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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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