I am sediments, the segues of my self. They preserve me. And, so, I have my happy.

Vladimir Clavijo Telepnev

http://www.clavijo.ru/

...to be continued[...]

Vera Pavlova, poet

http://verapavlova.us/

"Genuine love is always happy, whether requited or not. It is happy because it makes the person who loves feel alive. And that is happiness. Because we keep sinking into death, we drown in it. We come up to the surface, get a gulp of air, and submerge in the water again. But when we love, it is as if we came to the surface, turned on our back, and were breathing and breathing some more… And the sun keeps on shining… And sea keeps holding us afloat… Even if you are not loved in return." -Vera Pavlova

He: “When you are not there, it feels as though you had just stepped out and are in a room next door."

She: “When you step out and are in a room next door, it feels as though you did not exist anymore.”

-Vera Pavlova, If There is Something to Desire

Brass had wriggled its way between their once-cottony affections. Things hadn't always been so cold, nor they so desperate for exchanges. A whisper of skin. A simmering conversation. These weren't things much to ask, and yet, all left to be begged. What once was matrimonial kindling now choked between suspicion and promises passed. This is how they signalled each other: He tug, she war. They were push coming to shove and the threads weren't going to hold much longer. Something, someone had to give. The cradle unborn would capsize between cold linen and contracted fingerlengths. This blanderlove would rot her. This cascade would show her beautiful.

The Girl Went Over the River to See What She Could See

I stood in the river. And there were fish. But they were busy doing fishy things. So I laughed.

Leaves in the River- Sea Wolf

Blanket Statements

Last night was window sill lightening. I think the thunder must have been away playing at someone else's ear. All I know is, he didn't visit me. But I think he must have been whispering on the wings of the glare, "Shhh...go back to sleep. No need to wake. We'll talk soon." It was a lovely dream storm, the sweetest bedtime story I haven't heard since little girl sleepyseeds. The next time he visits, though, I'd like to swap stories. Thunder needs to speak just like anybody else. I'd imagine he keeps the brunt of what he hears to himself. Why else would he grumble so ruckusly? It must be difficult trailing behind the skysplinters. That would also explain why he stayed away last night. When I feel heavy from secrets and falling short, I don't much like being around people either. The next time he visits though, slow though he be, I'd like to hear what he has to say.

Summersong - The Decemberists

One For the Ages

The climb was littered with waylayed treasuretroves. This nook, a heartsong. That chasm, a sigh. And if you put your ear to the wind's harping, you could hear the pitterpatter of forefathers and chanting and understand a bit. If you listened. The cliffs were secret keepers and I couldn't quite untangle their warblings. I wasn't supposed to. But I'll still hum their tune. Maybe they'll sing me in their cobwebbed coves, someday. I could sit 'round in the company of quaint legends: the smalls of backs and handholding and rockskipping and sunken moons. They were once my smooth palms and elastic sight. Now, they are the dust between my tickled pink toes. I am the whites of their shellshocked eyes, the ones rounded in the sleep. And those cliffs will outsing us all, and sing of us each. They let us be ghosts, grazing the wind's skin. If you listen, you'll hear them watching. If you listen, you'll hear your way home.

pages are so you can find your place.

bottles are so you have something to bring to the table.

keys are so you have something to jingle or jangle. whichever you please.