Retiring from the battle

After pleasant dreams comes another sunrise

7 thoughts on “Retiring from the battle


    Fjord rising vertical out of the sea
    Purple walls – violet dawn
    deep blue flat filling the base
    as the sea rests below.

    Curved bowed ships, wings folded
    aflame with color
    laying at anchor in small cluster
    in contrast to the solemn grandeur around and above

    White birds
    swooping down
    singing the clean song of the air and sea
    the only sound

    Then in the distance
    and rumbling off the massive mountain walls
    the deep ring of men
    as the sun rises to the edge of the sky
    singing their farewell
    and heralds of great deeds done and to be
    small children chirping behind
    down a deep gully path
    and to the small
    ships waiting

    a little yellow flower on the cliff
    bends in the salty breeze
    Aye – it will be a good day for the sails
    the gods are pleased with this voyage

    One ship then another pull anchor
    and lift sail

    Queue quietly drifts down the fjord
    towards the open sea – a string of dragons

    By Diann Caudill
    She has many poems in “Golden Horses – Poetry For A New Civilization”, a book of poems by Scientologists published by Admiral Books in 1976.

    1. A.D. 1216: I can still feel the cold damp morning air and the lonely empty feeling of leaving loved ones and fire. The regretful feeling of getting into a boat I didn’t want to travel in to sail away to places I didn’t want to go to and to do things that I would be ashamed of.

      A.D. 1990: Acquiescence isn’t a sign of good character when it breaks your integrity. I wouldn’t stand against what I knew was evil then. But this life I found the character to stand against what was similarly destructive now.

  2. Hi Geir,
    Gorgeous picture! And inspiring. So here we go …


    The wind blows fair on the long reach home
    Before the tide crests.

    We hurtle on soft at sunset,
    At wave’s speed,
    At seagull cries,
    At salt spray.

    Buoy bells ring us on, on, and on
    Down our path to sunset,
    To the molten mountains,
    To the ridge lines fulgent with draining gold,
    To the dimming harbor.

    We feast on dusk whispers that hiss-s-s-s-s at
    The passing bow’s rise and fall, rise and fall.
    Slap, whine, ring of rigging to the
    Jib and mainsail’s snap and fill.

    Jolt. Scramble. Come about.
    Jolt. Scramble. Lines slap, tauten, snap
    Until we slide, luffing, to the dock.

    – Another Layer – July 1, 2010

  3. Looks like an image from “Myst”

    “I realized the moment I fell into the fissure that the book would not be destroyed as I planned. It continued falling into that starry expanse of which I only had a fleeting glimpse. I tried to speculate where it may have landed but must admit that such conjecture is futile. Still, questions of who’s hands may one day hold MY Myst book are unsettling to me. I realize that my apprehensions might never be allayed and so I close realizing that the ending might not yet be written.”

    – Atrus

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