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buckman
Firefly
USA
2819 Posts |
 Posted - 07/04/2012 : 06:18:48
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-Days gone by...
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. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 07/04/2012 : 16:08:44
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| Sweet memories, Henry. Love, Ro |
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San Diego
Swinger
508 Posts |
Posted - 07/16/2012 : 17:00:47
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It was the summer Sugarland dredgers were moving lagoon sand onto the beach. Miles of pipe and colossal equipment in the water moving two-plus million cubic yards. I was working on the Neptune Avenue Project with its theme of falling houses and those with the will to still live in them. I told Mick about the cliff house that half slipped away. The people preparing supper in a kitchen with no walls open to the sky. From the beach you could look up and see the Coleman Lamps, a bowl with fruit, wine bottles and dishes on the table where they were enjoying a meal. The wine and the fruit...a surreal vision. Eden to Moonlight the Sugarland crews moved sand all summer long. The geological engineers with their hardhats and clipboards poked at the cliffs collcting samples. The buildings contractors and inspectors blocked driveways on the narrow road. The concrete pumpers along the bluffs at sunset looked like prehistoric birds. Mick had an idea how to stabilize the cliffs that involved something like Silly Putty and a web-like scrim. He had an original mind and was mechanically inclined to the point of invention. The uninsurable houses were rebuilt while the people continued living inside them. "...there's mystery in hope..." Mick said.
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Edited by - San Diego on 05/16/2020 18:33:38 |
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San Diego
Swinger
508 Posts |
Posted - 07/20/2012 : 22:16:13
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| I didn't grow up with other kids. My friends were Tommy the chauffer and his rebelious sweetheart, Birdie. Birdie's family didn't approve of Tommy. Her father was a circuit court judge at Foley Square and leaned heavily on his gavel. "Foley's tyrant," Birdie called him. Her mother Moira worked for Milton Cross at the Metropolitan Opera and had arranged a position for Birdie when she checked out of Barnard. But Birdie loved Tommy and Tommy loved Jazz. Tommy played trumpet when he wasn't cruising Central Park West. Took us to places in the Village musicians would head for when they landed at Port Authority. Park the limo in alleyways lined with lovers and garbage cans. Some nights we'd hang out at his flat. Two rooms on a short street with fire escapes and climbing ivy. No chairs. Just their shared bed with its myriad pillows and "borrowed" monogramed sheets. They drank scotch whiskey and I drank cocoa made with hot water from the tap. I was thirteen. The El stopped at the corner. Hushed and beautiful on nights when it snowed. "A life like that... Could not be lived today..." Mick said, and played some notes that sounded like those heart driven years. I miss him. The quick climb into his mind. His acute curiosity and Code history. A man you could tell the truth to. I wish people would write more about him here. |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2819 Posts |
Posted - 07/21/2012 : 06:03:30
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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.
Evry 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.
From The Nightly Vigil - The Journals of Rev Buckman
AUDIO AT http://youtu.be/p_odghSUOxA |
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Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
Posted - 07/26/2012 : 17:03:26
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SAPELO AND EVERY PLACE BETWEEN
Has this old car got one more road trip in it?
Come on, Gregory, tell me that it's true
"Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it"
But Goethe, he can't fix a car like you
I dream of high roads winding through the Rockies
A silent film in which I get to star
Going to drive until I wake up in the talkies
Come on Ruby, time to burn the tar
I may not have the money but I'm going
Hell, I'm no good at stealing gasoline
But I've got a rubber hose, gonna suck until it flows
Head to Sapelo and every place between
From Moose Jaw to the Black Hills of Dakota
Roads that I first travelled as a boy
Stop off in old North Hibbing, Minnesota
And Benford's place in Springfield, Illinois
Detour to Bloomington, Indiana, too
And Honkytonk House down in Ohio
Float my Bonneville canoe down to Hillbilly Haiku
And slumber on the Cumberland, you know
I may not have the money but I'm going
Hell, I'm no good at stealing gasoline
But I've got a rubber hose, gonna suck until it flows
Head to Sapelo and every place between
I'm getting old, I've run out of excuses
Working for a living's killing me
Time to live my hymn and swim with the Medusas
Perseus has no truck in Tennessee
Has this old car got one more road trip in it?
Betcha heaven's on a dirt road, Larry Jon
"Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it"
Kindred spirits waiting at the gates of dawn...
I may not have the money but I'm going
Hell, I'm no good at stealing gasoline
But I've got a rubber hose, gonna suck until it flows
Head to Sapelo and every place between
Sapelo and every place between...
DL |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2819 Posts |
Posted - 07/26/2012 : 19:19:40
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| ~*~ |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 07/31/2012 : 21:07:45
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| Sweet summer-stalled afternoons. Blue Shade Inn at the edge of cobbled Eden. Terra cotta and adobe in slow July. Room at the end of an alcove lit with contagious candles. Veil of bougainvillea trailing over the balcony rail. Ocean across the Boulevard with its litany of tides. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 07/31/2012 : 21:10:05
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| "Mine now," he said. Sun flaring the windows. Gold in the room. Her dark eyes behind black glasses. His bright and dark brilliance. His fiercely-kept peace. His words with their long reach disturbing her sleep. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 08/02/2012 : 20:45:11
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| Snag of sun in the ferocious Santa Rosas. Clot of honey in his laugh when he tips back in his gravity defying chair and plants his boots on the oaken stretcher. They sit for a while in the waning light until she lights the candles. Then he pushes the glasses aside and leans forward on the table. He traces his brow. He places the thought there. Melancholy right eye when he smiles. The last magic when he picks up his pen. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 08/06/2012 : 17:57:22
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| Mass every morning at 6am. Nightgown hiked up under my raincoat. Too stubborn to be a good orphan, I kept running away to the trains. No punishment deterred me. Many Rosaries kneeling on rice. Forfeited Christmas ice skates. No trip to the frozen pond with its holiday lights and steaming hot chocolate. "Were you lonely as a child?" he often asked me. Hell, no. I was mad! |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 08/09/2012 : 21:54:35
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| Her ordinary heart waits for the dark to come down. Back when they were looking at each other. Turning up the collars on each other's coats with their noses inches apart. She'd punch him on the arm and he'd feint those boxer's dance steps. Fists close up under his chin. He'd grab her by the hand then. Dart across the steep street in the middle of twilit traffic. "Jaywalking," the beat cop said with a warning letting them off "...jus' this one time." What else do you need to know? |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 08/12/2012 : 21:25:31
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| A crack in the sidewalk. A stumble before stars begin. A street so steep with a staired stoop like a climb up a mountain. He followed her progress from the angled bay window. He reached for two cups and lit the burner with a wooden match. She's in the room with him removing her coat. Sourdough loaf on the table. The diluted world outside the window made stranger by the fog. |
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Craig
Firefly
Kyrgyzstan
3793 Posts |
Posted - 08/14/2012 : 02:05:34
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Essence still abounds.
She feels him.
Them.
The movies in the mind.
That was yesterday?
It is today.
It is right now.
~~~
Vonnegut said it best..
"What are you thinking, Billy?"
"Time tripping again?" |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 08/14/2012 : 17:21:06
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| He loved the climate beyond the shuttered window. The chimes random music, the palms wind-swayed blades. Coral sunsets like liquid poured and spreading. The edge of the salt-ruffled sea. He liked the water warm. She liked it colder. They agreed low tide was best. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 08/14/2012 : 17:25:51
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| "...not deja vu or a parallel world. Not dead..." he said, "...but new." She guards the country grave patiently. When others come by she slips into the trees and the shelter of his black umbrella. |
Edited by - Ailinn on 12/08/2012 17:23:22 |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 08/17/2012 : 17:53:17
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| Under the city the Whispering Gallery whispered go. Leave the terminal's four-sided clock for the train on time on Track 22. Don't grind your teeth or bite your fingernails crossing the country. Hold your breath to the other side where the first thing you paint will be light. An empty window filling with sunshine. A pastel courtyard. A postcard view. A pyramid of limes on a table. A life preserver floating in an aquamarine pool. In a few hours or years he'll arive on time too. |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2819 Posts |
Posted - 08/18/2012 : 11:42:22
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REV BUCKMAN DISCUSSES CARMELITA, HIS HORSE AND SECRET PLACES...
Horse's Moon
At twilight
We rode away from the setting sun
Directly into the full moon.
I could see the reflection of
My horse's face in it and
Saw the shadow of sadness
That she had come to realize
I could never love her completely...
It never affected her work.
My horse has left me now
As I knew she would
Because I did not love her enough
Which is why I did not love her enough
Which is why she left.
I am left with just me and my two legs
It may be enough for others
But not for me. Not yet.
The horse came back to me tonite.
Came from behind, nudging me
Head down, pawing the ground.
I said, Baby girl,
The secrets we keep from each other
Are the same ones we keep from ourselves;
Don't take it personally, OK?
An hour after the horse came back
I could hear Carmelita coming up the stairs to my room.
I said that I had gotten so tired of not hearing a voice that
I had been talking to myself for three days.
I said that I had decided that every poet is a warrior and
Every warrior a poet.
And she shook out her black hair
And looked at me with black eyes
that I would have died to look into
Just once and said...
Shuttup, Preacher; Lie down and please,
Just shut up.
I smelled the vanilla
Before I felt her touch.
She had come to me in the darkened room
While I lay alone thinking of a new poem.
As Carmelita silently settled on top of me, she said
Feels like home, eh, Preacher?
Another poem lost forever to a woman.
As soon as I came home tonite
I knew I was alone.
Both she and the horse were gone.
Carmelita had left nothing
But the vanilla scent and a note:
Preacher, we have gone to find
Where you hid the moon,
Don't wait up...
Pity, I so loved watching her leave.
Carmelita has left me so much
You would think I would get used to it.
All I have left of her this time
Is the stain of her coffee cup on the table.
It's getting to the point that when
I see her standing in my door
I think that she is leaving me
Walking backwards.
If you were me it would make sense.
They stopped at the river.
She knew it was where I hid the moon...
The horse skittered, she danced,
oh, how Carmelita loved when a horse danced.
And
She loved when she found one of my secret places.
So many places still to find,,,,
She has yet to find where I hid the sun..
Audio: http://youtu.be/NVOIeikPyH4
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Becka
Sitter
95 Posts |
Posted - 08/22/2012 : 18:44:17
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| This WHOLE page is full of goodies.... |
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Becka
Sitter
95 Posts |
Posted - 08/22/2012 : 18:49:39
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And, then it put me at the top of the next page.....
I was referring to the previous page...
LOL |
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The Nightly Vigil