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FFM Angel of Celestial SpheresIt is a heady dance of light and dark and new life. Of gravity and physics, of liquid, air, and earth.
This is Jehudiel's realm. It is Jehudiel's task to set the movement of the heavens, to keep all things in motion, whether living or dying.
With a flick of his wrist, a comet spins out around newborn sun. With a stoke of his finger tips, two planets trade places in their steady orbits. With a great push, a solar system rotation is hastened.
It's a balance, this dance, and Jehudiel must be ever watchful for the balance to shift.
He dips and spins, and a galaxy turns with him; he sways and two moons collide.
There is no stillness in this celestial ballet. Jehudiel knows there can be no stillness where there is creation.
He dances, and the stars dance with him
FFM 1 Angel of the East WindYou should know: I am not some insignificant angel. Oh no. I am the Guardian of the Gate of the East Wind. Impressed? Well, you should be.
I have sent my gift to sailors and aviators who are at blown about at the mercy of the breeze; monarchs have entrusted winged messengers to the protection of my hands. I have eased the burn of distant desert and carried the healing rains to fields. I have breathed sweet perfumes into the deepest slums, and cast soft blooms before the most jaded eyes.
I've offered my aid to the far corners of the globe, and yet And yet, I am all unknown to the mortals below. I am here, tied to the East Gate, and needed only to let the swift winds free.
Do you even know my name? Well do you? No, of course not.
I am Hadriel, and I am sick and tired of being ignored and forgotten.
What have I ever done to deserve such an ignoble state, I ask you. Have I ever once failed at my duties? Of course not. Have I ever procrastinated the tiniest bit on opening the Ga
I Bare My MarqueI Bare My Marque
It has been, perhaps a little more than a year since I have last taken a lover. I'm sure you would think that strange for a D'Angeline, and certainly most would agree. And for a Servant of Naamah to have gone so long of her own free will? Most would declare that unthinkable.
But I have done so. I made my marque those twelve months past, and I had not desired a patron since. That is not to say I have not practiced my craft. I am a servant of Naamah, but I have always been a storyteller first. My mother, an Eglantine adept, says it is her influence, and I daresay I must agree, though her own genius was more for verse than prose.
I do not belong to Eglantine House. That was my father's doing; though he'd found a lover and wife in the Night Court, he had not wished his daughter to live the same life her mother did. If I was drawn to Naamah's service, he could hardly argue, but he did not want me raised to the life before I had the chance to live any other.
SkinwalkerHe comes. The skinwalker, the shapeshifter. Our tribe can see him, the skin of Coyote about his shoulders.
He comes. Yee naaldlooshii, he goes on all fours. Our wives hear him cry, the voices of our loved ones in his throat.
He comes. User of cursed objects, follower of Frenzy Way. Our children hide from him, his terrible charms to escape.
He comes. The witch, killer of his own kin. Our braves will meet him, bullets of white ash to piece his skin.
He flees. The wounded one, danger to all Navajo. Our people will hunt him, a single wound to reveal the witch.
FFM08 Time Runs OutTheyd only been given eight minutes to defuse it, and that was far, far too little for the mechanism before her. Now, with closer to eight seconds on the timer, she accepted defeat. She turned to see her partners handsome terrified face on the other side of the safety glass.
I love you. Then, nothing.
The Dread Haikuthon 097/01/09 Boredom
I am unable
Ground rushing, head first
Plummet through the atmosphere
Until the fall stops.
A scrap of cloth
barely covers your assets;
I can't help looking.
7/04/09 Anam Cara
More than friends,
Or even lovers:
You and I.
That redneck cop was
An overweight stereotype:
A small town hassle.
LifeIve seen the world with these two eyes.
A movie played inside my mind.
Ive traveled the seas in half the time
Without ever leaving home.
Ive spread my wings but didnt fly
Ive touched heaven, but I didnt die
Had the chance to ask God why
Without ever receiving an answer.
Ive count the stars and made to ten
Lost track and had to start again.
People laughed, but thats how we make friends
Without ever knowing their name.
Ive loved completely and watched them leave
I tell the storysome dont believe
Let them go or did you flee?
Without seeing what tomorrow brings.
Ive cried like I would never smile
Walked in darkness for half a mile
Saw the sun in the distance for a small while
Without ever feeling its rays.
Ive walked the beachestasted the breeze
There was a time that Ive felt free.
Touched my soul and let life be
Without any regrets to hold.
Ive laughed until I could not breathe
Gasped for air a
I dance in clown shoes.
You compose your conversations.
Fitfully gesturing with whatever you hold,
ending arguments with a flourish.
Make a point, now whirl, quickly.
Make it impossible to counter with your unpunctuation.
You duck and weave, spin, sidestep, pirouette:
One, two, one, two, faster, harder, stronger.
You leave me confused and two steps back,
just far enough behind to appear lost and unsure.
And if I catch up, if I make a point,
you spin again, a trail of words falling like pixie dust
as you make your escape.
And as you storm out, you slam the period behind you,
Ending your sentence with a door.
And I must follow you, my thuds down the stairs preceding my statement,
trying to catch up before the page break.
Now I capitalize a W, and follow with an a, i, t.
And you pause, spin, speak, gesture, spin, continue.
A waltz to counter my four-four.
You don't dance your words-
you speak a dance.
You speak a dance Baryshnikov couldn't follow.
You rapidly reverse the rhythm,
changing tempo in a blur of sound
Sex.Love is lusting
Love is trusting
Love is thrusting.
if you do-
is a vex;
for the worse.
Pulling the pieces
Through nephews and nieces.
Like the word unheard.
and with luck -
But those who care
Those who live
But what is life
A goddamn vex.
If I Were A LineIf I were a line
I think Id be curled,
billowed and swirled,
and slowly unfurled.
Id sweep over a page,
if I were a line,
with the wind in my hair,
and my heart laid bare.
Thats what Id be,
if I were a line.
If I were a spot
Id be round and fat
(now how about that?)
like an old, well-fed cat.
Id have drizzled and dropped,
if I were a spot,
pittering and pattering
with a slight hint of smattering.
Thats what Id be,
if I were a spot.
If I were a colour
Id be a rich red,
like a painted deathbed
or a sword to the head.
Id lunge for macabre,
if I were a colour,
made oh-so dramatic,
my thoughts all sporadic.
Thats what Id be,
if I were a colour.
But I am a human,
so pale and flawed,
and easily bored,
(wishing I was adored).
I twist and bend
(these hinges, you see?);
my shape is no other
than the one I can be;
My colour, it changes
because I am a human:
a human thats me.
With subatomic subtlety settling on his brow,
he said 'Time's a broken arrow
that points from then to now.'
Once a grain, I entreated him
to stop this flow of sand,
'You're immersed in the irreversible
until, entropical, I land.'
In that glass all is hours,
the busted bucket and the spade,
and each collapsing castle
that our spilt ice cream made.
Since his hands are tide
we can all be shore,
when the sediment slides
there is no more.
at the station
one exhausted passenger
the train on the track whistles
you have to obey
get on it
and ride away
one exhausted passenger
the trip ended where it began
Turner's HillOn Turners Hill in snow lit sky,
the very dead of night, and cold,
the joy of life is measured by
a brace of wind and stinging snow
the bane of hand and eye.
Scudding clouds do not deter
the laughs, the shoves, the dares,
a dangerous game is playing here,
unknown by those who run and slide
a fate awaits the years.
Dot Com Derrek struck it rich,
Stilwell died of cancer,
Alex never found his niche,
William died a soldiers death,
Jack became a dancer.
Sled on dear boys! and show no lack
of boldness off the mark!
One by one, straight down the track,
the hill is life and night is death,
there is no going back.
Butterflies...Our lives are filled with Butterflies
In moments that we seize
They guide us with our heart and soul
Placing themselves in our memories
In days so dark we find them there
We feel them midst our pain
Guiding us to all tranquility
Till we are whole again
We see them in each golden day
They flutter strong and true
Each one more glorious than the next
Their colours a vivid hue
Our laughter guides each Butterfly
To peace and harmony
To place them amongst the flowers
To dance in reverie
Such gentle creatures as they fly
Their silence creating calm
We watch them with surprise and mirth
A cool and soothing balm
Butterflies are our gifts from God
To show us all the light
To guide us in our daily quest
Turning what is wrong to right
So next time you see a Butterfly
Treat this creature with your love
Filling all your memories with their beauty
As they flutter up above
Dream WeaverDream Weaver, Please
Weave me a dream
Make it the best
That I've ever seen
Fill it with joy
For you and for me
Fill it with hope
For the whole world to see
Paint it in colours
To bring us delight
To replace all the darkness
Except for the night
Bathe it in sunshine
As warm as its rays
Fill it with friendship
To last all our days
Give peace in our sorrow
and joy in our song
Weave this dream soon
Do not wait too long
We all need our dreams
To be and to see
To share all we have
From you and from me
Thank you Dream Weaver
For weaving this dream
It is the best dream
That I've ever dreamed..
an alternate final stanza:
Thank you dream Weaver
For helping me see
That life is as beautiful
As we allow it to be...
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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