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BarbraG
Windchimer

1802 Posts

Posted - 02/04/2008 :  00:43:45  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The driver of the stagecoach was dead, no doubt about it.
The rifleman pushed him over the side, and sunk down into the
area below the seat, taking the reins from the man. He
hadn't come all this way for Mary.... to die in the road like a
wounded animal. Pray !! Pray that these horses can outrun
the savages that were getting closer and closer with every
hoofbeat. The last passenger had gotten off the stage miles
back and his weight was all the horses had to pull. He only
had to make it to the ravine half a mile away. There was
safe haven waiting for him there. Friends - - with rifles of
their own. "Heeeyahhhhh!!" he yelled over and over, snapping
the reins as he screamed. He knew one thing for sure. All
he had to do was make it back to safety and he would never be
in a spot like this again. For all the times he had wanted to
stop living after Mary had died, this wasn't one of them. More
than anything, he wanted to live !!! The horses were running
the life out of their chests and the ravine was getting closer.
By a miracle of the greatest kind, he could see that he was
going to make it. Rifle shots screamed around his head, with
the bullets finding their marks. Just as suddenly as it had
begun, it was over !! The Indians were turning back. Not
knowing what the ravine held for them and losing a few braves before
even getting really close to it was not a good sign. And, Indians
weren't known to jump into a battle without knowing who the
enemy was. And so, the rifleman made it . . . back home, and
back to his Mary. He was going to "see her" for one last time.
When that pilgrimage was done, he was headed into kinder, sweeter
territory. He was going to live for Mary . . his love . . his
sweetheart. He would stay busy, working for causes important
to her. And, he would raise their son !! Mary had wanted her boy
to grow up to be just like his father. The rifleman had made her
a promise, and he meant to keep it. He would not let her down.

BGee


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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5416 Posts

Posted - 02/04/2008 :  23:28:58  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
RIPENING

The longer we are together
the larger death grows around us.
How many we know by now
who are dead. We, who were young,
now count the cost of having been.
And yet as we know the dead
we grow familiar with the world.
We, who were young and loved each other
ignorantly, now come to know
each other in love, married
by what we have done, as much
as by what we intend. Our hair
turns white with our ripening
as though to fly away in some
coming wind, bearing the seed
of what we know. It was bitter to learn
that we come to death as we come
to love, bitter to face
the just and solving welcome
that death prepares. But that is bitter
only to the ignorant, who pray
it will not happen. Having come
the bitter way to better prayer, we have
the sweetness of ripening. How sweet
to know you by the signs
of this world.

Wendell Berry


http://www.myspace.com/mickeynewbury
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1513 Posts

Posted - 02/08/2008 :  21:33:16  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
eavesdropping on their conversation:
Neruda sound asleep.
Juan Ramon placing yellow flowers
in his kitchen.
Miguel in jail.
Lorca playing flamenco
to a house full of romanceros.
Cesar Vallejo walking through
the streets of Paris.
I walk behind you
carrying this heart
of white rain which has
come out of the barrio
with the turbulence of
the Guadalquiver.
The sun is a witness
to your coming and going
like soldiers marching
towards the sea.
And this petty inqusitive
brain has watched you
enter my life.
Miguel weeping.
Lorca clean shaven and alert
murdered standing.
Neruda calm like dropping fruit.
Juan Ramon Jimenez
in a poitrait of yellow flowers.
And Vallejo drunk with the ghost
of compassion, sipping cold coffee.

~Luis Omar Salinas~
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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5416 Posts

Posted - 02/09/2008 :  00:01:50  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
What we all need most urgently now is to realize that transience
is not separation -- for we, transient as we are, have it in common
with those who have passed from us, and they and we exist together
in one being where separation is...unthinkable.

Could we otherwise understand such poems if they had been nothing
but the utterance of someone who was going to be dead in the future?
Don't such poems continually address inside of us, in addition
to what is found there now, also something unlimited and unrecognizable?
I do not think that the spirit can make itself anywhere so small
that it would concern only our temporal existence and our here and
now: Where it surges toward us, there we are the dead and the
living all at once.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters On Life


http://www.myspace.com/mickeynewburygatherings

Edited by - Doug L on 02/09/2008 00:11:33
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1513 Posts

Posted - 02/10/2008 :  18:15:43  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Air 77, water 59. The children wait. Lashed to fiber glass islands. Feet dangling overboard. Always looking over their shoulders. Where the sea lifts and settles. Their worlds are green. Are rolling liquid when they snap up and ride in. Conquerors of the water world.
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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5416 Posts

Posted - 02/10/2008 :  20:16:41  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
There was a train. I remember there was a young girl,
maybe 17 years old, aboard the train. She was sitting
in a window seat, next to me, looking out into the falling
dark, where twinkled the lights of farm houses against
the dimming colours of the sundown sky.

In a room built into the barn of one of those farms that
she saw the lights of, there was a man about forty, a
farmhand who'd come to live there seven years before. Never
married, he'd meandered his way across the prairies, taking
work, then moving on again. Then he took work at this farm
and on his third day was injured and lost most of two fingers.
He already had a scar down his left cheek and another from
back surgery, so he wasn't worried about losing part of a hand.

The family that owned the farm treated him well, offered him
free room and board despite his not being able to do much for
a while. Out of loyalty, he'd stayed on. He had learned to be
useful, and had come to know the family like it was his own.

On this evening, he is restless in his room, reading a book called
My Antonia, by Willa Cather. Antonia is the spirited daughter
of Russian peasants who came to Nebraska to homestead. They
miss their homeland dearly. It is a book he read before, when
he was very young. A girl he spent six months with had given
this novel to him. It was the only thing he had kept from the
time they had lived together, a story they had read to one another
when they shared a housekeeping room in Sintaluta.

He had a hard time reading on this night. He walked outside
and lit a cigarette, and out on the ridge overlooking the
valley he could hear the train go by on its way to Melville
before it veered northward to Saskatoon, where he'd lived
after leaving the woman who'd given him the book. Going back
inside, he filled the kettle with water and turned on the hot
plate. He felt chilly, and was going to make some coffee. It
wasn't cold out, but he felt cold, so pulled his jacket on and
wondered if he was catching a fever.

As the train slowed on its way into Melville, the girl next
to me flicked on the overhead reading light and from her
purse took out a black and white photograph of a man. She
looked at it a moment, then looked at me. Your boyfriend?,
I said. "No," she told me. "It is a man who knew my mother,
before I was born. It is a photograph my mother gave to me."

She asked where I was travelling to, and I told her that I
had business in North Battleford. I introduced myself, and
told her that I had a son her age. And you? "I am going to
Saskatoon, to see if I can find the man in this photograph.
I think he is my father." There was a silence then. I didn't
want to pry, so I didn't say anything. After a minute or so,
she said, "Nice to meet you, Jim. My name is Antonia."

DL


http://www.myspace.com/mickeynewbury

Edited by - Doug L on 02/10/2008 20:22:15
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BarbraG
Windchimer

1802 Posts

Posted - 02/10/2008 :  20:57:17  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Someday, Doug, someday !! I have to meet you someday.

BGee
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1513 Posts

Posted - 02/15/2008 :  20:41:54  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
I have only one mystic exodus
one reliquary and its relic
I have one tender oasis only: you,
Your eyes, their forget-me-not blue.

~Rosanna Warren~

Edited by - Ailinn on 02/15/2008 21:04:59
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2698 Posts

Posted - 02/16/2008 :  15:28:10  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
It was seventeen years ago this spring.

I told her we needed to go for a ride.
As we crossed the reservoir,
I said,
Do you ever think about the minutes
just before a moment that you will remember
the rest of your life?
She laughed and said, No, honey, why?
I said, This is one of them and I
began to tell her about Martina...

I'll never forget that laugh...
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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5416 Posts

Posted - 02/17/2008 :  00:07:02  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The poet makes himself a seer by a long, prodigious
and rational disordering of the senses. Every form
of love, of suffering, of madness, he searches in
himself, he consumes all the poisons in him, and
keeps only their quintessences. This is an unspeakable
torture, during which he needs all his faith and
superhuman strength, and during which he becomes the
great patient, the great learned one among men. For
he arrives at the unknown! Because he has cultivated
his soul - which was rich to begin with - more than
any other man! He reaches the unknown, and even if,
crazed, he ends up by losing the understanding of his
visions, at least he has seen them!

Jean-Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891)
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2698 Posts

Posted - 02/17/2008 :  07:42:22  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The Druid named Nancy
[He belonged to the Judyism sect and everyone knew him as Nancy]
got to his feet like an old VW Bug tirejack;
that is, squirrely, off-center, and never sure if it'll stay up.
"Ya see, Rev, back in my time, 2008, I'm about four hundred years too late;
so, if this is really 1817, then I'm getting a little closer to where I belong.
A druid is never gonna really belong anyway;
we're different, to say the least; we live in caves and in the rocks,
[that's why our little group is called the Branch Rockettians, or Rockettes].
We have abandoned All to the Truth, the Whole Truth and nothing but the Truth.
Here, let me read this to you. It's by a guy named
Archie McLeish, and maybe it'll explain the way it is in my time....
"There is, in truth, a terror in the world, and the arts have heard it as they always
do. Under the hum of the miraculous machines and the ceaseless publications
of the brilliant physicists a silence waits and listens and is heard... It is
the silence of apprehension. We do not trust our time, and the reason we do
not trust our time is because it is we who have made the time, and we do not
trust ourselves. We have played the hero's part, mastered the
monsters, accomplished the labors, become gods-and we do not trust ourselves
as gods... We know what we are. In the old days,[like now] when the gods were
someone else, the knowledge of what we are did not frighten us. But now that
we are gods ourselves we bear the knowledge for ourselves. Like that old
Greek hero who learned when all the labors had been accomplished that it was
he himself who had killed his son...."


Hey, Ralph, wake up,this is good stuff...

YOU ON THE PORCH,TOO...I SEE YOUR EYES CLOSED...

Sorry, but I get a little zealous, Rev, when I talk about this stuff,
maybe that's why they call us zealots. All I know is that the older I get,
the more it takes to fill my heart with wonder,
and for me only God is big enough to do that, anymore..
I'm not lovin this life, especially the kids that keep tugging at my robe wanting
to know if I'm OBI WAN KENOBI.. But once you enter the Gate, the die is
cast..."I said to the man at The Gate, "Give me a light that I may walk
safely into the unknown." "He said to me, "Go out into the darkness, and put
your hand in the hand of God, and it shall be to you better than the
light, and safer than the known."

Like Jesse Colin Young said, Darkness,Darkness, be my pillow....


[] Rev Buckman
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1513 Posts

Posted - 02/17/2008 :  17:21:35  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"Those things can trap you on an escalator," Ramon says. I was checking out at Costco with a pair of turquois Crocs. "Oh, yeah," he continues, "tear your leg off. Those ridges there... They match right up with the grooves at Penny's. Check it out." "I'm only wearing them at the beach," I say. "Sure," Ramon says, "should come with some kinds warning, though, but that's today. All the babies in flip-flops." "Probably just a California thing," I mistakenly offer. "Hey, I was born in Anaheim in '87 and I had to wear corrective shoes!" Ramon says. "I remember wearing something called Stride Rites. Ankle high with laces," I say. "Well, you're a lot older than I am," Ramon says. "No doubt," I say, "swipe the card."
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1513 Posts

Posted - 02/17/2008 :  17:30:19  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Once upon a time in a cold coastal town under a truly blue Blues sky, there lived a fey mischief-maker and his mascot, Raven's Eye. In the sanctuary of a dream he stayed off Van Ness and the corner of Third. One long night and ten thousand days. A thin blanket and a pallet. A perch for the bird. Now it's quarter past midnight when he stumbles in and thumbs a flared match to her Marlboro. She's sitting on the floor wearing sunglasses. He's hung over in his dark leather coat. He puts the perpetual coffee pot on. Shakes the salty stars from his hair. Smoke rings rise in O's from his serious mouth. Sparks blister her fingernails. They're so dangerously alive between two bridges where the past and the future converge. "Ah, the spread-open fan of memory..." he says. She says, "The longing...the scrim of alarm..."
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1513 Posts

Posted - 02/17/2008 :  17:34:07  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He left notes in her pocket that year. Tarp and sangbags. Rain everyday. Everything sliding toward El Nino. Folks on their knees when the tide rushed in and the cliffs tumbled down behind them. Steep churches of genuflection. Acres of candles flickering in sooty globes. Now she's back in black on the avenues he invented. His worn, dog-earred Street Guide in her raincoat pocket. His fingerprints on every page.
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2698 Posts

Posted - 02/17/2008 :  20:06:50  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He lights his sixtieth cigarette of the day.
He looks up at the three new paintings from the west
directly above his head and salutes.
As he blows the smoke out he coughs a little and bows deeply,
one hand to the floor, palm up, fingers cupped.

'Tis hard to do while looking up and smoking...
Only try it at home....

Rev B
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BarbraG
Windchimer

1802 Posts

Posted - 02/17/2008 :  23:45:38  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
" I don't miss my mustang now." Whatever made him think of that
in the middle of a midnight ride down Route 66, basically headed
to nowhere, he couldn't imagine. But, in his mind, he knew that
thoughts didn't come from nowhere. Something in his brain was ticking ... mustang...mustang... and he had picked up on it. His
rifle lay on the seat beside him. He prayed he wouldn't need it
tonight, this night of all nights. Not tonight, Lord. Please.
He still had a long way to drive, but only if he came to a gas
station pretty soon. The stars were drop-dead bright, like they
were on a cold night with no clouds. ... mustang . . mustang . .
He hadn't passed another vehicle in many, many miles, but .. suddenly .. it was like an eighteen-wheeler had dropped from the
sky . . . right on his tail. What the heck !!!


BGee

Edited by - BarbraG on 02/18/2008 22:41:35
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2698 Posts

Posted - 02/18/2008 :  11:25:55  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Nightmare of darkness.
Moonlight revealed thru the single slat of a wayward blind.
Barely understood visions.
Moment of a kiss.
Baseball suspended in mid-air arc.
Running, always running without movement.
Dire fears of encroaching madness.

Morning just before full waking...

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Ailinn
Windchimer

1513 Posts

Posted - 02/18/2008 :  18:05:06  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
For Reverend B~

"Dreams are the carriage that carry us... Sooooo... Close your sleepy eyes and dream."

~Mickey Newbury~
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BarbraG
Windchimer

1802 Posts

Posted - 02/21/2008 :  23:27:55  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The walk along the beach with the eclipse of the moon covered
in red was a bit unnerving. It was as if an omen hung in the sky
foretelling of disaster to come. Being used to seeing the moon
at night in its wondrous beauty and its comforting presence, I
wasn't ready for the appearance of it last night. I stayed. Stayed
with my moon in the universe because of all the nights it had
stayed with me. It looked as if something unholy was sucking
the life from it, inch by inch. The thought came to my mind . .
"what if my wonderful night light remained in this present state . .
covered and cold, with no warmth radiating down to the earth."
How would I bear the nights ... alone, without my beautiful moon I
had grown up with and waited for every night. I had heard it
was going to be "beautiful", but it wasn't .. not to me. I won't
put myself through this event when it happens again. Next time ..
will be different. I made myself a promise..
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1513 Posts

Posted - 02/24/2008 :  16:49:11  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The first few hundred years they lived on the coast of Durrow where everything he predicted came true. The village folk gathered around him at the old stone well. Tom and bold Dana from Grail. Wee Liam the bootmaker's son with his broken brogue. Maeve with the fly-away coppery hair. Bright Niamh the scullery maid. The Spirit twins and the Fortune Teller's muse. (Oh, yes, the Fortune Teller must be inspired too.) They all stood with their shoulders touching when they saw his dark shape appear. A dangerous man some mornings crossing the mist-bound moor. A scepter in his hand when he landed by the stables where the horses were stamping. How the trees stepped out of his way. How his breath lit their fragile branches. Eyeshine. Cheek and chin. Salt smears on his forehead. A cloak of seaweed to his shins. Soothsayer, he, with his summing-up eyes...his powers of divination.
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