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Ailinn
Windchimer

1608 Posts

Posted - 08/02/2007 :  20:14:43  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Each night he laid the untangled truth before her. His breath, a blistered frost on the air as the second hand swept forward. Their house was a wooden dream. Like living within branches. And the climate finally at his fingertips. Summer-full and close to an ocean where the tide rose under their bed. He said he never tired of the changing sky or the moon's silver apparition. The sun ticking down like a golden clock on a shore he recalled when the ice around his fingers began to thaw.
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 08/03/2007 :  04:01:27  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Oh my.... To think of you crossing the Hudson.... and then Cooperstown... I am near the Tappan Zee bridge in Rockland,23 miles northeast of Gotham...

Glad your spirit was near...

~*~
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BarbraG
Windchimer

1808 Posts

Posted - 08/03/2007 :  19:39:19  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He opened the car door. On the seat was a note from her. It read --

"My Love, be careful...today and every day. You never know what may happen. Today, many people woke up and went about what was a normal day and, hopefully, most of.. or all of.. their day was good. Mothers, fathers, sons and daughters were pondering what tomorrow would bring. Could ALL of them have been happy? .. Probably not. .. Could ALL have been sad? Not likely. .. Could some have been facing something awful in their life? Of course. But, all of it -- their hopes -- their dreams -- their fears -- ALL of it came to an end today, when they did nothing more than . . . . cross a bridge."


BGee

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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 08/04/2007 :  13:07:39  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"He stood in the rain just listening
and wondering...how long it took for
one drop to get to the forest floor
from the tallest tree.
Some nightbird's call cut through the
damp dark and he felt like one of the
huddled creatures... only there was
nothing to draw warmth from.
He was acutely aware of the sound of
his own breathing and the noise of
his boots scooting on rocky mud.
He adjusted the back pack which held
the last thing she had given him and
continued the slow walk down the mountain.
It was pouring so hard he almost ran into
a cabin wall. If there ever was a door,
it wasn't there now so in he went.
A black blur of something went through
his legs and he almost fell.
As he regained his balance and heard the
click, he knew he was not alone."

RON L. - 2004
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1608 Posts

Posted - 08/04/2007 :  18:03:53  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"The tradeoff of living in a small town is not having a lot of services just down the street. For the last ten years in renting out a condo here, the blinds or clips frequently need repairs and the people who use to fix all this are about an hour north of here in Bandon, Oregon. Their names are Bob and Lorraine and they used to live over in Medford where he was a TV control operator. Between the congestion and the heat, they wanted to move to the coast and saw a need for a repair service for blinds. They also impressed us with their professionalism and their positive outlook especially since he appeared to have had a stroke and had a slight lift on one side of his face.

I always used to pass their place in Bandon on the way to Mickey's and would leave something to be repaired and would pick it up on the way back. So this morning, I drove along the Oregon coast with temperatures in the mid 70's and the ocean was so beautiful, it was like looking at another planet, which, in essence, it is. You pass through little towns and homes that seem to have the spirit of Norman Rockwell. There are signs for homemade jams and jellies and in a small place names Langlois, there is an actual diner called "The Greasy Spoon Cafe." I had to wait for this blind to be repaired and got a look at what their life seems to be about.

***

They don't make much money. He is a meticulous repair guy and charged me 12 bucks for almost an hours work. Says it's fun and never did expect to make a whole lot. Lorraine sells a little coastal advertising for the Medford newspaper. They are inseparable and she won't let him drive alone. They used to travel quite a bit up and down the coast but the gas prices leave the van under their trees. They have a little house and shop in a stand of pines just off the 101 outside of town. It's not luxurious but it's a place of pleasure for them with a small fountain in front and flowers and greenery all around. Lorraine takes care of Loretta, a 30 year old horse she bought 11 years ago. She's reddish-brown with a golden mane...and you can tell Lorraine and Lorretta know the familiar language of love. The sun was pleasantly warm with just enough hum in the pines to keep that little glade cool.

I got back in the car to head home to Gold Beach. As gorgeous as it is here on the coast, it's also a hard place. There are lots of men with full beards and empty pockets and a hundred sunsets may fill a sky but not a plate.

Yet, most I meet are smiling people and very grateful for what they do have.

Like Bob and Lorraine."

Ron Lyons
8/24/04

He always saw with his heart filled with the familiar language of love.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1608 Posts

Posted - 08/04/2007 :  18:15:56  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"He knew who he was and he knew what year it was supposed to be as he awakened after slipping and rolling down the hill. He lay stunned by the Little Creek that flowed below their house. He could clearly hear the water as his eyes closed again.

When he opened them again, he could still hear the water but in shock realized it was rain drumming on the top of the car. THE CAR? As he looked around, he felt he must be delirious because he was sitting in his old blue '49 Plymouth. It LOOKED like he was sitting right in the middle of the upper level of Lee Edwards High School parking lot. He stole a look at his watch which glowed in the dark and said it was exactly 3 in the morning. Wait a minute. His watch doesn't glow. But this was his old watch when he was 16. The keys were in the ignition and the motor sounded loud even with the rain falling. The gas guage was at the full mark.

Well, he thought. If this were really his Plymouth, it won't go in reverse.

It didn't."

Ron Lyons
November 27, 2004

Well, dear heart... I guess you're cruisin' in your '49 Plymouth now...picking up Old Friends along the way.

I love you, Mr. Lyons. Good night.
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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5421 Posts

Posted - 08/04/2007 :  23:34:32  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
From one of Ron's posts...

Nothing that was extremely dramatic, nothing that was especially
unusual; just a weekend of some negative things that life sometimes
is, but something did happen to make me really remember why we're
all here. We had our granddaughter and when she takes her nap, it's
in the room where my computer is and I put music on while she
drifts off.

She's a year and a half so I was sitting in the next room listening
to her coo and do what kids do as I also listened to a CD. It was
"A Long Road Home". It certainly struck me (as it has done over
and over in these latest years of my life) how much power music
has and and how truly fortunate we have all been to share Mickey
Newbury's gift.

Here she was drifting off to that wonderful sleep of innocence
none of us will ever have again, and I am sure somewhere in that
young heart, the same magic that moves us all was soothing her in
its simplicity and beauty. As I listened to all those wonderful
stories of his life, I remembered what an internal battle it must
have been to get that CD done; to know I might be drawing my last
literal breath as I struggled to finish it. I remembered when my
friend Bobby Dale died and he wanted "Looks Like Rain" playing
in his last moments.

No matter how much faith you might have, no one is ABSOLUTELY
certain what lies beyond and if you have to leave here, to have
those wonderful and inspiring moments of magic be the last thing
you hear on Earth would be a great thing. As for me, the release
Mickey's music has given me from my own various depths is a gift
beyond description. Release. One way or another, it's why we're
all here.

Thanks,
Ron

http://www.myspace.com/mickeynewbury

Edited by - Doug L on 08/05/2007 01:43:54
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 08/05/2007 :  10:17:24  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Who knows another's sorrow?
Who knows another's grief?
One morning brings you gifts
Another brings a thief...

Did you lose your love in a thunderstorm?
Did you lose her in the rain?
Did you lose your child to laughter?
Did you lose him to the pain?

The days and nights we've lived so far
Have brought us to this place
The days and nights we've struggled
Some with folly some with grace...

There is no clock that's kept for you
To tell you when you'll heal
Some mornings find me dancing
Some nights I have to kneel...

The pain is something we'll live with
I know we didn't choose
But some it seems were born to win
And some were born to lose...

Who knows another's sorrow?
Who knows another's grief?
One morning brings you gifts
Another brings a thief....

Hank Beukema
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BarbraG
Windchimer

1808 Posts

Posted - 08/05/2007 :  11:03:01  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Dear sweet Hank ..

Please post that beautiful, beautiful poem on the back porch.
Please, sir.

Barbrag
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Grania
Rocker

105 Posts

Posted - 08/09/2007 :  19:10:38  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"Oh, if I could fly
I would close my eyes
Spread my wings and fly away
From all this pain
Search the stars and find
A place in space and time
I am seeking shelter
From this chillin' rain..."
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 08/09/2007 :  20:49:23  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Date: Tuesday, August 28, 2001 6:43 PM

For Jesse

I want to walk the Streets of Glory
With the Lord right by my side.
I want to play the harps of Angels
With a joy I cannot hide...

Lord, won't you show me the mansion
Where you promised me I'd live
And the peace just like a river
That the songs all say you'll give.

Oh Lord....
I want so much to believe it,
Help me with it now,
I want so much to believe it
Won't you show me how?

Will I see my boy again,
And the ones that went ahead
The ones that fought and struggled,
The ones that hurt and bled.

Will the wars all be ended,
To fight and die no more,
Will the cannons all be silenced,
Never more to roar?

Oh Lord....
I want so much to believe it,
Help me with it now.
I want so much to believe it,
Won't you show me how?

Hank Beukema

[Mickey wrote back and said thank you, Hank]

I myself am still struggling with the same questions.... It seems the longer the path, the steeper the climb...
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BarbraG
Windchimer

1808 Posts

Posted - 08/11/2007 :  22:10:56  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"The night was black and the moon was yellow" kept playing in
his brain, as he walked along the beach. Waves were crashing
onto the shore, and the beauty of the night was displayed in the
skies over the water. Today's happenings were running through
his tear stained mind. She had left him....the love of his life,
blue eyes crying as she told him it was over. There had been
no warning of any kind. When her car pulled out of the driveway,
his heart raced to the ocean they had loved for so long. His
heart got there long before he did. The same moon and the same
stars that they had loved so much were still there. The same
ocean was still there. The only thing missing was his love.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1608 Posts

Posted - 08/12/2007 :  16:34:57  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
They were in the Coachella Valley when it hit. Kneeling beside the Zen gardener on his plot of sand and colored stones. "Where irrigation ends..." Zen said, holding his palm out and watching the grains lift on the Santa Ana. At that moment the ground rippled under their knees and the glass doors off the patio exploded. The east side of the fault line made its run for San Francisco. Tan angels appeared around the heart-shaped pool holding stemless wineglasses of crisp Napa gris. Smoldering votives floated on the pool's swaying waves. The Zen man pounded his fist on the mosaic tile table. The angels set their halos on Low.


Edited by - Ailinn on 07/01/2014 13:23:33
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 08/12/2007 :  17:22:39  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Prairie game of base just before the rains. Soldiers against the cowboys. Rusty hit the last ball into the swamp and everybody punched him as he rounded the cowpies. Then the rains came and the lost ball dint matter anymore; everybody had a job to do.

Hellfire,tho,we remembered that game for a long time...

Rev B
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1608 Posts

Posted - 08/12/2007 :  19:37:52  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
...the leaf-rustling footsteps at the back of the house. The uneven stairs provident warning in spite of the handyman's nails. The light one-two rap of his knuckles before the screen door closed and he stood in the kitchen with his clutch of yard blooms. Evenings, the fog came to earth thick as lambs wool. Stirring the chimes and lifting the shore birds into the sky where they wheeled and cried above them. And in a tangle of branches the moon rocked in its silver cradle...
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2701 Posts

Posted - 08/12/2007 :  21:59:25  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
I love this old room...
The figurines on the tabletops, the dusty pictures on the walls,
the white bearded handsome man that sings his waltzes quietly in the corner...
The friends stopping by on the odd nite.....

But, Oh what a pallette the Irish Lady paints with!
Her colours from The West set my heart ablaze!

I could listen to her paint all nite...

He is so much now like Crystal and Stone,
Just Like Hardin's Misty Roses...
Jack plays guitar in the corner and
Mick sings just like the rest of us breathe...

Oh, my love,
there is nothing more romantic than a Newbury Waltz...

La da de la da da
La da da da da da
La da de la da da
Da da doo..........

Rev Buckman
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BarbraG
Windchimer

1808 Posts

Posted - 08/14/2007 :  21:44:40  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The skies were thunderous, and full of jagged lightning streaks on
that wonder filled night when he kissed her lips for the first time. Her long, velvet black hair was glistening in the
moonlight, framing her beautiful face. He had longed to hold her
in his arms since the moment he had first seen her walking on the beach just days ago. He loved her at first sight. She was a
vision of loveliness, with a flowing white dress that floated around her ankles, swirling with each gust of wind as the waves crept onto shore and then withdrew back into the sea itself. Where had she come from, this beauty who reminded him of Ava Gardner, whom he had loved. She was so distant in some ways and so near in others. He
wanted her for his own, but knew in his heart that he could never have her. He waited.......brokenhearted already, just thinking of
the time to come when he would see her no more. As he kissed her,
tears filled his eyes and rolled onto her cheek.
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Karen Runk
Firefly

USA
4924 Posts

Posted - 08/14/2007 :  21:52:08  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Send Karen Runk an AOL message  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Mr. B. It is always good to read your posts. Keep 'em coming.

Love, from Oregon

Karen Runk
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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5421 Posts

Posted - 08/14/2007 :  22:31:34  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Something bad had happened, something worse than
anything the man had known. Most of the countryside
was burned. Th trees were black now, smoking effigies
of the green they once were, sad reminders of the fruit
they bore. Abandoned cars on the shoulder of the highway
were without windows, their paint bubbled away by the
heat, their bucket seats nothing but twisted springs.
In one of them, a child's car seat was reduced to a
pool of mottled plastic.

A man and a boy were the only life out here most days.
Once in a while they'd see someone else trudging along
the ruined highway, and the man and boy would go off
into the cemetery of trees to hide, to wait until the
other party passed. In the last town they were in they
spoke with a few surviving old-timers and were told that
most of the travellers now were marauders who would,
without hesitation, kill you for food.

He travelled on with the boy, a few miles southward each
day, pushing a shopping cart containing a tarp, water,
a few tins of scavenged food, and a small can of oil he
used to make fires with when the nights grew cold, fires
he started by chipping rocks together. The man coughed a
lot, spat blood, and no matter how he tried to hide his
pain from the boy, the boy saw it. Are you going to die,
papa?, he'd ask. And the man would say no. He would say
no even if he believed otherwise, for the boy's sake.

(the setting, in a nutshell, for Cormac McCarthy's dark
and brilliant new novel, The Road)

http://www.myspace.com/mickeynewbury

Edited by - Doug L on 08/14/2007 22:50:06
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1608 Posts

Posted - 08/15/2007 :  19:10:20  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He has her with his eyes wide open. He won't let her go. His blue gaze of prophecy. His epic love of horizons. His candles flickering in the dark and the cold. His stories all recalling stormy weather. Melancholy coasts where epiphanies arrive by the boatload. The long in-between with waves crashing. Then the riotous sun overhead. Four windows shining. And one full of grief. The one he never looked out of. She reeled in the laundry on rusty round wheels. The sheets billowed out like sails before them. In fair weather and foul he held to his course and his courage. Slung his duffle up on his shoulder. Pulled his cap low and slipped into the fog. It's at night when his words come back to her now. Whole weeks of them. Intact.
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