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Ailinn
Windchimer

1550 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
2698 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
2698 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 he’d 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
2698 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

1550 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
2698 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
2698 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
2698 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
5417 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

1550 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

1550 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

1550 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

1802 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
1782 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

1550 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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Ailinn
Windchimer

1550 Posts

Posted - 03/30/2008 :  19:08:53  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Anchored to ritual, they wait patiently at the crossing. Ecstatic he is. The way sparks fly off the blue rail. The long weight of moonlit cargo slung-shot through the silent night. A grin and a wink when he flares a lit match to his Camel. The inevitable cloud of smoke again at his shoulders. "No sunglasses after midnight," he says. He's got her by the hand now...running down some cinder trail.
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BarbraG
Windchimer

1802 Posts

Posted - 03/30/2008 :  22:51:20  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Sweet Jonmark,
Thank you so much for the trip back to your
cafe with such an insightful flight back in
time for me. I enjoyed it very much.
Hello to Bree.
BGee
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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5417 Posts

Posted - 03/31/2008 :  11:21:56  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
SONNET XVII

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

Pablo Neruda

Edited by - Doug L on 03/31/2008 11:54:55
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2698 Posts

Posted - 03/31/2008 :  13:51:33  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
December 2004 he turned up the Jameson’s level to a new high.

The one year anniversary of her death hit hard and he hit back
just as hard.
When the bartender cut him off he just stared not believing
what the man had said. He made him explain that, yes, he knew he had
been coming there for thirty years and, yes, he was a friend of the owner,
but the combination of the hot AMG convertable and being
only 3 pm on a Saturday made him think that another whiskey
might not be such a good idea.
After somehow getting the car the ten miles home on the back roads,
he proceeded to fall down the stairs and hit his head and his elbow
on the tiled kitchen floor. Then for an encore he fell backwards
into the snowglobe collection and woke up in a pile of
wet sand, glass and blood...

Just another dream date with Mr Jameson...


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