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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5432 Posts

Posted - 03/16/2008 :  08:57:45  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He was in his thirties, red-brown hair and beard covering
most of his face, leaving you with the solemnity of his eyes,
and a voice that vibrated halfway between the lower tone he
intended and a rebel octave higher. He sat alone there wrapped
in a blanket outside the drug store, shivering as it rained,
rocking like all time was crowding the exits of his body in
a hurry to be the next second out. He had a small packsack
with a broken shoulder strap, and his sneakers appeared to be
a few sizes too large, elfin in how they curled up at the toe.
Beside him every day, leaning against the outside wall of the
drug store, was a cardboard sign that explained something of
his life and detailed his need for coin. On this particular day,
rocking more rapidly than usual, he held another sign in his
hands. "Sleep Only With Strangers," it said. Two neighbourhood
women, a little older than the man and far more familiar with
grooming and perfumes, had stopped to question him about the new
banner. Their eyes had that pulled-to-the-side look in them, the
kind that seasoned horses get when they're tired and about to throw
their rider. The bit in their mouths was the proclamation on his
new sign. Somehow it was all right for him to be in the state he
was, even to explain his predicament on cardboard, but to hold up
this four-word philosophy, this shorter-than-haiku Howl printed
clearly in felt pen, was to trespass the hidden laws of the old
neighbourhood. The women admonished him. He did not respond, and
that only appeared to upset them more. Finally, fed up, one of the
women grabbed at the "Sleep Only With Strangers" banner. The man
grabbed back, joining them in a rather humourous tug-of-war, fighting
over his latest poem. As the battle waged, the woman defending the
institution of marriage and the man emitting the sort of squeaks
you get when dragging a wet finger across the skin of a taut balloon,
a crowd of prescription-filled customers gathered. It all ended in
a draw when the banner split in half from the strain. The red-faced
gal took her trophy - the "Sleep Only" part - and stuffed it into
the nearby trash receptacle. The man, rocking feverishly now, his
coin cup near empty and his hair dripping rain, quietly held up the
"With Strangers" portion, an edited version of one of the panhandler's
earlier poems.

DL

Edited by - Doug L on 03/16/2008 09:39:50
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1844 Posts

Posted - 03/16/2008 :  19:02:00  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Nightly Vigil at the Cafe Lupe~ An enigmatic place. A kind of lost and found for wandering souls to tell their haunted story before heading down the road. They're dropped off on the desert by some dune-sailing-three-masted schooner. Or is it an alien spaceship? Or did they just inherit the place from the ramblin' man with the Texas drawl and sometimes Irish brogue? He's still here. He always will be. Leaning in his boots in the doorway. Looking out from under his wide hat to the purple foothills below. The Reverend and Illiance are at the card table. And Doug and Craig with that wild-eyed spectral dog at their feet. Grania still has the broom in her hand. Turning the chairs up on the tables and sweeping the dirt into a pile by the door every night. Along the canyon's perilous rim a host of weary travelers are riding toward them.
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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5432 Posts

Posted - 03/18/2008 :  02:50:08  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
ALONE

I never thought Michiko would come back
after she died. But if she did, I knew
it would be as a lady in a long white dress.
It is strange that she has returned
as somebody's dalmatian. I meet
a man walking her on a leash
almost every week. He says good morning
and I stoop down to calm her. He said
once that she was never like that with
other people. Sometimes she is tethered
on their lawn when I go by. If nobody
is around, I sit on the grass. When she
finally quiets, she puts her head in my lap
and we watch each other's eyes as I whisper
in her soft ears. She cares nothing about
the mystery. She likes it best when
I touch her head and tell her small
things about my days and our friends.
That makes her happy the way it always did.

Jack Gilbert
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1844 Posts

Posted - 03/20/2008 :  18:49:34  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Thank you for posting the Gilbert poem, Doug. I hope you're comfortable in your new home and the muse is loving.

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Ailinn
Windchimer

1844 Posts

Posted - 03/20/2008 :  19:11:03  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
At Sunrise Retirement we did the Creative Writing Program Wednesday because of Good Friday. A surprise from G.T. Lewis, a silent participant until now. (I'm partial to G.T. because of his oxygen tanks and pulmonary fibrosis.) He is describing his parents whom he is willing to fall in love with at 79 years old. His parents are both ten-plus years dead, but... "...finally alive for me. Their primitive love." "Primitive?..." Alma Cottswold leans closer. "Yes, primitive. He provided, but I didn't think he cared. Didn't think he wanted to know anything more than the roof over her head and the food on the table. That should make her happy. That was enough. My mother, though... She was beautiful and talented. She had an artists soul. A genteel sensibility. Flowers she loved and fussed over. Easter especially reminds me of her. Her colorful pots filled with flowers. The small vases of daisies down the center lane of the dining room table. My father picking them up. Oh, several trips to the pantry he made. 'They're in the way,' he said. Her posture stiffening then. Imperceptibly. But he didn't notice. And when she saw the pain upon my face, 'There's blueberry slump, George Thomas,' she smiled, and served the bastard his savory meal. Later, there was a song or two on the piano, then back to the kitchen piling on the ham for his supper sandwich. Later still, I heard them laughing in their room. She died before him. He had faith, so he endured. I've come to think of him as the man who had everything. I've come to envy what I didn't know. Ah, hindsight is 20-20. Isn't that what they say."

*

We're leaving for Mexico in the morning. Our family, a gang. Safe miles for all who travel. Continued prayers for Roy and Ginny and those on the mend.

Happy Easter, Mick. Happy Easter, George Thomas. Happy Easter Porch Family. Bless us all.
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2705 Posts

Posted - 03/20/2008 :  20:12:00  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Subject: Sometimes When You're Falling
Date: Thursday, June 07, 2007 8:46 PM

Sometimes when you're falling
You think you've hit the bottom
But it's just another stop along the way
Sometimes when you're falling
You lose sense of your direction
You can hardly tell the nighttime from the day

Sometimes when you're falling
You can hear someone calling
Do you think it's the sound of your own voice?
Sometimes when you're falling
You want a quiet place inside you
Don't you get tired of all the noise?

Sometimes it's just a matter
Of looking down the ladder
To see how far you really have to fall
Sometimes it's just a breeze
That brings you to your knees
But a strong wind can fly you above it all

Sometimes when you're falling
You can hear someone calling
Do you think it's just your own voice?
Sometimes when you're falling
You find a quiet place inside you
Don't you get tired of all the noise?

Sometimes it's just a matter
Of looking down the ladder
To see how far you really have to fall
Sometimes it's just a breeze
That brings you to your knees
But a strong wind can fly you above it all

Sometimes it's just a breeze
That brings you to your knees
But a strong wind can fly you above it all

Hank Beukema - revbuckman music - 2007


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buckman
Firefly

USA
2705 Posts

Posted - 03/21/2008 :  00:15:41  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
I had turned a corner when I saw,
off in the distance,
a shabby preacher looking fella and a big, white bear.
They stopped as if waiting for me.
I yelled to them to go on
but they just stood there waiting,
as if to say....

As if to say...

As if.........
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Doug Lang
Swinger

Canada
1135 Posts

Posted - 03/22/2008 :  11:02:08  Show Profile  Visit Doug Lang's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
A WALK IN THE SUN WITH COYOTES

His hands moving in March sunlight
he said to her, "The lonely men I know
make a God of their wants, their lust
a chisel working away at the stone of each
woman they meet, as if they could in time,
with precise hammering, reduce her to
the heaven they desire."

The day was windswept and bright, and beyond
the marsh grass three coyotes took turns
leaping over fallen trees, while nearby a lone
heron stood on one leg, waiting.
"And what do you want?," she asked him.
He trembled in the cold wind, listened
for a deeper answer than hed given before.

Look at you, at the light around your head.

He smiled, pleased to be asked the question.
"At my age I begin to know my needs, the sweet
and simple needs a soul comes to, reaching
the feast of failures. Day by day the closed stone
of my heart is cracked by hammers of wisdom.
Soon this stone will weep in joy for a love
I am, this very day, beginning to imagine."

DL


www.myspace.com/dukelang
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2705 Posts

Posted - 03/25/2008 :  20:55:38  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The Porch

She was from Medford, Oregon.
He was from everywhere.
Somehow that glassed in porch on Geary
was just big enough and just small enough.
He walked into the kitchen one morning
and she was just there, like the fog.
He'd forgotten his shirt
and had on black sunglasses.
She had on that little levi jacket
with the flowers on the collar.
They went to the blood bank on Mission
and he bought her breakfast with his money
for the whole day.
He had to work at the bar that nite to make up for it.
She remembered his kindness that first day,
thru the years,
especially when he started in with the whiskey
and became someone she didn't know and wasn't ready for....
That first day kept her in love with him long after it should've died
and believe me, he worked at killing it, but she could never stop feeling
like they were meant to stay together.....

Sometimes love and life go on even when they shouldn't
and you just hafta do a little bear dance
evry once in awhile
to keep from going nuts....


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Ailinn
Windchimer

1844 Posts

Posted - 03/26/2008 :  19:24:43  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Hank and Doug~ Now I know where the Muse has been hanging out.
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2705 Posts

Posted - 03/26/2008 :  19:46:40  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He knew he was bad at fixing things,
so he thought he would be good at breaking things.
The only girl in the commune/family/house
that had a real job and a car
had bought a horse and she couldn't ride him.
She might of been, um, a little heavy but
it wasn't just that.
It was that no one had ever ridden this horse.
Buck was stoned [surprise] and he said
he could break the horse but he was
just showing off for the new girl, Mickey's friend.
They drove up to the Napa valley and it was over quick.
It took one up and down shiver of the horse's butt
and he was over the head and into a new state.
The state of pain... and two cracked ribs.
After Buck and the new girl washed the dust off
in a roadside creek, they made love for the first time
and he had hiccups all the way back to the City...

Not much of an ending, but it wasn't an ending.
It was just a day that went on for a long long time...
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2705 Posts

Posted - 03/27/2008 :  16:00:29  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Two months he spent in that basement in Pittsburgh.

This was no finished rec room. It was all cement and dirt, underneath a
house that was months away from falling down. His roommates were two
brothers from Mississippi that had really long beards [think ZZ Top]... They
were coming off heroin and he was just hitting his upward swing into years
of addiction to almost everything and they got along just fine, teaching him
how to shoplift without getting caught [the important part] and alot about
some really good music. The house was owned by Youth For Christ, but he
didn't feel like a youth and was still unsure about the other part. They
worked downtown during the day helping to build a coffeehouse called
Pittsburgh Power and Light when they weren't in Point Park throwing frisbees
or trying to steal money from the Hare Krishna's [they had it All going]...
It was really just a place to sleep in between side trips to Washington DC
and Beaver Falls... When they asked him to leave because he was a disruptive
influence [?#?] on the others, it was the second time in a year that
Christians had turned an eighteen year old kid out into the streets...

Years later he still wasn't sure who was right and who was wrong...
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2705 Posts

Posted - 03/29/2008 :  06:35:25  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The holes in my arms and
the blood in my nose
should have been some kind of
sign to you.
I know, it's hard to hold a man
that's on his knees...

Give me a minute or two, Darlin,
I'm trying to stand up...
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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5432 Posts

Posted - 03/29/2008 :  09:20:14  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
THE ARCHERS

Three blind archers in a thicket where wild roses
burst from prairie grass like screams, fire their arrows
in six directions, the sky laughing when they miss.
Half-buried rocks dull the arrowheads when they
shoot the ground. Hear the the brief racket of birches
when the arrows pass through, taking bits of leaf and bark
in their random flight. Somewhere beyond these trees,
Lorca walks calmly in the late morning sun, his earliest
poems padding the toes of his too-big shoes.
The blind archers pull arrows from their quivers, mad
with delight. They draw the bow taut and zing them off
into what, for them, is light without definition, a shimmering
gauze that tells them it is no longer night, that the sun
of memory keeps their hearts. It is this way with love, eyes
of no use, the firing without guarantee. Lorca ducks nimbly
as an arrow sails past, hears its dry whistle above his head.
Kneeling there in the dew-dampened grass, he whispers,
"Buenos dias," to the wild and bleeding roses.

DL
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1844 Posts

Posted - 03/29/2008 :  17:22:50  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"I am a poet and nobody shoots poets."

~Federico Garcia Lorca~
June 5, 1898 ~ August 19, 1936

When they put the gun to the back of your head...under a cloud of smoke from your last cigarette...with your extant eyebrows and cloven chin...your unequivocal coal eyes and widow's peak hairline...did you die smiling near that dear olive tree?

So many questions and so few answers.

Doug~ I saw his Blood Wedding and The House of Bernard Alba performed in Los Angeles. Blood Wedding was a magic night. Have you read Poet in New York? A different level of consciousness at work from The Gypsy Ballads and the canciones. Mick had the very best translation of The Ballad of the Spanish Civil Guard. "Black are the black-shod horses/Stains of ink and beeswax..." I have the same copy somewhere and now I'm determined to find it.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1844 Posts

Posted - 03/29/2008 :  17:36:02  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
When the Saints sobbed into their white handkerchiefs he turned a deaf ear to their weeping. Pressed his ear to the sun-drenched ground and listened for the deep quiet. In a world full of noise he went searching for the right silence. A perilous path paved with glittering litter. Meanwhile, outside the media tents, the celebrity venues continue to jam traffic while the AD's rush around with designer lattes. Crab cakes from Maryland flown in fresh this morning. Lobsters from Cape Ann...
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1844 Posts

Posted - 03/29/2008 :  17:46:34  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
She set the day's Rorschach puzzle and enchiladas on the table. The sunburned salt and pepper danced madly across the cracked tile. "Do this for me," he said, and handed her the pen. A dime-size spatter of salsa on the page. A spicy-hot red star with an ant making its way toward it. "A name, then," she said. "Oh, many," he said, "ha ha ha." "Something special..." she said, "...for today." "---," he whispered, "how's that?" "Oh, sure!" she said, "I get it now."
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BarbraG
Windchimer

1824 Posts

Posted - 03/29/2008 :  21:19:45  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Fly me back to the Rockies. Don't wanta pay my way. Just wanta
grab a freebie flight. I must go back today. The snow-tipped
peaks are calling me. I need to pack a bag. John Denver's up
there somewhere. And, I don't wanta lag. They say he comes
around sometimes when the wind blows soft and low. Don't know
how I'll get there. Just know I have to go. Anyone have a Lear
outside? That would do just fine. Doesn't have to be a luxury
jet. That's the last thing on my mind. Yep. That's the last
thing on my mind. I wish I could figure out what he was thinkin'
of !! Sure. When he climbed into that tiny seat, and went the
way of doves. I miss that country boy.
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Jonmark
Windchimer

USA
1787 Posts

Posted - 03/29/2008 :  22:05:32  Show Profile  Visit Jonmark's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
For BGee-
http://www.jonmarkstone.com/forum/index.php?topic=142.0
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1844 Posts

Posted - 03/30/2008 :  18:58:18  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
LA stories. Sunday life around the corner. Across the street from CBS the preacher of Farmer's Market makes his rounds among them. Tells his fog-bound story behind the dumpsters at Du-par's. Blesses those who come confessing. And the more penitent who don't say a word. Broken lifelines shining in their outstretched palms. Nine months a year the sun prevails over Fairfax and Third where the underpaid assistants menu choices consist of date shakes and green-apple pie. Where the tourists and seniors queue up for corned beef and homemade horseradish at Mcgees.
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