| 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 - 06/16/2013 : 21:02:14
The old smells of turp and linseed oil. The uncovered easel in the corner. The woman in the painting in a white wicker chair on a bougainvillea-framed balcony. Her canted hip, her sun-tanned legs tucked under. Her hands doing different things each time he paints the picture. How many times does the man appear in the painting? Leaning against the balcony rail, hazy and out-of-focus. I could be that woman. So composed. Not swamped with tide-rising emotion. And the man in the background, omnipresent... I could be that woman if you were that man. |
| buckman |
Posted - 06/02/2013 : 04:57:06
Saturday, November 18, 2000 12:37 AM
An exchange of words between friends
The horses stir,uneasy...I creep into the camp as a cat walks on grass...I
take back what is mine and avenge the stealing of my soul...I have no sense
of guilt...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The men around the campfire eye me warily,but none dare move.They know
me,and what I have lost,and what I have lost makes me dangerous.As I leave,I
run their horses off with a slap, leaving them powerless in the freezing
wilderness...and still,I feel no guilt..
Illiance and Grania stared at me as I rode in...When I told them of the
campsite and Our victory they shed quiet tears for those who had not made
it...The river runs,the moon is high and clear and it is oh,so bitter
cold...But,there is one more hand to be dealt before we rest...I will never
feel the guilt....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He looked as tall as a redwood to me,silhouetted against the moonlight as he
was...There can be no fear,no guilt,no backing down...Too many have given
too much to make this moment possible...Eyes appear in every window;no one
wants to miss the circus,do they?Well,they will be surprised when the smoke
clears,and so will he...If justice be for me,who can be against me? The
moment has come that will define my life forever...I step into the
street...
The tension builds with every passing second...Most of his face is covered
by the brim of his wide hat...His first words are drowned out as the wind
picks up...Again he attempts to speak..."Drop the Chalupa",he yells,and
tilts his head back and roars with the laugh of a man with no cares..."I
arrived before him and you both,and was ready first,"he said..."He is in the
Devil's presence where he belongs.It is finished,my friend,there are no more
debts to pay..."As I looked at him, I could see that his side was
bleeding...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
HELP ME SON...WILL YOU KINDLY HELP ME TO MY FEET
A GENTLEMAN IS WAITING IN THE STREET
THE SUN IS RISING
LISTEN BOY...CAN YOU HEAR THE HOUNDS OF HELL
THEY ARE WAITING AT MY GATES THEY WAIL
THE SUN IS RISING
THROUGH THE YEARS I HAVE BEEN SHOT RIGHT TO THE BONE I HAVE BEEN CUT AND
SHOT RIGHT TO THE BONE I AM DEATHLY TIRED AND ALL ALONE
HELP ME SON...WILL YOU KINDLY HELP ME TO MY FEET
THE SUN IS RISING
~*~
IT IS OVER NOW..
PICK UP HIS GUN AND WALK ME TO MY HORSE
NO...LEAVE THE BASTARD LYING THERE
LIKE SOME HOG TIED CRYIN' DYIN'STEER
BUT REMEMBER BOY...HE WILL LIVE TO KILL ANOTHER DAY
NEVER TURN YOUR BACK ON HIM AND SAY
IT IS DONE
HELP ME SON
|
| Ailinn |
Posted - 05/26/2013 : 21:23:42
"Flame, not sparkle." |
| Craig |
Posted - 05/26/2013 : 18:40:45
Although now, just a faint intermittent flicker at times, the ember still glows... I anxiously await the spontaneous flame, which at times seems will never present itself...but I know it is capable, and there.
|
| Ailinn |
Posted - 05/24/2013 : 18:21:16
"It just happens to happen that way." MSN
|
| Ailinn |
Posted - 05/21/2013 : 21:51:40
"What do you think of birds, Ro? Do they have souls? Fish?... This turkey sandwich?... This pen?..." "Surely that pen does, Mick." His gravelly laugh then. A dangerous editor. A permanent cut. |
| 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 |
