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buckman
Firefly
USA
2698 Posts |
 Posted - 08/09/2007 : 20:49:23
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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
1802 Posts |
Posted - 08/11/2007 : 22:10:56
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"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
1509 Posts |
Posted - 08/12/2007 : 16:34:57
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McKenna's summary after Lucy Jones dire prediction in the LA Times constantly airing on local channels:
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 wind. 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 in camouflage robes of leaves falling. Their penitent hands folded in prayer, or holding stemless wineglasses of crisp Napa wine. Smoldering votives floated on the pool's swaying waves. The Zen man pounded his fist on the weathered teak table. The angels set their halos on Low.
I told McKenna, "You watch too much television." "Umm," he said, fingering his stash of triple A maps. Smug because he passed with flying colors at DMV. Then he looked over at Elise...and winked.
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2698 Posts |
Posted - 08/12/2007 : 17:22:39
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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
1509 Posts |
Posted - 08/12/2007 : 19:37:52
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| ...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
2698 Posts |
Posted - 08/12/2007 : 21:59:25
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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
1802 Posts |
Posted - 08/14/2007 : 21:44:40
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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
4918 Posts |
Posted - 08/14/2007 : 21:52:08
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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
5416 Posts |
Posted - 08/14/2007 : 22:31:34
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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
1509 Posts |
Posted - 08/15/2007 : 19:01:58
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| Once upon a time under a mid summer's wide night, hip to hip and temple to temple they lay in the sway of the old rope hammock. She remembers him taking the knife to their thumbs, the brand to their jig-sawn devotion. How the smoke rose like incense up through the trees where the stars shone in their infallible fusion. How they woke before first light with their fingers entwined and thrust their dew-damp fists into the dawn. How the sky suddenly brightened and filled with a crown of wings. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
1509 Posts |
Posted - 08/15/2007 : 19:10:20
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| 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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Ailinn
Windchimer
1509 Posts |
Posted - 08/16/2007 : 18:29:14
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To My Brother Miguel In Memoriam
Brother, today I sit on the brick bench of the house,
where you make a bottomless emptiness.
I remember we used to play at this hour, and mama
caressed us: "But sons..."
Now I go hide
as before, from all evening
lectures, and I trust you not to give me away.
Through the parlor, the vestibule, the corridors.
Later, you hide, and I do not give you away.
I remember we made ourselves cry,
brother, from so much laughing.
Miguel, you went into hiding
one night in August, toward dawn,
but, instead of chuckling, you were sad.
And the twin heart of those dead evenings
grew annoyed at not finding you. And now
a shadow falls on my soul.
Listen, brother, don't be late
coming out. All right? Mama might worry.
Peruvian poet
~Cesar Vallejo~ |
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Craig
Firefly
Kyrgyzstan
3734 Posts |
Posted - 08/16/2007 : 21:02:46
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From the banks of Loch Katrine with my dear Charlotte
Did it come to unfold my affections for a certain Lady
Possessed, yet I, with infatuation at first
Not unlike the sun breaking the night into dawn,
I had to wait out the day to see what lay ahead at nightfall.
Sofia is less forgiving, as the glens in the Trossachs beckon
With rippling brooks for all to explore. I am still haunted nevertheless
By the Lady in the Lake whose tale needs telling.
A short abandonment, from a delirious fever, am I able to continue
This obsessive behavior...
Of a king, a chieftain, a romantic hero, does flow from the ink of my stylus
Am I able to let my inner thoughts escape from the abyss of my soul and imagination.
Have I lived it before? Is it just a dream? A fairy tale at best? From where it comes I know not where.
It must escape or I will go mad, I must see what is written, after my hand has passed the page, for I know not what it may turn out to be...
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BarbraG
Windchimer
1802 Posts |
Posted - 08/22/2007 : 22:01:43
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Winds of the past were blowing silently and screaming at the
same time in her heart and in her mind. She had tried so hard
to escape them all of her life, but here they were again . . not
like a long lost friend, but like a formidable enemy. She had
loved and lost too many times to count, but the songs and the
dances still played in her brain, reminding her of a time when
she thought only of today. She had never worried about tomorrow,
and now it was tomorrow ... today. It was hard to face the future
now, with so much regret and sorrow . . borne forever... on the
winds of the past. |
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aussiedave
Rocker
Australia
479 Posts |
Posted - 08/22/2007 : 23:02:37
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"Miss Mamie?"
[she silently watched...not a word fell from her lips]
'oh if I could only hold her close to my heart'.....he quietly said.
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Ailinn
Windchimer
1509 Posts |
Posted - 08/23/2007 : 17:47:52
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| She's tired and there's no room at the Inn. No Happy Meal deals or high-fives to greet them. Nada. "So, go ahead, then," she tells the kids, wide-eyed and solemn at seven and ten. "You'll get new pajamas and toothbrushes. And you can finish that puzzle game." "Pick the camouflage pj's for Antonio," Ynez whispers to the social worker. She flips open her cell phone and punches a number. Already Out Bail Bonds on speed dial. Behind her the HOLLYWOOD sign rises a mythic forty-five feet high on Mount Lee. And on Sunset the tourists in Hertz convertibles maneuver the potholes of Guitar Row past the Hotel California and out to the Palisades. |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2698 Posts |
Posted - 08/23/2007 : 19:45:18
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I lay down in the grass at the top of the Jersey Palisades and look at Manhatten thru the fog... So quiet from here, so crazy inside it's jungles... The City can kick your ass good and proper, but, as Levon Helm said, You gotta brush yourself off and get up and go at it again...
~*~ |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
1509 Posts |
Posted - 08/24/2007 : 18:17:22
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~Grace Paley~
December 1922 ~ August 2007
"...she illuminated the daily trials
and boisterous interior lives
of working-class men and women
in language that radiated humanity,
intelligence, and streetwise humor..."
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Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5416 Posts |
Posted - 08/24/2007 : 19:19:33
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One interviewer asked Grace, “You’re a mother, a wife, a writer,
a teacher, an activist. How do you have time to do it all?”
Grace said, "Well, I have all day.”
http://www.myspace.com/mickeynewbury |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
1509 Posts |
Posted - 08/25/2007 : 17:14:34
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"...the blossom in the blood, my Love
The blossom in the blood..." |
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The Nightly Vigil