The Orchid Journal

Somewhere in the world is the reason for the clanging bells, the laughter on the silver note the rainbow streamers dancing in the breeze he has worlds of adventure sailing in his eyes aged sages and Socrates' fellows reside in the chambers of his heart His touch warms like the spring sunlight on the glistening face of a frozen winter's lake It is he whose familiarity sparks a fire of recognition- as when flint hits a steel- and the fire. Oh the fire! Generations will feel the warmth of the blaze

Silence- every fiber straining to hear a sound. As a balm lifts poison from a rattlesnake wound, the discordant city noise dissipates into the wind Silence- thoughts rise to the distant mountain peaks A breeze rustles tumbleweed into a saguaro, as a shy lizard scampers from its heated desert stone Silence- drawing out the song of the wilderness A dove coos softly from a setting purple sky, entreating all who hear the soft plea, to stretch and explore Grand Possibilities-

Love is the rose? So many suppose but it likens to something that dies. Love is the rose Temporary Beauty and shine to dazzle the eyes? Who tends the rose with clippers and hose giving drink and trimming stray branches? Who tends the rose, with patient care in lifeless winter, never blanches? Though leaves are bare He feels no despair when he sees naught but dry twigs and thorn. Though leaves are bare he waits for Spring. The death of blossoms he does not mourn. Love is the Lord, Majesty still stored in the heavens and trees and flowers. Love is the Lord; like gardener tends, and in dark winter never cowers. We in our love with gardening glove must continue to tend and protect. We in our love fight winter chill. Persistence and patience will perfect.

Here → • ← I am In the place I was before. Have you seen my hat? The map is defective- This crossroad looks familiar. Old pictures show me laughing then. Laughing still, but eyes hold unknown glint Of sadness, or..."What the hell?"....time slipping So where does the story end up? Don't tell me! Without the search, discovery holds no SUPRISE.

Crimson thread weaving through time, tying thoughts, buried in the confused past, to the wind; rising, dancing in the shimmering light exposing dragons that rear their heads in shame. There, there it is! There! Thus cries the captive, weighed down by ignominy of forgetfulness. There is the sound I listened for in the dark recesses, that resonated freedom from this confinement. She reaches out Towards the tremor that woke the light of life, Echoing the childlike hope the adolescent struggle the blush of femininity. Crimson thread lifting note by note the weary body of the languished captive, draws forth the ancient dance and wraps wings of sound around long forgotten beauty.

(These are segments from a piece I wrote for my non-fiction class-We had to write about an obsession, talk it up as much as we could in a sensory manner and include research, so I tied my "obsession" with hands to the overall importance of the sense of touch. It is more than 10 pages, so I just included a few parts) Hands are one of the most sensitive areas of the body. Not only are there over one hundred touch receptors on each fingertip which allow you to feel even the raised letters from the ink on this page, but hands are useful for wielding a hammer, playing an instrument, threading a needle, throwing a football, and hurting, helping or caressing another person.... My dad's hands are strong and stocky and very rough. He is a horticulturist, so all his life he has worked in the sun and rain. Working in the dirt, shoveling and raking and spraying has made his hands incredibly strong, with cracks and scratches and calluses on them from the manual labor. The ring fi...