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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 12/02/2005 :  21:35:49  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

William Butler Yeats


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

1578 Posts

Posted - 12/03/2005 :  18:08:59  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He stands behind her. His hands resting lightly on her shoulders. She tenses when the low bough stirs. Her breath catches for a moment. He watches the deer come into the clearing. Two of them. Hesitant and wary. Knows how much they please her with their steep-eyed stare, their fragile legs invention. The salt lick suspended between time and space. Just as he planned and placed it. With oranges glowing over the smudge-pots, and the 5 o'clock sky filling with wings. Their last Winter here. He's ready to tell the whole story. Pages and pages of dreams. "Guard your heart now," he says, drawing the shawl around her.
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 12/03/2005 :  18:28:28  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Oh MY God.... That's what I'm talkin about..... Thanks, ROR.. You have NO idea...... HB
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 12/04/2005 :  08:18:00  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
THE MIDNITE VIGIL

I sit in the dark of this saloon
Trapped here by my
Own unflagging sense of duty...
My work begins at midnite when
The cowboys step into that next level
Of drunkenness and the dance-hall girls
Stop charging and dance
The way they want to...
Not a sherrif or a marshal or
Even a deputy but evrybody knows
Who rules the hours in this dusty town
From Midnite til dawn...

So go to sleep, my children....
I'll be here.....
Watching...
Making sure that the sin and the sinners
Stay here where they belong
And leaves you alone...
The whiskey is just to keep me going...
There is no pleasure for me in it
Anymore...
The times are long gone when a bottle
Or a woman could bring me any amount of
Joy...
Now it is just a matter of
Breathing in the sorrow and
Waiting and
Listening and
Watching...

I'm making a list....

Rev Buckman

See more of my writing at:
http://www.mytown.ca/beukema/
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/

Edited by - buckman on 12/04/2005 15:00:35
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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5421 Posts

Posted - 12/04/2005 :  15:40:35  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

MIDNIGHT FALAFELS

It was late in the novel when she arrived, added
her Medusa to the chapter on apparitions, asked
if he still made midnight falafels for lost souls.
She is the one he used to sing for when summers
were unbearably heavy with fruit, so many plums
and cherries that the birds needn't argue.
Those Julys when she'd slip her nightgown off,
reveal the geometric marvels the noon sun made,
traces of pomegranate juice on her bottom lip.

After their first affair she'd gone off to be
a gypsy in Africa, was captured by slave traders
north of Marrakech, men who took her to the old
pink city, the square of Jemaa I-Fna, where she
was pinched and tested in the shaded tents.
The day she stood again in his open doorway she
had bluebells woven in her long dark hair,
as if a thousand unwanted kisses had brought her
back to the soul's undeniable purity. That night
he made falafels, her favourite, tahini and yogurt
dripped over the ground meal. Their love deep red,
swollen as the sun on the water at Spanish Banks.

For two years they were consumed, believing lovers
could tunnel their way to paradise, their story
a scent under their fingernails. The last time she left
to join the circus, Cuban lion tamer in Miami
promising to teach her how to handle the big cats.
In the end it was the snakes she learned about,
snakes and alligators, and the marks the jellyfish
leave behind when they kiss you. Medusa at the door
as he wrote of energy taking diaphanous form
in the cornfields, orphaned angels who leave negligees
floating in the chalkened meadows of the moon.

It was almost midnight. For eleven years now it had been
almost midnight. He turned on the stove, set the mortar
and pestle on the table. She was hungry again.

DL


visit http://www.betterdaysradio.blogspot.com

Edited by - Doug L on 12/04/2005 15:49:43
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 12/04/2005 :  16:36:30  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Oh My.....
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1578 Posts

Posted - 12/04/2005 :  18:44:37  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He is grace. Light that breaks the darkest dark. His eyes surprised everyday the way the road changes. Her heart in his hand.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1578 Posts

Posted - 12/05/2005 :  20:26:38  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
They were popping pop corn in my Library at the bottom of the hill. Tomorrow night it's Jelly Belly. Guess the flavor without the little color code. Fastest three win a pound of jelly beans. Stu only likes one flavor. Back to pop corn. New books too. One called The Singing.

Still

But I do grieve, grieve still;
a continent, an
ocean and a year
removed from you, I still
find it impossible
to think of you as past

and I know too well
by now there'll never
be anything like
a persuasive
reconciliation
for your having gone.

What there is instead
is knowing that at least
we had you for a time,
and that we still have
evidence of you, in
your work and in the love

which eternally
informs the work, that
one love which never ends.
And to be able
to tell oneself that once
one knew a man wholly

unsusceptible
to triviality,
bitterness or rancor,
who'd fashioned himself
with such dedication
and integrity
that he's been released
from those resentments
and envies that can make
the fullest life seem mean:
your life was never mean,
never not inspiring.

*

A year, summer again,
warm, my window open
on the courtyard where
for a good half hour
an oboe has been
practicing scales. Above

the tangle of voices,
clanging pans, a plumber's
compressor hectically
intensifying,
it goes on and on,
single-minded, patient

and implacable,
its tempo never
faltering, always
resolutely focused
on the turn above,
the turn below,

goes on as the world
goes on, and beauty,
and the passion for it.
Much of knowing you
was knowing that, knowing
that our consolations,

if there are such things,
dwell in our conviction
that always somewhere
painters will concoct
their colors, poets sing,
and a single oboe

dutifully repeat
its lesson, then repeat
it again, serenely
mounting and descending
the stairway it itself
unfurls before itself.

~from The Singing by C. K. Williams~
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1578 Posts

Posted - 12/07/2005 :  21:10:17  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Two weeks before Christmas they stood on a winter corner in a southern land. Near sunset in the old, golden light of Rome. Though they were in California. Freezing in a brutal 51 degrees. Traffic flying by in both directions. WALK. DON'T WALK, the lights read. But they were already off the curb. Hurrying to True Value for fish line and heart-shaped shovels.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1578 Posts

Posted - 12/07/2005 :  23:00:12  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
When the mists rolled 'cross the moor he went looking for her. His pent-up energy. His dark fuel. To her thatched hut with its tiny banked fire where he would lie under her rough wool. "Ah, Durrow," she would say, "my dearest. The days come... Still... I remember..." Then he would stumble to the pallet she prepared where he would throw himself down upon the glowing embers.
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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5421 Posts

Posted - 12/07/2005 :  23:06:22  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Love to you, poetess.

visit http://www.betterdaysradio.blogspot.com
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 12/08/2005 :  18:16:23  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
When You Are Old

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

William Butler Yeats


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

1578 Posts

Posted - 12/08/2005 :  19:28:26  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
And to you, kind, Sir Doug. Troubadour-born. Keep your cup and your History at the fire.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1578 Posts

Posted - 12/08/2005 :  19:30:38  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Blessings, Reverend. And to William Butler Yeats. Tomorrow we hit the tinsel Mall blindfolded.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1578 Posts

Posted - 12/08/2005 :  19:37:10  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
In the darker night of Durrow his everlasting vision lights the long way home. Cone-bearing branches, and an ocean around them. A resinous balm that sifts through high trees. Wisps of smoke from unseen fires. At the edge of the forest, the driftwood-choked shore. The rock-bound, mocking sea. The safe place where he caches the boat with its fatal provisions. The moon's slim, silver cup. The thin clouds. The dim star only he can see. The Past and the Future yoked snugly in rusting oarlocks.
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 12/08/2005 :  20:03:04  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Dear souls who left us lonely here,
Bound on their last, long voyage, to whom
We, day by day, are drawing near,
Where every bark has sailing room.

I know the solemn monotone
Of waters calling unto me;
I know from whence the airs have blown
That whisper of the Eternal Sea.

As low my fires of drift-wood burn,
I hear that sea's deep sounds increase,
And, fair in sunset light, discern
Its mirage-lifted Isles of Peace.

Whittier
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1578 Posts

Posted - 12/09/2005 :  18:58:03  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Once there was a sailor
made a garden by the sea
and went in for gardening.
The garden was blooming away,
and off the gardener went
sailing God's ocean blue.

~Antonio Machado~
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 12/09/2005 :  21:43:31  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The Sailor sings
his harlequin melodies and we dance...

When I was on the Sea all
I wanted was land...
When I was crossing
the Great Desert all
I wanted was water...
It is The Desire...
The dream that will follow
That is The Mountaintop...

Sometimes when I am with the woman
I want to be alone...
But when I am alone
I always want to be with the woman...

It is the Desire
of the Dream
That fires our blood and
Takes us to the oceans and
The stars...
It is not the arriving
But the going...

Rev B
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1578 Posts

Posted - 12/10/2005 :  19:13:40  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Christmas Bazaar at our Church tomorrow. Lupe, Mirella, and I have adjoining booths. Apple Dolls, Sausage Sandwiches, Penny Candy. Stu has his usual Christmas Tree Barn. We're not in Santa Ana, so the needles won't fall.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1578 Posts

Posted - 12/10/2005 :  19:21:49  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The Garden shivers. Consecrated ground around the fault line. Eve awakens from the shining, rib-shaped place. Adam stretches. His palms turn skyward. He sighs deeply. Thrusts one leg out of the covers, free. Unaware of their need to escape. And the Serpents wily business. "Beware of the God who gives you everything," he says in reverie. "Black paper. Dark books." He nods. He smiles. He never says no. Half the days she's crazy and blind. "Braille," he says, when he places the pictures under her fingertips.
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