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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 04/22/2005 :  21:25:07  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply


Martina took her time
Putting her face on…

With two words and a gesture
She walked out on me
Taking everything that was beautiful
In my life with her…
As I sit tired of the sound
Of my own voice ringing
In my ears
I remember the places we cheated…
The dark end of streets
The dirty motels, the cars…
Somehow I knew it would end like this…

When you break somebody's heart
To give yours to somebody else
The Universe will owe you one…
And it Will get you back
Someday someway…
I am only getting
What I deserve…

Martina took her time
Putting her face on…

Hank Beukema


http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1563 Posts

Posted - 04/23/2005 :  19:24:03  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
This weekend is the Poseidon Street Fair. And new open-air Farmer's Market in Carlsbad where Stu's a volunteer. These two days profits go to San Diego's needy kids. "Get him an apron!" they cry. Vendors wear dark green aprons. "Oh, the next time I'm here you must help me pick out my oranges! You know so much about fruit!" says a pretty lady in a big straw hat. "Fruits and nuts are my specialty," Stu says straight-faced. "Don't tough that rhubarb now. It won't keep. Unless you're gonna use it for pies." "Happy Poseidon Day!" the pretty lady says. Poseidon Day? I've got a Halloween feeling. My tall black hat and broom are getting restless in the closet. Now Stu's downstairs basting corn with tequila and lime juice. And Mirella's brought tiny flour tortilla sombreros. Filled with spicy beef and chilies, green onions and three kinds of cheese. "Pecadillos," she calls them, "little sins." Ralph is in the corner pouring Cointreau into the whipped cream and Catherine's smiling. Tomorrow there's a parade.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1563 Posts

Posted - 04/25/2005 :  20:22:05  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
I asked him to find the moon and he did. Sitting on the chimney Humpty-Dumpty-like. A three minute egg in it's cup. All pewter-pearl luminescence. A breathed-on vanity mirror. And the filigreed trees lean and dream against the silhouette sky. A fretwork of dark branches. This beautiful night full of late April dreaming of May. The ship slips into the harbor again. "...black cloth unfurled and a ruby at the top of the mast..." O, nicked finger... O, heart full of vows...
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1563 Posts

Posted - 04/27/2005 :  20:01:52  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Sugar wind today and waves slowly breaking. Sea stretched to sky. A blue canvas. White flowers in the high clouds. At the ocean's edge something brightly glistened. Opalescent shells. The world's original jewelry. He's still tending the garden. Used to their dual attention. And the humming birds and slow bees half-hearted pollination. With little effort on their part, Winter provided a lush Spring. And all he ever wanted was sunshine.
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 04/28/2005 :  16:14:36  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
O my friend, Ailinn... Mick had good taste... The wind carries your words and the moon dulls in comparison... Rev B

http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1563 Posts

Posted - 04/28/2005 :  19:19:55  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Dear Reverend Buckman,
Speaking of taste... Cameron brought home May's School Lunch Menu. Cheese and tomato sandwiches are featured and seem to be a big hit. Which reminds me of Mick. Along with his famous distaste for okra, he also did not eat onions, bell peppers, celery, or practically anything green. He loved Susie's red beans and rice and Miss Mamie's chicken and dumplings. But not chicken in general. Turkey? Yes! Any day. And he had a wild sweet tooth. A pure core melt down. Maple creme bars and pecan pralines. Fig jam and chunky peanut butter. But his all-time favorite...what he called "Newbury Gourmet" were grilled cheese sandwiches and Campbell's Cream of Tomato Soup. Yep. He also described "...Newbury Air Conditioning. I lay down in front of the fan and Momma puts a wet towel over me..."
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1563 Posts

Posted - 04/28/2005 :  19:47:52  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
I love the thread "In The Neighborhood". The pictures painted there are a loving family's photograph album. Years ago on the old Blue Board someone started a thread. Jeff S., I think. On how he came to know Mick and his music. At one time I believe Mike was going to make the old boards available. I don't know if that's possible anymore. Maybe we could each recall again how we "came to hear the music" and know the man. Here's how I met Mick. I'd heard a couple of his songs. They got stuck in my head. Couldn't shake them no matter how I tried. Went to Tower on Sunset. They had tons of Mick's titles but nothing I could go home with. A guy I knew there turned me on to Mr. C's Records in Orange. Right away Mr. C. knew I was addicted. He'd call me up and say, "Make up a batch of that gravy, honey. Extra sausage this time." When Stu and I showed up, he'd hold up the album cover but he wouldn't let me touch it. I'd be dancing all over his small place. "Stand STILL!" he'd say. After about a year of this the music was driving me crazy. 'What IS he that he can sound like that?!' I'm thinking. Finally I wrote Mick a letter. And included a business card with my name spelled phonetically. A few months go by. One day the phone rings. "Ro-SHEEEEEN?" he says in his voice. "Well... Mr. Newbury... It's about time," I said. "Hahaha," he laughed. Stu walked in on the middle of the conversation. He nodded his head like 'who you talkin' to?' Mickey Newbury, I wrote on the blotter. "The REAL Mickey?!" Stu said incredulously. Mick was the only one Stu would talk to when he was going through the chemo and radiation. We've been friends for a quarter of a century and I never stopped being in awe of his genius, his kindness, his great love for his family and friends, and his profound faith. Ron and I had this conversation. And I love what Ron says here. "I don't want to make him larger in death than in life but I learned so much from him..." Me too. And I don't want to annoy the hell out of him by making him sound like a Saint. Guardian Angel, maybe...

Edited by - Ailinn on 01/13/2014 12:01:54
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Karen Runk
Firefly

USA
4923 Posts

Posted - 04/28/2005 :  20:39:28  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Send Karen Runk an AOL message  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
While I was reading your memory of Mickey, Ro, I was listening to the Bluebird Cafe Radio Player broadcast of Mickey and Jack Wms. It isn't very clear, but it is so nice to see him again and listen while he is singing in his raspy voice. He had the audience in the palm of his hand. Bless his heart, he was a sweet man.

The things you say brings a smile on my face and tears to my eyes. God bless him, he was a sweet man. Thanks for sharing your story.

Karen Runk
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Lee F.
Firefly

USA
2550 Posts

Posted - 04/28/2005 :  20:48:50  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
All I can say is AMEN !!!! I loved him.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1563 Posts

Posted - 04/30/2005 :  18:09:28  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
No harm in his lit dark. One white candle's beckoning finger at the end of a long hall. The balcony waiting for their arrival. Their weightless, evanescent footprints hitting their marks as the music rises and the credits roll.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1563 Posts

Posted - 04/30/2005 :  18:27:41  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"Please stay out of the trees after sunset!" he implores. But there she is. Up high again. Silhouetted against the moon. So he hires a General Contractor. To build a house closer to ground. "Earthbound!" he says, and approves the rueful blueprints immediately. The construction crews arrive at 6:52am. A keening sound occurs at 7 when their hammers begin. "Time and a half!" he shouts, "if you can get it done right away." She watches from a crook in the lower branches. The first day; "bang! bang! bang!" She climbs higher to where all she can hear are birds sighing. And contrails making their white X's against a blue sky. She gazes down on the flagged, colored courtyard and twin golden parasol gazebos. She lifts the edge of one turreted roof and looks under. Vaulted dormers and brocade spreads on the beds. Her tears make a stream that criss-crosses the property line. A singing brook. Past the moat and the frozen statues. Past the trellised gardens paper-maiche blooms. Past the FOR SALE sign shining at the edge of the manicured lawn. That evening he joins her at the top-most part of the tree. She serves him fresh baked bread on a perfect-shaped leaf. "Pass the butter," he says, finally smiling.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1563 Posts

Posted - 05/01/2005 :  19:39:44  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He brought home something called "Strawberry tomatoes." On long slender vines like a necklace. Not oval like grapes. Or round like cherries. But the definitive puffed-heart shape of strawberries for sure. From another brown sack he set five onions on the counter. "South American Sweethearts," he says. "To dance with the tomatoes." We're all leaning over our music stands. Or babysitting our instruments attentively. The conductor bemoaning the fact that his dress pants show a double crease and he's permanently misplaced his talented baton. "Rats in the palm trees, mice in the ivy," the sour solist says. And points his crookrd finger at the open stage door. Bony as Hansel and Gretel's slim ploy.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1563 Posts

Posted - 05/01/2005 :  19:52:01  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Each morning in a low-lit room he wound his heart full measure. Through dreams and high fevers. Through tricks and through treasure. His preparation for another day. And when he was finally settled he would sometimes drop his pen. A thousand miles away. Then the X in her wrists ticked him into her blood. In and out of the flames she listened. A mute Valentine. Stitched to her sleeve. Where they sat under Heaven's high floor. Enough sunshine between them to make the day last 'til 11 pm.
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 05/01/2005 :  20:15:29  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Not one wasted word... Every line a treasure... Richard Brautigan said that he prepared to write a novel by writing sentences that were perfect.... When he could do that he would write a paragraph with no wasted words... Then a page... Only then was he ready to begin his novel... Your paragraphs are a delight... HB

http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1563 Posts

Posted - 05/03/2005 :  20:12:33  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
I live in a small house on a hill with many plates on the table for each meal. Where we often eat in rotational shifts. Everyone being welcome. There's always a kettle of soup. With bread or biscuits to nibble. And sweet butter. He will have it no other way. The back and front doors wide open. To move outside as well as in. May is a good month for this musical-chair arrangement. And June through September. The lamps are lit late and the tame flowers still shield their lovely faces when the sun leaves the sky. It was apples I was slicing. That forbidden fruit made fresher with a hint of lime. From my kitchen window, across the courtyard the Church bells chimed as it's steeple stabbed the darkening blue. I tried to hold myself together when I first saw his reflection in the mottled mirror. But his eyes were the same unmistakable hue. And his quiver of hand-forged arrows still burned under his immaculate shirt. A radiance that showed through the hole in his worn breast pocket. Sure, I dropped the cinnamon. And the knot of nutmeg too. Venial transgressions. Proof on the floor. A pyramid of shining sugar where he stepped closer. When he put his finger to my lips and winked and whispered, "Shhh..." I turned up the tender tune on the radio. Standing there with the cold knife in my hand, faces appeared in the doorway. Hesitant and curious. But nobody asked when dinner would be served. Ah, the acquiescent power of music.

~Diary of Red Rose~
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Karen Runk
Firefly

USA
4923 Posts

Posted - 05/03/2005 :  20:22:36  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Send Karen Runk an AOL message  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Quivering sounds

Karen Runk
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1563 Posts

Posted - 05/03/2005 :  20:25:13  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Karen~
I think we should go into the B & B business together.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1563 Posts

Posted - 05/05/2005 :  19:00:14  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
When bright light rises out of the brim-full canyons his feathers become many jeweled fans. A radiance. Like dual halos hanging cock-eyed over his head when he turns to his magic cabinet. The one with miracles inside. Here are angora goats in the oak trees. Sun in the tin-type sky. Long rails rolling slow Stax trains across the choked, stoney creeks. And the high desert's dust-blown peaks. Devils blowin' spiral plumes through wakes of diesel fuel. Out on the high mesa his face keeps appearing behind curtains of smoke trees and green mesquite. Blizzards of broken branches. Where he lives under and over the tarnished rain. Where the Surfliner and the Metrolink slide by miles of stakes beside I-5. Where luminescent white fogs doze on scrolled benches in courtyards at the edge of the his silver sea.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1563 Posts

Posted - 05/06/2005 :  19:41:20  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
A Dream

In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed,
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream-that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding.
Hath cheered me as a lonely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.

What through that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afar,
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth's day star?

~Edgar Allan Poe~
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1563 Posts

Posted - 05/06/2005 :  20:33:00  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Trackin' the sky. The night falls down. The stars come on. I've been away from you. Too long.
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