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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
 Posted - 09/22/2012 : 17:08:36
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| Memory in a tarnished mirror. A Thanksgiving at 7-Eleven he turned into art. Up into the hills. Sunset off Sunset. Far-away lights of a city. His voice waiting for morning. His dawn-bright eyes open wide blue. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
Posted - 09/23/2012 : 18:22:05
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| The first day of principal photography he shoots her through the veil. Tiny scrap of hat he insists on. He places a lit cigarette between her long fingers. Positions her at the critical edge. The honey-combed canyon conspires with the VFX crew's raging inferno. He signals the cameraman. Knows what he wants in and out of each frame. Long-take sympathetic bird's-eye view. Slow track to broken sky in her eye. Soft focus on first flicker of fright. Close-up on sparks climbing ladders of smoke. Dolly zoom on her open-mouth recognition. She's terrified of heights. He knows this before he begins. Before he casts her in the role. Before he puts his arms around her. |
Edited by - Ailinn on 04/06/2014 14:25:05 |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
Posted - 09/23/2012 : 18:31:49
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The past is never dead.
It's not even past.
-William Faulkner |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2825 Posts |
Posted - 09/23/2012 : 19:37:49
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I sit in the dark
At a table in the back
Of the saloon
Holding court.
I told him he should have killed me
The first time he saw me,
I told him he would never win,
I told him that despite my whiskey
And the women that
My heart was pure and I would
Always be stronger than him.
He laughed and said
Maybe so Preacher
Maybe so
And turned and walked out.
I took the gun that I'd been holding
Under the table and laid it down and
Picked up the glass of whiskey.
I listen to the sound of the horses stirring
And the dust blowing down the street.
The night is turning cold.....
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
Posted - 09/24/2012 : 19:35:27
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| His voice would drift across the pillow inventing perils where he could rescue her. |
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Becka
Sitter
95 Posts |
Posted - 09/29/2012 : 09:08:55
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"Memory in a tarnished mirror"
Beautiful, Ailinn....
How do I manage to pick just the perfect time to post so that what little bit I say, ends up at the top of the page? and makes very little sense?
I will say this.
CELEBRATE Mickey today, Porch!
With many Sweet Memories...
x
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Edited by - Becka on 09/29/2012 09:15:52 |
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Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2825 Posts |
Posted - 09/30/2012 : 12:45:35
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Love it. First thing you sent me I think.
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
Posted - 09/30/2012 : 17:52:31
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| Thank you, Becka. Wish I lived close enough to enjoy one of your House Concerts. Maybe someday I'll jump on a plane. |
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San Diego
Swinger
509 Posts |
Posted - 09/30/2012 : 18:01:24
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| Doug, I loved this the first time I read and printed it. Mick was faith and family and loyalty to friends. He was mischief and magic with a peppery grin and cracked in half laugh that made you believe all was as it should be. Thanks for putting this up again. |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2825 Posts |
Posted - 10/01/2012 : 20:16:14
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Before this rain it had been
dry for months.
The music man had said it
looked like rain.
I took it on faith and used
the last of the water to
clean the horse's dusty nostrils.
And then it came...
First the music and
then the rain.
Healing.
Cleansing.
Saving...
Rev B
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Edited by - buckman on 10/02/2012 05:57:18 |
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Joe Z
Windchimer
USA
1819 Posts |
Posted - 10/03/2012 : 06:45:09
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A Note to Generation “V”
Today’s virtual generation demands bandwidth for texting and tweeting and google-ing. But God has all the real bandwidth. He totally gets us. And because we exist in His image (read reflection), we have the capacity to hear Him. The iGod app is standard issue.
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
Posted - 10/07/2012 : 18:08:17
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| Drop through the clouds where below the sea is gaining. Wake up on the red-eye when the wheels touch down. When the pilot's voice announces arrival a world away from way back then when. Walk out into a city ephemeral before sunrise. Trade one life for another. |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2825 Posts |
Posted - 10/19/2012 : 19:03:23
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THE FLOOR OF HEAVEN
You thought I was the one who could save you
Even after I lost my mind
These castle walls won't hold the demons back
The clock says it's closing time.
These days I fly so up and down
The poles get further apart
This old planet's spun a lot of miles
Too much beating for one little heart
My cravings got the better of me just
As your walls came down
The time to leave has passed and gone
I just can't find my way out of this town
The floor of Heaven must be leaking
Cause the rain's started pouring in
It seems that cross was such a price to pay
for just a few billion of our sins.
What I can't control I can't accept
And serenity's a place I can't find
Making amends is a tiring chore and
It's driven me out of my mind.
These days I fly so up and down
The poles get further apart
This old planet's spun a lot of miles
Too much beating for one little heart
The floor of Heaven must be leaking
Cause the rain's started pouring in
It seems that cross was such a price to pay
for just a few billion of our sins.
Hank Beukema Copyright revbuckmanmusic 2012
http://youtu.be/OO0Q7hWTHNY
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2197 Posts |
Posted - 11/04/2012 : 16:14:10
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-"The first day..." he says, "that's what this is." She says, "Go ahead, preach to me." Somewhere in the loft of stainless steel sky the bridge is graining out in the distance. A slow dissolve.
-Lens magic. Jump-cuts and close-ups. Unreported tremors in the tectonic plates. Satellites going up behind the date palms. No barricade on the 10% grade where rocks are skittering across the S curves.
-Soon they're sitting on suitcases with their knees knocking up against each others. A tight flight up and over the harsh Santa Rosas. Land in sand or in citrus groves. "Leap of Faith..." he says, telling a story heroically true.
-Fire season. Glitter-bright air. A desert white light like ground zero. Scrim of grit on the eucalyptus.
-His Sunday eyes in Eden where bells are pulling the sky apart. Hold the hand of the one who leads you across the dirt yard. Raise your chin. Refuse the blindfold. |
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Craig
Firefly
Kyrgyzstan
3793 Posts |
Posted - 11/08/2012 : 20:36:58
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Few understand. Few are able to see...
You
Me
A few others...
Do they really understand? Do they even know?
I question...
Craig |
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Joe Z
Windchimer
USA
1819 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2012 : 06:32:57
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| Gonna turn this High Way into 40 miles of mud... |
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San Diego
Swinger
509 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2012 : 15:12:22
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| I was told to report to Monsignor before Christmas. A large fireplace-heated living room crowded with Advent wreaths. It smelled like a sleepy forest. There was hot chocolate in a teapot he nodded to. "Will you pour," he said, "two cups." The pot was as heavy as the cups were light. I sat in a very grand chair with my feet not reaching the floor. I had polished my shoes that morning and he commented on them. He was a Navy Chaplin before he became Monsignor. He asked me why I ran away so often and I told him I needed to. He sipped his cocoa reflectively and didn't say a word. Finally he asked me if I'd like to help Sister Catherine put candles in the wreaths. I thought then...if I were a sailor I'd like him to be on my ship. |
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Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
Posted - 11/12/2012 : 13:10:50
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NOT ONE OF US PAST SIXTY
The leaves that just last Saturday
Were flames against the sky
Are dead and dance across the lawn
Stirred up by some guy
Who’s got one of those blowers
That wakes me from my sleep
He’s gathering the fallen leaves
A wet and yellow heap
And just a few last flames remain
Up on the highest bough
Not one of us past sixty
Takes a day for granted now
The oaks and elms and maples
That grace this coastal town
Were stripped bare by a Sunday wind
That brought their colors down
The sky has broken open
And the air is growing cold
Winter spares no mercy
For the aging and the old
A cold wind for a witness
When we take our final bow
Not one of us past sixty
Takes a day for granted now
The café where we used to meet
Has changed its ownership
They cater to a younger crowd
And we're no longer hip
I thought I knew what coffee was
Hell, I used to know a lot
I don’t recognize these stations
And I miss my train of thought
The sun is riding low, it burns
A hole right through my brow
Not one of us past sixty
Takes a day for granted now
Most of my family’s dead and gone
My son’s in New Orleans
A few old friends are at loose ends
I’m caught in the betweens
All the dead are in me still
It’s true, I carry them
One last red and rebel leaf
Clinging by a stem
The wind is blowing through me
It shakes the highest bough
Not one of us past sixty
Takes a day for granted now
DL |
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Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
Posted - 11/15/2012 : 00:07:46
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HAVING THE HAVING
for Gianna
I tie knots in the strings of my spirit
to remember. They are not pictures
of what was. Not accounts of dusk
amid the olive trees and that odor.
The walking back was the arriving.
For that there are three knots
and a space and another two
close together. They do not imitate
the inside of her body, nor her clean
mouth. They cannot describe, but they
can prevent remembering it wrong.
The knots recall. The knots
are blazons marking the trail
back to what we own and imperfectly
forget. Back to a bell ringing
far off, and the sweet summer darkening.
All but a little of it blurs and leaks
away, but that little is most of it,
even damaged. Two more knots
and then just straight string.
Jack Gilbert |
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The Nightly Vigil