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MY LOVE THE PAIN IS YOURS BUT IT IS MINE TOO THE PAIN IS THROUGH THE STUFF WE DO WE SUFFER MORE THAN LOVE EACH OTHER CAUSE OUR LOVE WON’T LAST FOREVER MY DREADFUL FEELINGS ARE KILLING ME MY WORDS ARE EMPTY BECAUSE OF YOU YOUR GORGEOUS SOUL DOES NOT DESERVE THE PUNISHMENT I’M GIVING IT BUT LET ME TELL YOU MY LASTING LOVE I’LL STAY MY FEELINGS TO NOT BE FILLED BECAUSE MY FRIEND YOU DON’T NEED TO BE WITH ME IN MY RESTING GRAVE BELIEVE OR NOT I LOVE YOU MUCH BUT IT WON’T HAPPEN, OCCUR TO US AND NOT BECAUSE OF TIME AND SPACE BUT CAUSE OF MY DEMOLISHED WORLD DON’T BE SAD ABOUT MY SOUL I DON’T DESERVE TO DO THAT, SO LET ME BE ALONE IN THIS FAREWELL PARTY, I’M GIVING YOU A KISS I’LL KEEP THE MEMORY OF YOU FOREVER BUT LET YOUR MIND TO VANISH MINE BE WELL AND HAPPY WITH SOMEONE ELSE TOGETHER BECAUSE I’M NOT A PERSON OF YOUR KIND THE PRICE I’LL PAY IS ONLY MINE I’LL TAKE YOUR PAIN WITH ME AWAY AND LET MY KISS BE THE ATTAR DIME I’M GIVING YOU IN THIS LAST DAY

Why is it I'm down a Pawn in every single game? To lose a simple little piece with such a simple name, seems petty and innocuous to worry it at all when coming to the endgame seeing seven more have fallen! It wouldn't be so terrible if somewhere 'long the way, I hadn't somehow also lost the bishops in the fray. Throw in for good measure the fact my knights are errant, gone missing on some urgent quest (the reason unapparent). Then unbeknownst to me my lovely Queen and both my Rooks, have disappeared in gambit play not seen in any books! My unseen opposition sits a thousand miles away, She lives somewhere in Italy or Spain or Galway Bay. I'm sure while waiting for my turn, for me to SUBMIT MOVE, She's reading Tal or Alekhine or a theorum to prove. So here I've lost my kingdom , while night has turned to dawn, And all because mistakenly... I went down a pawn.

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Don’t fear for all amphibians It really doesn’t matter It’s not a frog a newt or toad But. Sausages in batter. Ask a Welshman for some fun To shoot a rarebit with his gun A prize be given for the most Hot Welsh rarebit on my toast! A Scots cuisine known for its taste Is made from bits the butchers waste Then put into some stomach lining It does taste nice but needs refining. The Irish have col-cannon, No, it’s not for shooting ships Its smelly rotten cabbage served With onions and chips. In Cornwall theirs a right old row The Pasty at its centre Do they put in meat n veg And fruit like they are meant ta. To France we go for fruit der mer Moulin Rouge, Moule Mariner Strolling champs-elysee’s style Restaurants, mile after mile Waiters who do not care less To busy with the cute waitress The Spanish with their fighting bulls Carafes of rosé wine Paella, flamenco, castanets, And thugs on larger and lime! Portugal, the edge of Spain The land of Peri Peri sauce Unless you are a golfer As they do a nice golf course Amsterdam is window shopping Bedroom hopping, drugs are popping Eating cake and smoking hash Forget the law, just bring some cash The Germans bratwurst sausage Sauerkraut and larger beer A loosing world cup football team And a down their nose look sneer Volkswagen and Mercedes and Adolf Hitler who Hurt a lot of people and lost them world war two! Italy has pasta parmegarno and ragus A tower that is leaning And make lovely pairs of shoes Tiny little people when talking roll their RRs In a hurry going nowhere In there tiny little cars. Geneva’s known for its cuisine Of muesli milk and honey And the town is very clean It evens launders money Norwegian men are killing whales They use and eat most bits Unlike Thatcher and Scargill Who used then killed the pits Invited out to Africa A dinner just for two Make sure you read the menu As the dinner might be you! Don’t care what foods in Egypt Casablanca or Sudan The lamb shank and its couscous As it’s covered up in sand Don’t care about the mirages The Tuaregs and such like And as for riding camels huh! I’d sooner ride me bike! Zimbabweans eat crocodile From the Limpopo not the Nile And Robert MUGABE just for fun Said backwards spells E BA Gum! South Africa (apart,,, I’d) never ever thought One voice could bring a country down One man a country fought For human rights of everyone Be they black or white together These men that fight just causes Like, the great Nelson Mandela The Russians have Beluga, Black-market eggs for tea Those complain, aren’t seen again Care of the K.G.B Jamaica has jerk chicken Marijuana and reggae, Voodoo dolls n coca nuts, And plenty Bob Marley; A cricket team that beats the world Fantastic scenery, I’m on the next flight out of here, It’s the West Indies for me! In Texas they eat rare beef And show the world there class Don’t cook for long they tell you Chop its horns and wipe its ass The Appalachian mountain men Eat codfish pie and pig Their front teeth must be missing And drive a rusty rig While grandma’s rocking on her chair And grandpa’s at his stills Banjo music fills the air From far off, in the hills. Canada has only snow And Mounties furs and game Beaver pelts hung in a row A prime ministers crying shame There is a group of chilies That will surly make you choke Try Naga Jolokia and, Then go up in smoke! King prawn balls, sweet n sour. Egg fried rice, chow mien Trouble is in half an hour, You’ll want it all again We travel to the Yemen where, They have a drink called Mocha But as a football fan beware There not much good at soccer Taiwan is not a country I bet that’s not the case For if you turned it upside down Its name is on the base The Japanese are funny eaters Using chopsticks try to teach us Sitting on the floor to eat Their women serve with tight bound feet When visiting New Deli Try a stew made up from fish You’ll get an iffy belly But please don’t blame the dish Tahiti girls wear coco nuts And go without a bra Flowers pearls and long grass skirts It sounds like Shangri-La In New Zealand, Maori men Can be very rude Their tongues aren’t in the mouths for long It must be in the food The Aussies love there bar-b-ques Camp fires and rude songs Koala bears and kangaroos And call us whinging poms. Far to the north as north can go You come across the Eskimo Now I’m not sure but I’ve been told Eskimo food is very, very cold Our culinary journey ends Back in London town Pie n mash fish n chips With tea to wash it down, A curry when the pubs close Or kebab on your way home The Weekends only started And you’ve lost your mobile phone The pavement stones starts moving And your speech and eyes are blurred You’re waiting for a cab And someone’s chatting up your bird You spew up in some garden And you walk like your on skates Forget you told the barmen That you love him and your mates You have to walk forget the cab Don’t bother with the train. Kiss your friends and cash goodbye Tomorrow, start again! Bill Currie.

ballroom dancers interstice timing rhythm rhyme movement checkedfeatures glancing exasperating lines centersmotioning horizon hidden trapping aspirations limiters; the ballet of two armiesinto a conclusion: make the last move first

is it not all a little silly?the whole scheme of things;how it all wraps up together. comestogether in pasted frozen moments diorama affairs photocopied for posterityor reason. Who are we who sit and judgealoft and adhered in the absolute,tethered in long meta-prosaicnot also then doomed obsolete. is it our power over others orour powerlessness amongst each other that is the true defining line driven evolution of world poverty coupled with space exploration that createsthe dilemma and transparent justicethat keeps us from pushing and shoving and elbows please people, they are sharpest on a crowded bus; that drives our little tribes to conlecture constitutionconjob rules like standing room onlymaximum occupancy and white/black only bus seats glass ceilings and members only.

I shit more in one moment than most through-out an entire lifetime ever digest. But do I truely know what it means to appreciate what is lost and regret what is kept. With what can I capitalise wholly, fully each and every day. being only human, I too fail to keep the Ivory shoulder inatact; andhaving grown tired of Gods whimsical humor all I can do now is cry every time I hear the innocent,honest virtue song sung in laughter in my daughters voice. Pan would burn the forest into the desert trying to resist laughing along.

http://moreintelligentlife.com/

Here's the 2nd part of Qu33nsgambit's novel-in-progress.To accomodate her large contribution here, we broke it up into 2 halves. Read Part I following this link, then Part II here below. For more of the story, she invites you to her blog: http://maeann66.blogspot.com When the other guard arrived, Lola Lydia’s grandson held the still unidentified woman by the elbow and led her to the Admissions Department. A nurse was trying to interview the shabbily dressed and dirty-looking woman ushered in by the guard. The guard had handed her the note and told her that the woman seemed to need help and he had stayed. Even if the woman had not shown an iota of violence, he had to make sure. He would wait till Nurse Terry Salvador told him to leave. He positioned himself behind the chair on which the woman sat, regarding her with feigned disinterest. He felt pity for the woman and memories of Lola Lydia came with the feeling. He reminded himself to concentrate on what Nurse Salvador was saying to remain alert. Terry jotted down the woman’s appearance, her affect, and her behavior. One glance and she was able to take it all in then she started probing, coaxing and imploring the woman to talk about her feelings and thoughts and who cared enough for her to bring her to the center. After all, she had been doing this thing for years ever since her graduation from a nursing school a decade ago. She went on to attend short courses on psychiatric nursing when she realized that her calling was to serve the mentally afflicted. And her country needed her just as she needed her country. She felt she could not join the exodus of nurses leaving for abroad. A puzzle sat in front of her waiting to be solved and she knew that her skills would be tested. The woman had neither relative nor friend whom she could interview to get the woman’s background. What was the matter with her? “I’m Terry and I’m here to help you. I would like to ask you some questions first, if I may? Here is the note that you’ve given our guard, Mr. Ramos. Can you tell me who wrote this?” Terry Sandoval repeated the words for what seemed like an eternity. Years of caring for a bedridden sister now resting in God’s peace came to her aid. “Mother, oh, Mother, please forgive me. I should not have hurt you.” The woman’s fingers trembled as she reached out to touch Nurse Salvador’s face and she slid down on the floor. The guard and the nurse rushed forward to catch the woman as she fainted. The guard then carried the woman in his arms, totally forgetting that the dirt and grime on her had repulsed him earlier. He lowered her gently on a clean gurney and lifted its sides to prevent the woman from falling off it. Lola Lydia had done a superb job of raising the boy. Nurse Salvador hurriedly jotted the woman’s name and personal information, at least what she had gleaned earlier, down on the log. She thanked the guard and dismissed him. They had both been shaken by what had just occurred but tact prevented them from using the woman as fodder for conversation. Idle gossip would not help her. For now, Terry Salvador could not tell what would.

SNOWFLAKES For every person there is a falling flake In a sense we are all living in one big snow pile. Every snowflake has different details Those details describe a person’s life. * Its always snowing, it doesn’t matter, North, South, East, or West. For every new flake that falls Someone is born * If you make mistakes You will slowly begin to melt Make BIG mistakes you will eventually Melt to a raindrop, hit the icy surface, And pass on.

"Better late than never!" Qu33nsgambit asked me if I could post part of her novel-in-progress.Hi, Writch! I joined National Novel Writing Month '08 and this is part of my novel entry. I crammed in 50529 words in just 30 days just like 21,736 participants from all parts of the globe. 50000 is the magic number and I will be glad to let you read 972 words of it.The idea of the Nanowrimo is fun. It is forcing yourself under time pressure, and without a lot of time at that, to write 50000 words, the number you need to be able to come up with a body of work that can be categorically called a novel. Nanowrimo is not about quality. You are not expected to come up with a work that's ready to be published after 30 days from its first writing. What is expected of you is to write, write, write and hopefully finish a very rough draft of a novel in 30 days.To accomodate her contribution here, we're breaking it up into 2 halves. Read Part I below, and Part II following this link: qu33nsgambit's Prose Knight pt. II For more of the story, she invites you to her blog: http://maeann66.blogspot.com THE UNSHACKLING Introduction The uniformed security guard stationed at the entrance to the International Center for Mental Diseases stopped the middle-aged woman who was about to enter its premises. But the woman, with hair unkempt, kept on walking slowly and was oblivious to the guard who was calling to her a bit louder now. “Hey! Hey, lady! Will you please wait?” The woman, who kept on advancing slowly, did not show any sign that she had heard the guard who had by now planted his body right in front of her. Ragged breathing was the only sign of the temper he was trying to control. “You can’t just go inside without telling me who you want to see and why. There are restricted areas in this facility.” These last words the guard was able to say patiently but firmly. He would have been a little harder with a man, particularly the sneaky type. But he always treated women a bit differently. They reminded him of Lola Lydia, the grandmother who made his orphaned childhood lighter and happier. Lydia was about the age of this woman when she took him in. His thoughts would have strayed further if his hand had not been quick to suppress the hand that the woman was raising. He had taken his training seriously and even if the woman did not look like the sort who would bring a weapon, you never knew. But when he saw that the hand was grimy, he dropped it as though he was stung by something poisonous and the note fell. Before the wind could blow the sheet of paper away, the guard had managed to grab it. “Please receive this woman into the center. I am sorry that I cannot take her myself because I do not want to be identified. Besides, I do not know her. I brought her here out of pity. She does not talk nor seem to understand anything that I say. And I thought that this was the best place to take her since something seems to be affecting her. Please take good care of her. God bless you!” It took sometime for the note’s content to register. Requests like this did not happen everyday. There were people who did not act insane but who went to the center to see psychiatrists. And the woman did not belong to that category. She was not brought to the center by a screaming ambulance and this puzzled him. If the person who had brought the woman to the center was not a relative, there was no reason to be ashamed. Who brought this woman here? He radioed a companion to watch the entrance in his stead.

are we to lie alone or together? colored without touch likeachameleon in conversation our opening minds are but maddening pages of thickness stuck together,as one reminds one of the numb meaning pastedrichly in mucous and sweat. so we will write outthe next chapters of desire and anguish. so are we my dear not so unlike my love are we alone and then togetherturning the story over and overon each other so that we can only touch, knowing thatno one has read deeply intoour whispers and shouts and as i leave my mark I see how She sat at the corner of my table side manner and feigned to read to mea sentence or two on the art of lipstick sentences and hourglass shades; how we can only be appliedcorrectly if one is in the right mind setor left waiting in a wrong movement. I cough asShe pulls from her pursethe very instrument of topic, I pray as shepursed her lips togetherand begins to lie, or sigh, either way I weep. And I never knew more about a woman before her lips curled, expressing profoundcolored images into my ears in bliss. So I laugh. My old, self confident self, sellingmy connections into the magic.My dark words only seem to distanceme farther and farther away from all the true belief of me as menot me in thought. Then we kiss. We smile. And lay in languid glances across each others subtle risings. She then disappears so easilybehind easy conversation. I wonderif I even to deserve to talk to her anymore. I feel so dull. With my graces cluttered in tainted silverand tarnished in linens, a thinner part of me escapesonly to collapse once again into foolish reasoning. So I try not to speak, and let her talk,And listen. That's all she really wants. just listen...

Running my fingersThrough her;Like she were a piano.Smooth and melodious;I play legato;Staccato when I'm inside her.Adagio to accelerando,Then back again.Guiding each noteThrough its course,The vibratory bliss upon her. And I kiss herAnyway,Thinking: 'We're robins without the red.This sex has lost its bed.Are we feigning love?' I slip back into her angel skinAnd ravage her heart to crescendo.

Sgt Major I heard my country calling Sgt Major, and proud to be of service to the King To defend my rights and yours Sgt Major, and bathe in the glory it will bring Excuse us for a moment Sgt Major, as we wave goodbye to sweetheart’s friends and kin. I feel fit and ready Sgt Major, so bring on England’s enemies and foe Will it last very long Sgt Major? is there any time for prayer before we go? As we cross the channel, Sgt Major you can teach me all that I will need to know. Who do I shoot Sgt Major?, tell me where my rifle should be aimed Where do I go Sgt Major? please order me, so I cannot be blamed Am I doing right Sgt Major? I’m doing what you say, like I’ve been trained I will Start to dig a trench Sgt Major, dig it deep so I will not be seen It’s freezing bloody cold, Sgt Major, pitch black and did you hear that awful scream? I’m knee deep in mud Sgt Major, trying to keep my kit and rifle clean Please don’t blow that whistle Sgt Major, I can hear the bullets passing overhead I’m scared and feeling sick Sgt Major, that soon I will lay among the dead The flares bright light is falling Sgt Major, lighting up the no-man’s land we dread I know it’s time to go Sgt Major, uncertainty and fear awaits us all Are you scared like me Sgt Major? Not knowing what our future may befall You order us to arms Sgt Major; every man will answer to your call “Let’s av’e them” cried out the Sgt Major, our 303 rifles our only shield “Show no mercy”, added the Sgt Major as we charged towards a muddy bloody field “No quarter to be given” the Sgt Major said, a British soldier can’t be seen to yield Ricocheting bullets, whizz past the Sgt Major, some causing others, pain and tears Then the thud of a bullet the Sgt Major stopped, alone reminding us of all our fears How silent the Sgt Major was, now calm amongst the shouting and the cheers! Goodbye to all our Sgt Majors, in their new found homes abroad Goodbye to friends and neighbours lost, by bullet bomb or sword Goodbye to Sons and fathers, but not their memory Goodbye the Un-known soldier, for your show of bravery. Bill Currie. Proud Son of a Sgt Major.

While I don't plan on giving a personal account of my actions to the site at large, I do feel it's important I give one here - as I feel guilty for having left so abruptly, without consideration as to how my departure could affect the group I worked to shape. Contrary to some of the speculations I've seen fly around (including the idea that it involved a laughable group of adolescent-minded malcontents - LOL), I left under my own steam - something akin to being overwhelmed by my involvement in the site over the last year, in a drastic move to extricate myself, however breifly from it, and re-evaluate myself. I won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say: I'm glad to be back on my internet home, playing games with my friends... and I owe something more to the group I made. I feel like an ass for leaving in the night like that, without a thought to the fact that it might steal all the threads I'd set up. That was wrong. In the very least I should've appointed new admins in my absence (as I'd planed to do with Writch anyhow), and thankfully LOB and I talked over MSN and I was able to explain most everything to her and convey my wishes. Now - I don't mean to step on any toes or what have you. I just wanted to say sorry and hello - and that I wrote a few poems while I was away that I'd like to share with the group, y'know? I hope no one is mad at me, and that you'll have me back as your friend and fellow member.

Red for fireAs she sipped her wineAnd gently coiled her fingersAround the warm shapely glass;A thin breeze mingled the air To ripple her thick treacle hairWhile she poured delicate palms through it And between all of my staresShe would look upAs if the ceilings were sky and starsAnd she were the lone moon TonightI'd believe anything she told me I chanced to meet with herThough I was discouragedFor much beauty befell herAnd I am not a man of wealth My mind is full of moneyBut my pockets just my words I emptied them on her tableAnd bought an hour of her timeShe coyly sipped her wine and lookedAt me as if I were sky and stars

While in Hawai'i I went to a couple of Bon Festivals (or O-bon) held at some of the Buddhist Missions near the beach. O-Bon is one of the Japanese traditions kept & celebrated in Hawai'i by its past Japanese immigrant population. It has taken on a distinct local flavor as perhaps more emphasis is put on the Festival of Lanterns part of the night than in contemporary Japan. This is an event where the folks at the festival release lanterns inscribed with the name of the deceased - ancestors and recent alike - into the ocean (in Japan it was into the rivers where they floated downstream to the ocean). Below you will read my impressions of one of those nights. In a point of "form" - there's a style of Japanese literature, Haibun, where one "sprinkes haiku" within journalistic prose. That explains why it looks like I tried to sneak in some poetry on the coattails of my prose. As Cap said, "Dash the rules!" Nearby in the dark, a temple’s gong sounds out and fades. From the rise of a small hill, hundreds of dimly lit windows outline a sleepy village. Songs of planting rice and rich harvests linger in the night air. Another temple bell sounds from further off – perhaps on another hill. A sea-scented breeze wafts in from the direction of the village and the scene shifts and rolls. The lights from the windows waver and all the houses lined up on a distant street appear to lift up from their foundations and then are carried into the center of town on a dense swath of small white flowers. A few houses are swallowed by the moving wall of night blossoms and with a sigh, surrender into the fold. The rest of the village bobs up and down in turn as the mass of flowers and drifting shacks wash by. A chant and another toll of a temple bell mark the approach of newcomers. Lamps from a caravan of dozens of new folk approach from the over the rise of the rolling hill and set up camp on the outskirts of the rippling village. The new fires flicker and add to the constellation of lights that are at spread out and yet huddled together. A flash from a nearby camera instantly and mercilessly destroys the illusion. Hundreds of floating lanterns nestled among sea foam reflect back the cold, harsh magnesium flare. Then, another flash from another camera. Hushed voices and giggling from twilight silhouettes reveal a crowd on the beach releasing more lanterns into the ocean during an O-Bon festival. There are names on the lanterns to honor and respect their family – some lost generations ago along with the images of their faces, and some whose names are still found frequently on the tongues of the family that were just here – dancing and laughing with them at last year’s festival. Back in the surf, some lanterns keep close to shore, because they are to new to death and crave life. There are others that linger still, because even though their families try to send them off, they hesitate – knowing of their daughter with the drug problem, or their father struggling to make ends meet. Two lanterns head out together to sea playfully tapping against each other, perhaps grandmother and grandfather finally together again. And there! There two cling together… a young departed daughter of the distant past growing up in the ethereal world who has tonight finally met her soul mate, also taken in his youth, lost on the shores of a recent foreign war. But many lanterns rush out to sea, happy to be rid of their bounds for a night, knowing that they can never be truly released from this cycle. As the land meets the ocean, the Living meet the Dead and mingle and renew an unspoken covenant. As long as we remember those who came before us, they will watch over us. And when we meet and officially recognize this bond, we insure the future: their future and ours. As our flames burn out naturally over time or are accidentally extinguished, our progeny will light a candle in remembrance; they will sing our songs for us and dance our dances for us. In the summer night Lanterns bob in the ocean Our souls burn again

OK, OK... I know I have one here already. This is so much more like I write today and I wanted to share it. It's about flying again and it's longer than the format suggested, but I love this piece. So DASH the Rules: ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- (This story was written to honor the first flight of Jim Miller’s TravelAir 4000) With the flick of a switch and a shout, “CONTACT!” …she was born. It was a clear, cool Kansas morning the day she rolled through the factory doors and onto the flightline. Her mags alive, a gloved hand on the throttle, she popped to life like magic in a puff and two and three of smoke. It was The Boss at the controls, Clarence Clark, test pilot for the Travelair Aircraft Company. He presided over her birth as he had for hundreds of others from 1925 to that day late in 1927. OX-5 alive, Clark squeezed the throttle and let her breath in the orange morning air, fresh still with the sunrise. With a wave to the ground crew, chocks away, he asked her, please, not to bite him. Now, Airplanes, like animals, are born with innate instincts and specialized skills ready to be discovered, practiced, and refined. They also wake with a touch of curiosity and a healthy shot of eagerness. One much watch for if this if one expects to outlive one’s bird. Clark planned on being absolutely rotten with old age someday and took the reins of this new bird firmly in hand. With a waggle of the stick, a look left and right, he watched the oil pressure gauge climb through 40 psi as he opened the throttle wide. Tailskid up, a hop or two on the wire wheels, and she was airborn. Now, Airplanes have as their hearts, the engine. The OX-5 beat anywhere from 400 on waking to nearly 1800 times a minute when excited with take-off. Oil is her blood, heated through her efforts, cooled with a radiator atop the bridge of her nose. Her soul is in her wings, taut cotton and silvery dope contain her spirit. But it takes a pilot to complete her. The touch of a hand is motivation and guidance. She learns to trust her pilot…or to teach him a lesson or two if need be. With Clarence Clark at the controls, she knew instinctively, she was getting the lessons today! A slow climb to a low pattern, a gentle series of turns, throttling back into an easy stall and recovering straight ahead like a good girl, she was now fully awake and joyed to be alive. Left turn to downwind, a slip through base, throttle idled to hear the tune of the wires, a bounce after touchdown…her first flight complete. He taxiied in, shut her down, and coasted to a stop a few feet from where she started. The groundcrew lifted her tail to a dolly and rolled her off to the hangar. Clark would write in the log an unremarkable flight, to him unremembered within a month…but to her, that first flight filled her with purpose, gave her direction. She could hardly wait to taste the air, crisp and sweet like an apple, another time. She was sold to a Texas oil man, Harlan Hill, a self-proclaimed aerial adventurer the very next day. Rolled out again into the sun, fresh varnish caught the warmth and smelled of pine and honey. Her new owner swaggered around her inspecting his charge. He nodded his head, shook hands with the Line Chief, and plopped his impressive girth into the back seat. Goggles down, he yelled, “Contact!” , and she was alive again throttle half open jumping the chocks, straining against his tight grip on the stick, wincing at the force of his rudder jabs…he lifted her into the air with his own muscle, it seemed. She dipped a wing to look back at the place she was born, grimaced at the inexperienced grip and kick of this man-beast to straighten her out. She knew she hadn’t learned enough from Clark to teach this man anything…but being a good plane knew she had to try something just to show she cared… …so she shut down a cylinder. Just over tree level the suddenly rough engine squeezed a yelp out of the pilot, and he heeled her over in a turnabout back to the field. She felt his grip on her tighten to a strangle…she shut another cylinder down. “EEEK!”, the mighty braggart in the cockpit reduced to pale-faced mouse, she laughed and managed to help him trounce down the turf runway digging in her tailskid extra hard now and then to spray up a little more dirt than was ladylike just for fun. Choking on dust, the man shut off the mags and bellowed for the Line Chief. The Chief, biting his lip against the laughter, dutifully appeared. Now, Airplanes are not malicious or spiteful. They are keenly interested in our education, however, and have been know to be prone to mischief. If allowed, they will work in concert with other airplanes trading stories and prank ideas with each other. I myself have witnessed a flight of three biplanes in tight formation all cough with carb ice simultaneously. I have never seen three grown men turn so white so fast in my life. Chief Pilot Clark, supervised the unbuckling of the leather straps around her cowl and ran an experienced hand along the top and bottom of the engine. He found her mischief in four loose sparkplugs. “Naughty girl ” , he whispered. After lunch, the Beast reappeared. Clark himself offered a few tips for the smooth handling of silvered wings. The large man smiled and nodded, “yes, oh, yes I see, I see… I’ll get her this time, you’ll see, Mr Clark.” , and climbed into the cockpit again (this time with the help of a thoughtfully placed stool). “con-TACT!”, he bellowed, and they were off. Flying southeast she could see her shadow race along through the wheat fields, watch sparrows harass the crows who in turn harassed the hawks, watch teams of horses haul in bronze stalks of grain. It was here in the world around her she could almost forget the wrestler’s weight in the cockpit. She would do him good service, though, for more than 10 years, learning as they went, helping the man through crosswinds and cross-countries. She did what she could for a decade, but an airplane needs fuel to fire its heartbeat and one day she drank her tank dry. Her owner sat bolt upright in the silence, and swore and blustered and looked for a place to put her down. He wracked his brain for all he was taught about emergency landings and remembered only one thing: “Landin’ a crate in a short field is a might touchy sometimes, Harlan,” , a pilot friend told him, “stick ‘er ‘tween two trees to stop if you have ta.” And so Harlan, sportsman pilot and oil baron, found a field with two trees in it. The only field with the only trees in that part of Texas and dutifully flew her, inches off the ground, into them. Now, Airplanes will sacrifice themselves if given no other option. They cannot impose their will on a pilot, they can only cajole, implore, suggest, humor, or flat out beg a pilot to reconsider a poor decision…but in the end, it is up to the pilot to make the choices. She woke, bruised and beaten, in a barn. The smell of fresh dope wrapped around her in the stale air like a bandage and she winced from the pain in her wing roots. Thankfully, she had slept through the operation and remembered none of it. She rested there for many days and many nights, healing, thinking, looking for the lessons that come free like a gift with every accident. She was glad for the rest. Harlan had worked her hard and was forgetful when it came to the details of maintenance. From time-to-time a man would open the door of the barn and sit on a bale of hay, flask in hand and sip and run a worn hand through thinning hair. An occasional furtive glance backward over his shoulder toward the farmhouse told her that this barn was a healing place for Man as well. Summer passed, gave in to Fall, and by Winter, she knew she would not be seeing Harlan again. The Farmer was the only witness to her recuperation. Winter came quietly and brought the frost that made her sleep. Once a while, she felt a mouse rustling through her horsehair seats looking for shelter from the cold. She didn’t mind…she liked the company. It was quiet here among the bales of gray hay, snow drifted in through the cracks of barnwood and pillowed lightly around her axles. Sleep came easy. The Spring thaw brought a new family of mice to the cockpit and she named the litter after the men she had known in her heyday: Clarence, Chief, Eddy the fabric man, Clyde, Walter, Loyd, and Earl…and the plump one Harlan. The Farmer continued with his evening visits bringing with him his son, not much older than she. The boy would climb on a bale and swing his leg into the cockpit, sitting for hours, mock dogfights with ghost enemies, always the outnumbered, always the victor. Sometimes Father would watch and sip and smile until the dinner bell rang, a call to duty that reached the boy even with his foe in the crosshairs. That summer was dry, barn boards creaked, her spars felt light. She had lost the air in her tires and her rims sank down into the dust. The boy and the Father would still visit, but not as often as she would have liked. The constant sound of the tractor let her know exactly where they were at all times. Late in the days, the sun shifted to cast slanted beams through the cracks in the slats of the walls. Dust hung thick in air caught, it seemed, on bars of yellow. The shafts of light kept her fastened to the floor. She, too was caught…and in dreams escaped to clear air and grass fields. One early morning, after nearly all the summer gone, Father and Son visited her again. Father dressed in his Sunday best, Son dressed in an olive uniform…silver wings proud on his chest. They talked excitedly to each other walked around her frame, now tattered a bit with time. Before they left, father gave Son a hug, quick and light, but sincere and proud and quite probably the first he’d offered up in the boy’s short life. She knew she would not see the boy again for a long long time. Fall dried her varnished panel, dried the seal at her oil tank and she began to leak a bit, drops of black sucked up by the dusty floor. She slept. Seasons passed, Father stayed away, mice were born so many generations she had run out of names for them all. Spiders built webs in her wires, but all they caught was dust. She woke, once, startled to a taste. Through her intake, she caught the flavor of carbide and gunsmoke very faint, from very far away. Even in this place of quiet refuge, the winds of the world brought her the taste of War. Another year passed and Father returned. In one hand, his flask…in the other a letter. He sat heavy on a hay bale and stared at the floor, and said to her quietly, “We regret to inform you…”. he stayed quiet a long long time, put the letter and the flask inside a spool of baling wire and left. For the first time, she heard the heavy clack of a lock behind him. Another year passed. A new taste. This one sharp and biting, one impossibly small particle of something impossible hot touched her. Some dust mote that had once burned hot as the sun. After that, she didn’t taste the war any more. Now, Airplanes are remarkably patient. I have seen some sit at airports for decades and never move from their tie-downs. Wheels flat, cables slack, they accept this apparent indignity with calm…never once losing faith that someday they will be called upon to fulfill their role in Man’s life: Bringer of Joy, Deliverer of Sanctuary, Steed to the Picnic, Stallion to the Pancakes, Teacher of the Young, Rejuvinator of Old…they would sit and they wait until the clocks all stopped if they had to. She settled in for the long haul, a hibernation, waking once in a great while to taste the air for news. She felt a shimmer of hope in 1948. A child was born a thousand miles away who’s destiny she knew would cross with hers, and knowing that, smiled and told him , “Hurry!” , and slept again. 23 years she was left undisturbed. Her cotton fabric long fallen away, her oil a sludge in her veins. In 1971 two remarkable things happened. The child she had once whispered to reached out to her in joy…he had learned to fly! And her barn door swung open wide. The farmer’s wife, who she knew only by voice, old with time, let in a team of men and tools that took stations around her. She recognized a 9/16th deep socket, a 7/8th open end wrench, a pair of worn side-cutters, and a coil of rope with block and tackle. Quickly, expertly, they removed her flying wires, her tail feathers, her wings, and struts. They joked with each other and griped and strained against a rusty prop nut, jacked her up and pulled her wheels away, hoisted her by the mounts and removed her heart: the old faithful OX-5. In her excitement she missed the fact that with each piece removed, she lost touch with the world around her. Slowly, they were parting out her soul. She…again…slept. She dreamed she felt the sensation of speed and wind and thought she was flying again, but low to the ground and without the weight in her wings. She sensed a shift in her position to a new point on the planet but was too tired, in too many pieces to make sense of it all. Time passed. By 1995 she was 72 years old and had spent a scant 10 of those years in flight. She woke to the touch of the child, now a man of 47, knew him by his touch…knew she would do anything he asked of her. She was moved again, west by her calculation, her compass dry but still swiveling on its gimble gave her hints. Safe in his shop, her new home, this man Jim with the smile of a child, started the long process of bringing her back to life. In one corner of the room, a worn workbench, fluorescent light flooding the bones of her tail laying there. Across from her tail, struts neatly stacked, stripped of their old paint and primed in gray. Her spars, well beyond repair could serve only as patterns for the craftsman and he worked late into the nights, shaping and planing and polishing replacements. Even with her bits and pieces scattered around the shop, she could still get a sense of this man Jim. Careful, methodical, excited and proud, frustrated when he couldn’t figure out a piece of the puzzle she was to him at times, exultant when he could. For the next seven years, he would tinker over her with loving hands, fussing over the details in her frame, lacing cables by hand, routing copper tubing precisely along her curved fuselage, laying out her spars exactly square to the world and building up her ribs one at a time, better than new. While he worked, she would watch, coach him when she could, cheer him along when she couldn’t, and slowly she took shape. Steel tubing primed a glossy black, spruce varnished to shining, white fabric stretched tight over her wings laced with waxed cord and doped pink. New wheels rolled in the door, fresh tires bigger and tougher than the ones she was born with were pumped just short of rock hard. Lowered onto her gear she began to notice improvements in her make-up: a tail wheel replaced the old iron skid, hydraulic brakes (which puzzled her at first, but she cleared that mystery up after a chat with a passing Cub), a radio which would allow her now to talk quite clearly to planes a hundred miles away, and most wonderfully, behind her, a large wooden crate. Inside it, precious and strong, her new heart, air-cooled and powerful enough to turn a nine foot stainless steel propeller. Pink dope turned to silver and the years passed fast: new flying wires bright and sharp, new seats and instruments, new windscreens for the pilot in back and two passengers up front…each new piece polished old facets of her awareness. Slowly, a year at a time, she was coming alive by the hands of the man who was the child who cried out to her in joy so long before. He had tasted flight and would not live again so brightly without it in his life. Now, flying is not so much a sport as it is an addiction. Pilots say they fly to get somewhere. Pilots who fly the old stuff fly to get someWHEN. Everyone who flies holds the tremendous power of perspective over those who do not. From above we can see the Earth’s rhythmic folds, see the valley and feel the glacier’s weight cut great trenches in solid rock, over fly the mountain and feel the push of thousands of years of pressure of plate against plate, buzz down the river and trace in left and right gentle undulation back to the time when there was a great Ocean retreating here instead. When we fly the old stuff, we push a jeweled machine back through the folds of time and carry it forward around us in a bubble that rewards us with youth. Fly the old stuff an hour, get an hour of life, free. Seven years of labor and love, he rolled her out into a Pacific Northwest sun and with an easy swing of his leg over the cockpit combing, made himself at home where once mice played. Bright and shining paint and prop, he sat there and drank her in. “OK, Little Girl,” he said to her, “ be gentle with me…” and touched her alive. She complied and thanked him with a blow of smoke from each cylinder, her new prop a disk of light, trying to look distinguished and nonchalant about it all, hiding her excitement best she could. Jim, however, could not contain himself with any such grace. He whooped a cheer loud enough to be heard above the rumble and tick of the idling engine, embarrassed a bit for the outburst, but smiling as bright as her prop in the sun. A gentle squeeze on the throttle and she rolled forward under her own power for the first time in 63 years. She tracked straight and true for this man, carefully down the taxiways at Felts Field. She could feel the history here in this place and soberly vowed not to let down the heroes of the past who had rolled here before her. Jim, wrapped in her world, strapped in his time machine, the length of the runway before them, eased off the brakes and let her heart beat run wide. At precisely 53 mph, she lifted the weight of the world away and they disappeared into the clean blue air of 1927. Now, we are bound up in the fabric of desire from the first day we take our first breath, people and pilots and airplanes alike. If we listen carefully to the winds of the world around us we will hear our wishes carried away and spun back to us ready to be breathed in again. With practice, we find each other, those that share the same dreams, our partners whether they be a person or a plane. Jim, this you have done and in so doing prove that dreams are no more ethereal than the air we breathe. We wish you well…and, by the way, say “Hi” to Harlan for us.

Here's my first piece published in an obscure little magazine for pilots to commemorate the restoration of a 1930 Stearman Speedmail: at the time one of only 4 flying. It's the shortest thing I have and written 20 years ago, but if you like it, I'll submit a serialized edition of the sequel I wrote last year, much longer, much better. 20 years of craft make a difference! ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It is an early spring morning. Low clouds and a thin fog unusual for this part of Texas diffuse the dim light of a hidden sun. The heavy dew on the short grass of the Corpus Christi airfield makes for slippery going.A lineboy is sleepily stumbling through his morning chores. Uncovering the gas pump, he slips and mutters a curse under his breath. A truck pulls up beside him, "U.S. Mail" lettered on the side.It is 1931. Pangborn and Herndon prepare for their trans Pacific flight while Wiley Post takes on the world. Hoover is in the White House and "The Good Earth" is Buck's latest book. Pluto is newly discovered and the country is rising out of the Depression as slowly as this Texas sun.The lineboy takes two sacks of mail from the truck and waves it on, turning towards the sound from the North. Not an OX-5 or a Liberty, no straight engine this:this sound is round! He sits down on a damp wooden bench, leaning back against the pumps to wait.The engine rumbles louder now, circling over the field. He catches a glimpse or two as the new mail plane flashes in and out of the fog. Rolling onto final in a hard slideslip, a huge biplane blue and orange fades into view. The boy stands slowly, slackjawed at the sight of the beast.With a quiet crash, the plane rolls onto the strip, painting twin strips out of the dew as it goes. Engine quiet now, the prop ticks to a stop and the monster mailplane slides to a halt in front of him. The sound of the wind dying in the wires is music he would never forget.The pilot flips the latch of the seatbelt and climbs over the side, two steps and a hop to the ground. He, too slips on the dew, grabbing at the high cockpit rim for support."Morning"' he says to the boy."Nice plane," the boy, now well awake, answers."She's a spanker, all right! First day on the run,"The pilot takes the mail pouches from the bench and enters the line shack. Looking for coffee and finding it old and cold, he sighs and rubs tired ears. Outside he finds the boy still staring at the plane."Uh, need a prop?" the boy asks, eyeing the nine foot blade and the wet grass."Nope, already got one," the pilot replys, patting the cowl. He keys the padlock and opens the large front bin, pitching the bags in after the morning light.Bin locked again, the pilot vaults from the front tire to wingwalk and, with an unpracticed step, clambers into his seat.Master "On"' starter to 'Energize' and the still warm Pratt & Whitney turns the prop with powerful assurance. Magnetos 'Both' and the whuff whuff whuff of the exhaust burst into an easy lope.As the plane turns away, the lineboy is buffeted by a warm wind. Closing his eyes, he breaths deeply, inhaling the life left behind for him. The smell of clean oil and new gas wash over fresh dope, leaving him alert and alive."Someday...."The Speedmail turns onto the runway and the pilot leans into the throttle, urgesthe airplane forward. Tail up and he's away in a steep climb, water trailing from the wings. Turning to the North, he disappears in the fog, the sound, the song, lingering on for a minute or two.Eyes closed again, the lineboy sees himself in the cockpit of the winged beauty passing over western ranchlands and the oil fields at Beaumont. With the breath of the beast still fresh in his hair, he opens his eyes and sees the first cresent of the sun to the East.Turning again to his tasks of the day ahead, a sudden realization takes hold...she'll be back tommorrow and the next day and the next and the day after that.He had met his first love,just then, that morning; and her name was Speedmail.

This is a Prose Knights piece for Open Mic Knight. Also note how I put "Writch's (example) Prose Knights" in the Subject field when I "submitted a new topic." Intro:Now I know some of you may have already seen it posted as "Writch's playful piece *SEASONAL!*" But I'm deleteing that post and re-posting here so that I have an example for people to follow an example. I am also aware that this comes in under the 500 word mark, but its the quickest example I could muster with my harddrive being at home. Notice its plain language and lack of versification - hence: Prose. SCALDING ‘S’ is for steam rising up through holes between my scarf and my nose, fogging my view as I leave the warmth of the house to catch the school bus. ‘C’ is for crystals forming on my eyelashes and making my eyelids stick together –freezing shut just for a second – when I blink them, looking for kids down the street on the corner. ‘A’ is for me always putting things off until the last minute – like asking Mom for lunch money, finding and packing my books, and putting on a clammy coat and gloves, still damp from having to shovel the stupid driveway. ‘L’ is for my burning lungs as gulp frigid air though my mouth while jogging for the bus stop, now that I see my friends Mike and Jeff laughing at me while they pick up their stuff and start to bunch with the rest of the kids by the curb. ‘D’ is for the dry snow squeaking like squished Styrofoam under my boots as I run down the unplowed street and shout toward the dumb yellow bus already flashing its red lights, pulling up to the stop. ‘I’ is for I’m almost there, you idiot! Wait! (And for “I swear I’ll never read my comics while I eat breakfast or watch cartoons while I get ready for school…”) ‘N’ is for never getting a freaking break as the bus pulls away from the stop. It’s also for the nagging I’m going to get from Mom if I tell her I need a ride because I missed the bus again. ‘G’ is for my goddamned vocabulary test I forgot to study for last night and now I’m going to be late for now because I’d rather walk the rest of the 2 miles than let Mom know. And its also for the lousy grade I’m going to get on top of that. S – C – A – L – D – I – N – G. Scalding. Is for the scalding I’m gunna get from Dad when he sees my report card tonight.

I guess I consider poetry a process. For me more often than not, it works somewhat like this: 1. I get an urge to write a poem, maybe a striking theme has come to mind from some random source, most likely visual. (Some other cases are personal experience). 2. I snatch up a laptop. I am not one for writing by hand now I think about it, a poem undergoes so many changes and alterations as it is written and my handwriting sadly does not come with enter or backspace keys. 3. And off I go, usually I dive straight into a poem headfirst lashing down any adjective that comes to mind here or there. The result is what I like to call the skeleton of a poem. But it still needs some mind, heart, blood and guts pumped into it before you can breathe readable life into its stanzas. 4. So I tweak the language first. See if things can be worded with any more meaning or suitability. 5. Next looking at assonance, alliteration, sibilance and the likes is a good way to advance by leaps and bounds. A song is nothing without its music, poetry is exactly like this but needs a special kind of music - but you can only fight with words to win that battle. 6. Visualize the poem - vivid images are a core sign of good poetry. Change where needed to make them more suited to the poem. 7. Restructuring with punctuation, stanza layout and rhythm gives the poem a final spruce and flow. 8. Give the new work a title. (This may come first but for me mostly at this point) 9. Now this may be a more unusual step but... leave your poem for weeks on end. When you come back to it, it is as if you are a different person reading a new poem. This extra perspective can outline weaknesses and strengths in your poetry and is a great analysis tool. 10. Finally, publish it in a group like this and let the brilliance be praised. Oh and make sure you keep your poems stored and easily accessible. Remember this is my way to write poetry... heh if you think it is off the walls that is just fine! Would like to see other peoples methods to improve my own below here in this thread. Even writing out my steps has made me focus more! Aoife (LOB)