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T O P I C    R E V I E W
buckman Posted - 09/24/2004 : 18:16:26
I sit in the dark in the back of the saloon...
What is between my table and the dusty
street is twenty feet that is
on the very edge of Hell...
The townspeople say they are sinners: the townspeople say they are evil...
The reality is that they are just Cowboys and
they are very much alive and much of the
rest of this town has already died... I talk to
the Lord and I Know what is Evil
and what is not,
which is why I hold services here and
not in a church....
These men make a decision
every time they put the whiskey to their
lips, every time they put the
tobacco to their mouths....
They make a decision between a
longer, duller life or the life
that they are choosing to live....
Yet I can see the desperation in
their eyes; I can see
that for every year that they age,
they remove themselves another year from their
childhood and their youthful dreams...
I can see that the only time
They will smell the
fragrance of a lady is
when they choose to pay for her...
I can see that they care not a
bit about Eternity, but only for today...
But, that is Just Alright
with me and the Lord


If everybody went to heaven they'd run out of room.... Rev Buckman


20   L A T E S T    R E P L I E S    (Newest First)
Ailinn Posted - 12/01/2021 : 17:10:58
The children are hungry. Their energy frenetic. So many of them now the silverware jumps and shivers. We light the candles. Take turns saying Grace. The youngest at two, in his father's arms dreaming.
Ailinn Posted - 12/01/2021 : 17:05:21
"Nantucket," she says. "Chandeliers big as sleighs. Shining white tablecloths. Haloed candles. A tree I laid down underneath to look up through. Star at the top. Magic pictures. Burning sepia edges."
Ailinn Posted - 12/01/2021 : 17:02:08
Fairy lights up and down the coast. Merchants lit up for Christmas. The Flyer shuttles the travelers back and forth from Lindbergh. Blick sales spill out to the curb. And on water the Star of India rocks in the harbor. Its masts ablaze on the Bay.
buckman Posted - 11/27/2021 : 15:25:13
It turns colder as the sun
descends behind the mountain
and leaves me in the
darkness...
once again...
It seems that the darkness
has become my friend
Just like the rain...
For one that has not lived the life
that he was expected to,
has not fulfilled the
promise that was foreseen for him,
has not lived in the light as he had vowed.....
The faith has never left.....
The belief in the power of the Blood
has been there from the
start and is there now,
to this day....
The Father,
the Son,
the Man....

I have come to the river to pray....
buckman Posted - 11/25/2021 : 19:49:57
THANKSGIVING DAY WITH RALPH [THE HUDSON RIVER BiPOLAR BEAR] AND REV BUCKMAN

Ralph [[ the Hudson River BiPolar bear]] was downstairs dancing to Ray Charles singing Eleanor Rigby and watching dirty movies on cable...
I said, Ralphie, what are you thankful for?
He said, [[ Um, Jameson's, Ray Charles and, uh, dirty movies...]]
Wow, I said, you really have a small window you look out of, don't you?

Rev Buckman was sitting out back just staring at the woods...
I said, Rev, how about you?
He said, between God the Devil and you,
everything I have ever loved has been taken from me.
The baby, the women.... The pills...
Just what I gotta be thankful for?
I said, You are lucky that I don't kill you off,
you can be thankful for that, okay, curmudgeon?

I said, Guys, listen up...
Today is the day when Americans go to the storeroom of their souls and take an inventory and appreciate what they have that many, many others do not...
I said, it's a tradition and it's one of those things that let's us stop for a minute and look back and look ahead and kind of put a pin in the map of the Universe that says, YOU ARE HERE.

Then I thanked the Gods that I sometimes talked to and sometimes even talked to me, for being alive and sober for one more day...

That's it.
They know the rest,
that's why they got the job as Gods...

Besides, everything else is just gravy...
buckman Posted - 11/25/2021 : 19:47:27


My homosexual gardener has
been singing “You’ll Never Walk Alone”
in different languages all morning.
He’s up to ten versions.
He thinks he sounds like Hugh Laurie.
He says he’s going to make a cd and
sell it for charity, but I told him no one will buy it.
Now he’s pouting and sharpening his pitchfork.

Some days it’s just not worth getting up.
Ailinn Posted - 11/20/2021 : 16:56:56
He's barefoot on the patio painting an aquarelle view. His fervent concentration. Benign light in the yard when the Coaster crosses the lagoon. "The Drift..." she says. "How to get there." "Where the demons are restless..." he says. "Out there in the desert. A fulltime job," he laughs.

"Listen," he says, and he sets the brush down.

The audience in the front row leans closer. The mist-slicked cliffs of cobbled Durrow appear on a scrim on the stage. Empty pantry. Chapped hands. Tallow candles. On another, their names appear on the Rhyolite Station. Brittlebush. Sage. Chaparral. Tassel-tipped ocotillo. Mounted Knights in fine Toledo in a glare of mirage. Timpani sounds. Bells far away where the road pulls them into the sky.
buckman Posted - 11/20/2021 : 12:08:50


My homosexual gardener has
been singing “You’ll Never Walk Alone”
in different languages all morning.
He’s up to ten versions.
He thinks he sounds like Hugh Laurie.
He says he’s going to make a cd and
sell it for charity, but I told him no one will buy it.
Now he’s pouting and sharpening his pitchfork.

Some days it’s just not worth getting up.
buckman Posted - 11/09/2021 : 21:24:20
I hear the whispers everywhere
Some I almost recognize
Her red hair on her shoulders
Her fingers on my thighs.

[Baby don't want to leave me
I'm living enough for two,
The whiskey helps the pills go down
What's a proud man gonna do?]

It's only when they're talking
That my mind seems to work at all,
She brought the glory to October
In the Hudson Valley fall.

[We drove across those amber plains
Nuthin but loving on our minds,
The music helped the pain go down
We followed the white lines.]

She loved to talk to Mickey
They'd cough and wheeze all night
There were nights when we were almost sane
There were days the sun was bright.

[Baby don't want to leave me
I'm living enough for two,
The whiskey helps the pills go down
What's a proud man gonna do?]

Every night about this time
The whispers seem to stop
She left a nightgown on my door
The other shoe won’t drop.

[We drove across those amber plains
Nuthin but loving on our minds,
The music helped the pain go down
We were two times two of a kind.]

I hear the whispers everywhere
Some I almost recognize
Her red hair on her shoulders
Her fingers on my thighs.
Ghosts of memories don't linger
I chant that every night
Waiting for a day when I'm almost sane
And a night when the stars are bright.

Ailinn Posted - 11/06/2021 : 19:22:51
Tonight. Melancholy time in the clock tower.
Ailinn Posted - 11/06/2021 : 19:20:17
Minaret balconies. High pointed arch windows. Heavy iron-worked doors for knights to ride through. "You see it now, don't you..." he says, "...all around us."
Ailinn Posted - 11/06/2021 : 19:17:20
The kettle whistles at the ocean edge of town. The kitchen fills with steam. Windows weep to the sills. He places his hands over hers. Closes his eyes and leans forward. The clock lags a minute. Then three. Then stops. Lilac light deepens to purple. "Listen..." he says far away. His journey-bound profile. The dark coming down. No prisoners in the room.
Ailinn Posted - 11/06/2021 : 19:13:16
Seashine through the trees. Low clouds. Chimeric fog. A lone candle. He rocks with his palms resting on his knees. His right hand tapping a feverish rhythm. Dream swamp in old places. What's left there. Grey tree trunks sunk deep in the water. Ravenous flora. Bejeweled dragonflies. The boatman with his tattered black shirt and long fingers. Blisters rising to take him across. She's quiet when he tells this story.
buckman Posted - 11/05/2021 : 06:47:32
After the Fiesta, with the little town and my family dead,
I need to be alone...

I ride North and East for many days
Where to be October means something.
Where I ran and fished and hunted
As a child and learned the ways
Of the woods and of the Great One.

The trees are aflame in their private moondance of fire.
Against the blue of the Hudson River
Reflecting the cliff faces of Storm King,
It plays the illusion the Old Ones called
Riverdeep mountainhigh.

There is and will be another story for each of us.
The long golden tale of each precious life.
Some filled with love, Some filled with loss,
Mostly a measure of both.

Every turn in the river
Takes the story to a new place.
Some we choose and some are chosen for us.
But, we are each of us even Now, immortal...
Whether to Heaven or Hell eventually,
our spirits will All be Forever...
That choice is always ours and ours alone...

How dim sometimes the Light we follow seems.
But when we get out from the towns and their false glow that
Robs our vision; Out under nothing but the sky and His face,
Our eyes will again divine the light and
The path thru the forest will shine like the Sun.

I smile to think of my past families,
Now gone on high, that walked this riverbank
With me so long ago.
They were so like the October trees,
Aflame and dancing with color and
Great beauty just before their private
Winter came and turned them gray.

In the creeping darkness, I whisper a prayer
That they would greet me in the spring
As the trees will, Reborn and ready
For another fling Around the Dancefloor.

BarbraG Posted - 11/05/2021 : 02:37:46
quote:
Originally posted by buckman

Dear Barbra G. Please, respectfully, keep politics off this page. This page has continued for twenty years without politics or your opinions, . Thank you



" Politics? what did I write that was about politics ? I looked back and couldn't figure out what you were talking about, Buck. Sorry, but if I wrote it, it had to be true. Thought that was what Mickey was all about . I LOVE the things that YOU write, and I wouldn't mind if you were even stating a "political" opinion. I do want to be respectful, but if I write ANYthing, it is because of motivation, whether true or fictional. I have truly enjoyed things that you have written, no matter the subject.
BarbraG
buckman Posted - 11/05/2021 : 01:59:26
I sat in the dark in the back of the saloon,
saving the world...

I could smell the fear,
the loneliness and the desperation in the room.

And that was just me.

OK, just kidding. I wasn't afraid.

The other two things just sorta grew on me,
like hunger, no, that's not exactly right;
more like lines on a man's face.
After years of not looking,
one day they were just there.

Loneliness and desperation were okay,
but what with what I did,
fear was not, I thought
as I reached for the green bottle
and looked at the gun lying next to it...

One for the lonely, one for the fear;
The desperation I let go it's own way.
Like hunger, it helped me keep an edge...

It was good for business...

Ailinn Posted - 11/03/2021 : 17:29:10
Medieval grapes in the Guadalupe Valle where the winemakers are running out of water. A drought over Eden. "Two or three years," Santiago says, "but I believe it will rain again." Close to the roof the stars crackle and glimmer. "Pray now," he says.
Ailinn Posted - 11/03/2021 : 17:24:59
The honor of wind on the road to Cataviña. Blue palms. Cirios and cacti eternally searching for water where El Viento's footsteps circle and stalk. Fistfuls of stinging air. Copal and salt. Four candles. Their lyric isolation. When he speaks there's rain in his voice. Nimbus clouds. A rainbow. Purple figs growing out of the rock.
Ailinn Posted - 11/03/2021 : 17:20:10
Gasoline for sale in drums. A woman reading cards at a folding table. A boy with a rifle in the bed of a truck. Substantial superstition.
Ailinn Posted - 11/03/2021 : 17:18:08
Days in amber. When the Border was a revolving door and Santiago drove out with green limes and fresh linens. Votives burning the house down in Mexico.

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