| T O P I C R E V I E W |
| buckman |
Posted - 09/24/2004 : 18:16:26
I sit in the dark in the back of the saloon...
What is between my table and the dusty
street is twenty feet that is
on the very edge of Hell...
The townspeople say they are sinners: the townspeople say they are evil...
The reality is that they are just Cowboys and
they are very much alive and much of the
rest of this town has already died... I talk to
the Lord and I Know what is Evil
and what is not,
which is why I hold services here and
not in a church....
These men make a decision
every time they put the whiskey to their
lips, every time they put the
tobacco to their mouths....
They make a decision between a
longer, duller life or the life
that they are choosing to live....
Yet I can see the desperation in
their eyes; I can see
that for every year that they age,
they remove themselves another year from their
childhood and their youthful dreams...
I can see that the only time
They will smell the
fragrance of a lady is
when they choose to pay for her...
I can see that they care not a
bit about Eternity, but only for today...
But, that is Just Alright
with me and the Lord
If everybody went to heaven they'd run out of room.... Rev Buckman
http://members.tripod.com/buckmaniac/index.htm |
| 20 L A T E S T R E P L I E S (Newest First) |
| Ailinn |
Posted - 05/14/2013 : 09:10:22
In the painting, a man is lifting a strand of hair from a woman's cheek in a traceless white-washed room. Her cheek glistens. It may be tear-wet, or just a brush stroke of light on the bone. In the background there are three hourglasses on a table. In one, the grains stand out. In two they're blurred. |
| Ginny G. |
Posted - 05/07/2013 : 13:00:58
I can't stand it anymore. What is the "seven minute rule?"
--- Curious George |
| San Diego |
Posted - 05/05/2013 : 07:10:39
 Magic, indeed. |
| Doug L |
Posted - 05/03/2013 : 23:10:11
A reading from the May 2nd edition of my radio show,
a response, of sorts, to learning of the death of Gipp Forster,
the man who gave me my first gig way back in 1968...
Magic Nights
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mHcqlzV5LQc
|
| BarbraG |
Posted - 05/02/2013 : 21:27:36
Dear Buckman,
PLEASE tell me I can copy the last poem that you wrote here, for my daughter ... She lost her husband of almost 20 years to cancer in October 2011 .. He was 41, and had just made Major in the Air Force. She is still struggling.
Email me if you will.
This was wonderful.
BarbraG |
| Ailinn |
Posted - 04/25/2013 : 20:10:40
A torch he burns inside her head
A field of poppies nodding
Some days he reaches across the sky
Some nights he reaches through it |
| buckman |
Posted - 04/21/2013 : 13:20:11
Your email bounced back to me. Thats why I brazenly posted here, A change? Send to beukema@optonline.net if you would like me to know it. Thank you Madam,
|
| Ailinn |
Posted - 04/19/2013 : 21:08:41
Dear Reverend B-
Congratulations times two! "Going public..." He would love it. You make me smile. Always an honor to share the pages.
I don't remember if I told you this before. He spoke of you often. Worried about you as only he could worry. Smiling big now. For your six years without whiskey. And your words. All beautiful. Remember the seven minute rule. Sweet dreams, New York. Be well. Be happy. |
| buckman |
Posted - 04/18/2013 : 18:56:18
Dear Ailinn,
I finally went public.
http://4thstreetrecords.bandcamp.com/album/the-nightly-vigil-the-journals-of-rev-buckman AVAILABLE FOR DOWNLOAD. Click once to start the player and then click the cover or title to go to the site. I appreciate your support.Thanks for the years and tears. Rev
|
| Ailinn |
Posted - 04/04/2013 : 19:18:30
Further down the coast where the fish were hiding they stalked the stall markets late afternoons. Salt-weathered boxes he dragged into the light and patiently inspected. Parallel rules and rolling rules. Ship's bells inscribed with history. Compass covers and binnacles. Floaters of cork and of glass. How his hands would go still and his eyes would go wide. The intensity of his gaze recalling usefulness. In those tide-lapped years he grew accustomed to the riotous sun and shore birds wheeling above them. |
| Doug L |
Posted - 03/26/2013 : 01:02:25
"I love this place. The food looks like something your mom would make you on a rainy Sunday afternoon if your mom was trailer trash and you were an unplanned pregnancy. The bathrooms are repulsive. The service is mediocre and the waitress always seems surprised (not quite annoyed, but definitely surprised) if you try to get a second cup of coffee out of her. This is a great place to go alone on a rainy day and just feel depressed and romantic as hell."
~from a review of the Ovaltine Cafe, one of Vancouver's oldest
waterfront diners, the place I stopped for lunch today. |
| Ailinn |
Posted - 03/25/2013 : 20:32:30
"Well, now..." he said. Web of back roads at the corner of his eye when his up and down handwriting started to fall. His y's and g's sliding down the pages. His fatal cough coming more often. Candles blooming the room into light. O, nicked finger, O heart full of vows. |
| buckman |
Posted - 03/25/2013 : 19:29:59
They have no clock they keep for you
To tell you when you'll heal
Some mornings find you dancing
Some nights you have to kneel. |
| buckman |
Posted - 03/25/2013 : 19:26:40
Murmers turn into whispers
Whispers turn into cries.
A scream heads for forever
In the valley of darkning skies.
Summer's oven blows full blast
The sound is now a shout
Hazy hot and humid
You're heading for a drought.
It's not the age that matters
It's the mileage on your soul
It's making all the pieces fit
That make the damn thing whole.
Did you lose him in a snowstorm?
Did you lose her in the rain?
Did you lose him to the laughter?
Did you lose her to the pain?
Did you share in her last sorrow?
Did you heal another's grief?
Some mornings brings you mercy
Some midnites bring a thief.
They have no clock they keep for you
To tell you when you'll heal
Some mornings find you dancing
Some nights you have to kneel.
It's not the age that matters
It's the mileage on your soul
It's making all the pieces fit
That make the damn thing whole.
Every river you've run so far
Has brought you to this place
The days and nights you've struggled
Full of folly, full of grace.
Redemption has a taste to it
It's like honey on your tongue
The musky smell of romance
When all the bells have rung
Murmers turn into whispers
Whispers turn into cries.
A scream heads for forever
In the valley of darkning skies.
Hank Beukema revbuckmanmusic 2011 |
| Grania |
Posted - 03/19/2013 : 08:06:41
I had no plot
But to keep him
Alive
His breath
His fingerprints
Everywhere
Some anguish
Is natural
I suppose |
| BarbraG |
Posted - 03/06/2013 : 23:38:33
One of these days, someday in the future, who knows when or
where .. someone will tell her what she has longed to hear since she was a child.... "I love you", with no expectations of something in return and-- just let it hang there, in the air, while she relishes it. In the darkness of her room and with no one around, she dreams of that. When she dreams, she dreams big. |
| BarbraG |
Posted - 03/06/2013 : 23:18:06
Hank,
Been a while since I've visited. Wonder if you would
mind if I copy some of your poems and keep them.. Some
of the things you write should be world famous !!!
Love,
BarbraG
BGee |
| buckman |
Posted - 03/06/2013 : 14:38:57
Surprised By The Magic
Is there a reason why some live so long
and others leave far too soon?
Is it unbridled passion or desire for heaven
or just the enchantment of the moon?
I probably shouldn't still even be here
Maybe it's all just a dream
I spent my life creating smoke and mirrors
chasing illusions and learning to scream.
The rivers and creeks they haunt me
They cover me with a mother's love
They start ther lives deep under the ground
But like some of us they rise above.
I've given up on giving up
Lord, I just couldn't take the pace
When you're in a pack heading downhill
You don't want to be the one to lead the race
Every road has some sadness you can't get around
Every life will have it's share of pain
There will always be days that are tragic
Nights you'll be surprised by the magic
But get those blessed feet moving and
Find a way to dance thru the rain
The carpenter came and fixed this house
The walls are strong and able
The rooms are almost finished now
An empty chair still waits at the table.
The anger and the sadness still come and go
But I spend the day banging the drum
You love someone for what they are
Not what they will become.
I've given up on giving up
Lord, I just couldn't take the pace
When you're in a pack that's heading downhill
You don't want to be the one to lead the race
Get those blessed feet moving and
Find a way to dance thru the rain
Hank Beukema revbuckmanmusic 2013
|
| Ailinn |
Posted - 03/04/2013 : 17:05:33
Engine light blinking on a 10% gravel grade. Indigo nights on the banks of the San Juan near a village of barking dogs.
Back at the dam. The angle of the towers so alarming. Its high and low water. Its perilous edge. Sinister even in sunlight. The frisson of opposing energy. The slip and the thrust plates loosening. Giving up. Giving in. She's quiet behind black glasses. "I see you're painting with your dark palette," he grins. |
| San Diego |
Posted - 02/27/2013 : 07:24:12
Roger, Piper. Just drop in. Coffee's always ready. |
