them, but the line is still unbroken, When roots of things are deeper than the surface cuts, then I am glad for that friendship.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
The moon is out, near full. I looked to see if she was up to her old tricks, but no. Tonight she is just a pretty ball of rock.
It's a quiet. The owl hasn't been around for a while, or if he is he has had nothing to say. No sounds of traffic, nothing on the town's streets, no rumors from the highway. Just the cool night air, holding its breath, waiting, for what, I do not know.
The moon is out, near full. I looked to see if she was up to her old tricks, but no. Tonight she is just a pretty ball of rock.
It's a quiet. The owl hasn't been around for a while, or if he is he has had nothing to say. No sounds of traffic, nothing on the town's streets, no rumors from the highway. Just the cool night air, holding its breath, waiting, for what, I do not know.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
| Beneath the Old Dead Whimsy | for everyone |
The camwrack and belum were in bloom, and all about spring was come into the Vally.
"Pull boy, pull" said father, and the boy pulled with him on the yoke. Together they tore the earth with one staggered stride, followed by another. By midday half the south field was furrowed.
"Ohi, let's out of the sun for a bit," said the father, and the two went to the shade and lay there breathing heavy.
"Da, I'm hungry" said the boy.
"I know boy. Plow today, hunt tomorrow." was the answer. The older man reached over and patted the younger on the head.
They lay a while, watching in silence the blueness of the sky wheel overhead, passed the broad leaves. Then the father rose, and then the boy.
The afternoon was harder, blisters bled, hunger gnawed, but the earth was patient, and the plow persistent. Dusk caught them both by surprise. They looked over what they had done, and gave one another a satisfied nodded at the fullness of the days work. If things went well they would both live through this next winter.
On the way back to the cabin they came to a quiet place, where the belum grew thick, and an old dead whimsy hung over it all. An "X" was carved into the whimsy's bark. The boy touched the mark, then stood before a small nearby mound in silence. The father touched his head, and said, "Go and fetch a stone, and set it here.
The boy gave a little smile, and went quickly to the piles, for the day was now only a memory in the sky, and soon he would be left in dark. The piles were no place to be in the dark.
He went up, passed two stone lions, and onto one of the piles. There was a nice piece of squared stone, smooth lines carved into its surface with such purpose that the must once have had meaning. For a bit the boy studied the lines, wondering at their intent.
He lifted the cool brown stone onto his shoulder and carried it to the mound under the whimsy, by the blooming belum. Father had already left, and would be heating greens over the fire. In the last of the fading light the boy reached out and traced the lines on the stone. They would mean mother, he decided, and then the world was in darkness.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
5-5-10
The rain is in the restless trees, telling them to hush and sleep.
I feel right with the world. The little voice that always asks, "if, if..." is quiet. Tonight if can wait until when.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
@-(
“Writing’s easy. You just get a blank sheet of paper and stare at it until your forehead bleeds.”
-By some other fellow, who at least had this much to say, which is a damn sight more than I.
PS: For those of you are unfamiliar with @-(, it is the emoticon for "My forehead is bleeding. This is not to be confused with the symbol @-), which means "My fore is bleeding, but I'm happy about it," that is useally employed by descendants of William Tell and masochist.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Story Telling
There is nothing sweeter than song, and no singing sweeter than that which comes from that joy of living itself. No creature voices this better than the Rodin. Though it is contested by Magpies, that is only because they are contrary birds, and they are considered well refuted on this point.
One bright summer's day a young robin sat on the branch of a cherry tree and was singing in just this way. His notes were as pure as the joy in his heart and caught the heart of all that heard him, so that there was a silence all around save for his unfaltering voice. It was carried on the wind, and the wind delighted in the carrying of it. The airs were of a kind mood that easy summer day, and took the notes far and into the window of the house on the hill.
The golden haired woman paused just as her fingers reached to turn the page. She did not know why she put her book down, or why she passed through the door, or even why her feet carried her out into the day and into the cherry orchard. She found herself looking up at the robin, listening to him sing.
It was as if a spell had been broken, the enchantment of the world, of televisions, of Internets, and every list that had ever been made. She heard this bird's song, and it was like the first birds song, she was like the first woman, and everything was suddenly about her in dazzling clarity. She smiled.
Robins are cautious creatures, not given to idle fancies, as are some birds, but this poor robin looked down and saw the smile of the golden haired woman and knew he was in love. He sang to her, and as before his notes were strong and pure. He sang of the joy of perching in cherry trees, and flying across egg shell blue skies. He sang to her of the joys of being a young robin in love until it grew dark, then he grew silent, and the woman with the golden hair returned to the house on the hill.
The next day, after eating his fill of worms, and this was many for he had sung till exhaustion the day before, the robin began to sing. Hours passed, but no woman appeared. He wondered if he had only dreamed of her. It was late in the day, as she return home that she heard his song. She had almost forgotten it, had thought it just a dream, but now the work and driving, all the little tasks seemed to be the dream. She came out into the long shadows of the cherry trees to the branch where the robin sang, and stood listen until dark.
Each day she returned, and each day he sang to her. The sky turned and the stars wheeled. The robin grew old in the short span of robins, and he grew wise. He now knew the golden haired woman did not understand his words only the tone of his notes. Still her eyes cleared when she looked up at him and she smiled. He took pleasure in her, and she in him, though each was lost to the other.
Fall came, and with it the wind lost its good mood and it became cool and bitter. Then winter came, and the airs were cold and harsh. One day the robin was gone.
What liars make happy endings? What in ending is happy? The Golden haired woman went out that next spring and heard a robin's song, but knew it was not her Robin singing. She has her own song now. She sings of the joys of standing amid the cherry trees, of walks beneath a powder blue sky, and of the joys of being a woman in love, and she waits.
I here the Robin is in Leeds these days, and singing to a nice lady with red hair.
One bright summer's day a young robin sat on the branch of a cherry tree and was singing in just this way. His notes were as pure as the joy in his heart and caught the heart of all that heard him, so that there was a silence all around save for his unfaltering voice. It was carried on the wind, and the wind delighted in the carrying of it. The airs were of a kind mood that easy summer day, and took the notes far and into the window of the house on the hill.
The golden haired woman paused just as her fingers reached to turn the page. She did not know why she put her book down, or why she passed through the door, or even why her feet carried her out into the day and into the cherry orchard. She found herself looking up at the robin, listening to him sing.
It was as if a spell had been broken, the enchantment of the world, of televisions, of Internets, and every list that had ever been made. She heard this bird's song, and it was like the first birds song, she was like the first woman, and everything was suddenly about her in dazzling clarity. She smiled.
Robins are cautious creatures, not given to idle fancies, as are some birds, but this poor robin looked down and saw the smile of the golden haired woman and knew he was in love. He sang to her, and as before his notes were strong and pure. He sang of the joy of perching in cherry trees, and flying across egg shell blue skies. He sang to her of the joys of being a young robin in love until it grew dark, then he grew silent, and the woman with the golden hair returned to the house on the hill.
The next day, after eating his fill of worms, and this was many for he had sung till exhaustion the day before, the robin began to sing. Hours passed, but no woman appeared. He wondered if he had only dreamed of her. It was late in the day, as she return home that she heard his song. She had almost forgotten it, had thought it just a dream, but now the work and driving, all the little tasks seemed to be the dream. She came out into the long shadows of the cherry trees to the branch where the robin sang, and stood listen until dark.
Each day she returned, and each day he sang to her. The sky turned and the stars wheeled. The robin grew old in the short span of robins, and he grew wise. He now knew the golden haired woman did not understand his words only the tone of his notes. Still her eyes cleared when she looked up at him and she smiled. He took pleasure in her, and she in him, though each was lost to the other.
Fall came, and with it the wind lost its good mood and it became cool and bitter. Then winter came, and the airs were cold and harsh. One day the robin was gone.
What liars make happy endings? What in ending is happy? The Golden haired woman went out that next spring and heard a robin's song, but knew it was not her Robin singing. She has her own song now. She sings of the joys of standing amid the cherry trees, of walks beneath a powder blue sky, and of the joys of being a woman in love, and she waits.
I here the Robin is in Leeds these days, and singing to a nice lady with red hair.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
