Notes - sirens / intro to Dead 11 / dressed words /

         
       Shortly after noon. You drove over to have your hair cut by Mary Ann but she won’t be at Great Clips until three. On the way home and as you were getting out of the car the sirens were going because it is the first Wednesday of the month. You were reminded of the early nineteen fifties when the air raid sirens were checked and when you had air raid drills at Whittier Elementary in Westerville – then a jump to the Cuban Missile Crisis and how you are thankful you and the world have survived without a second nuclear war so far. – Amorella

         1216 hours. The first nuclear war was in August 1945 by my ticking of the clock. Thoughts and memories of thoughts on the subject mostly hide in the mind and can be jarred out of those pallid walls in a particular siren’s noon wail. May we all rest in peace.

         Post. - Amorella

         1303 hours. I have completed the first two paragraphs of the Dead 11 working draft.

** **

The Dead 11, early draft ©2016,rho

         Merlyn the once Scottish Bard, stands in spirit’s clothing a hand above the multicolored stone floor of the Canterbury Cathedral’s Trinity Chapel seven floor stone rows from the hand high white lit candle in a plain compact bowl some fourteen floor stone rows to the back of the present Chair of St. Augustine and on past the shadow of the Presbyter to the Nave’s entrance great stain glass window.

         This is not the same place as St. Augustine’s church. A cobbled street ran the length below this place from Anglo-Roman times; Roman stone and bricks were used in the building of Norman floors and walls that reflected to the voices embedded in Norman pitched roofs. Interior dark wooded planked floors from which chairs and benches of the same wood kind seemed to me as a child, to grow up as extended limbs, benches and tables for which my fellow man would sit and listen and study within white painted and wood trimmed walls from floor to rafter. I was schooled inside and out and have no regrets on either way. A Druidic Carpenter was the saint who traveled my wood-filled heart into my icon-protected soul. A seemingly wise worded thought beamed from his spiritual cavity. Now, what guest traveled from my singular icon-laden soul returning to me through the deepest and the longest of my heart’s tunnels? – 227 words

** **

         You instinctively feel there is too much description but I do not have such instincts. Post. - Amorella

         1311 hours. After all these years it is still odd seeing naked words appear from my fingertips unknowingly and then after, reading them already dressed.