| Author |
 Topic  |
|
|
BarbraG
Windchimer
1824 Posts |
 Posted - 05/02/2013 : 21:27:36
|
Dear Buckman,
PLEASE tell me I can copy the last poem that you wrote here, for my daughter ... She lost her husband of almost 20 years to cancer in October 2011 .. He was 41, and had just made Major in the Air Force. She is still struggling.
Email me if you will.
This was wonderful.
BarbraG |
 |
|
|
Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
Posted - 05/03/2013 : 23:10:11
|
A reading from the May 2nd edition of my radio show,
a response, of sorts, to learning of the death of Gipp Forster,
the man who gave me my first gig way back in 1968...
Magic Nights
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mHcqlzV5LQc
|
|
|
|
Ginny G.
Windchimer
USA
1810 Posts |
Posted - 05/07/2013 : 13:00:58
|
I can't stand it anymore. What is the "seven minute rule?"
--- Curious George |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 05/14/2013 : 09:10:22
|
In the painting, a man is lifting a strand of hair from a woman's cheek in a traceless white-washed room. Her cheek glistens. It may be tear-wet, or just a brush stroke of light on the bone. In the background there are three hourglasses on a table. In one, the grains stand out. In two they're blurred. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 05/21/2013 : 21:51:40
|
| "What do you think of birds, Ro? Do they have souls? Fish?... This turkey sandwich?... This pen?..." "Surely that pen does, Mick." His gravelly laugh then. A dangerous editor. A permanent cut. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 05/24/2013 : 18:21:16
|
"It just happens to happen that way." MSN
|
|
|
|
Craig
Firefly
Kyrgyzstan
3793 Posts |
Posted - 05/26/2013 : 18:40:45
|
Although now, just a faint intermittent flicker at times, the ember still glows... I anxiously await the spontaneous flame, which at times seems will never present itself...but I know it is capable, and there.
|
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 05/26/2013 : 21:23:42
|
| "Flame, not sparkle." |
|
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2819 Posts |
Posted - 06/02/2013 : 04:57:06
|
Saturday, November 18, 2000 12:37 AM
An exchange of words between friends
The horses stir,uneasy...I creep into the camp as a cat walks on grass...I
take back what is mine and avenge the stealing of my soul...I have no sense
of guilt...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The men around the campfire eye me warily,but none dare move.They know
me,and what I have lost,and what I have lost makes me dangerous.As I leave,I
run their horses off with a slap, leaving them powerless in the freezing
wilderness...and still,I feel no guilt..
Illiance and Grania stared at me as I rode in...When I told them of the
campsite and Our victory they shed quiet tears for those who had not made
it...The river runs,the moon is high and clear and it is oh,so bitter
cold...But,there is one more hand to be dealt before we rest...I will never
feel the guilt....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He looked as tall as a redwood to me,silhouetted against the moonlight as he
was...There can be no fear,no guilt,no backing down...Too many have given
too much to make this moment possible...Eyes appear in every window;no one
wants to miss the circus,do they?Well,they will be surprised when the smoke
clears,and so will he...If justice be for me,who can be against me? The
moment has come that will define my life forever...I step into the
street...
The tension builds with every passing second...Most of his face is covered
by the brim of his wide hat...His first words are drowned out as the wind
picks up...Again he attempts to speak..."Drop the Chalupa",he yells,and
tilts his head back and roars with the laugh of a man with no cares..."I
arrived before him and you both,and was ready first,"he said..."He is in the
Devil's presence where he belongs.It is finished,my friend,there are no more
debts to pay..."As I looked at him, I could see that his side was
bleeding...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
HELP ME SON...WILL YOU KINDLY HELP ME TO MY FEET
A GENTLEMAN IS WAITING IN THE STREET
THE SUN IS RISING
LISTEN BOY...CAN YOU HEAR THE HOUNDS OF HELL
THEY ARE WAITING AT MY GATES THEY WAIL
THE SUN IS RISING
THROUGH THE YEARS I HAVE BEEN SHOT RIGHT TO THE BONE I HAVE BEEN CUT AND
SHOT RIGHT TO THE BONE I AM DEATHLY TIRED AND ALL ALONE
HELP ME SON...WILL YOU KINDLY HELP ME TO MY FEET
THE SUN IS RISING
~*~
IT IS OVER NOW..
PICK UP HIS GUN AND WALK ME TO MY HORSE
NO...LEAVE THE BASTARD LYING THERE
LIKE SOME HOG TIED CRYIN' DYIN'STEER
BUT REMEMBER BOY...HE WILL LIVE TO KILL ANOTHER DAY
NEVER TURN YOUR BACK ON HIM AND SAY
IT IS DONE
HELP ME SON
|
Edited by - buckman on 06/02/2013 04:58:16 |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 06/16/2013 : 21:02:14
|
| The old smells of turp and linseed oil. The uncovered easel in the corner. The woman in the painting in a white wicker chair on a bougainvillea-framed balcony. Her canted hip, her sun-tanned legs tucked under. Her hands doing different things each time he paints the picture. How many times does the man appear in the painting? Leaning against the balcony rail, hazy and out-of-focus. I could be that woman. So composed. Not swamped with tide-rising emotion. And the man in the background, omnipresent... I could be that woman if you were that man. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 06/22/2013 : 18:27:19
|
On hot days they'd walk down to the salt-heavy harbor. Hallowed heat clinging to the Virgin's stall. Guadalupes in plaster with sea glass crowns. Crosses of leather and hammered tin. The "relic" vendor asleep under her umbrella. A saucer of pickled carrots beside her cloudy cash drawer. Four baby teeth in a stoppered bottle. A stickpin of polished bone...
"...jus' means we're here..." he said. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 06/22/2013 : 18:32:11
|
| ...back at Miguel's things are different now. The worn counter gone. The duck-taped booths replaced with those climb-up tables you hate. No proprietary condiment caddies or roll of paper towel. Menu with the flags of two countries unfurled on a laminated cover. I drove straight through this year. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 06/28/2013 : 20:51:05
|
Asleep in the car in the dream-riddled darkness they're caught in the water story. Stormy weather. Nimbostratus. Two souls in the lifeboat waving goodbye. |
|
|
|
Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
Posted - 06/30/2013 : 09:41:16
|
EAST OF EUGENE
The rhythm of the wipers
Just east of Eugene
Highway sign for Springfield
White letters on the green
The great Willamette River
About to overflow
Drive a little faster, Billy
This highway’s gonna go
We’ll be drowning in that river
And no one’s gonna know
Billy, you up for some grub?
Let’s stop in Albany
About ready for a clubhouse
A cup of strong black tea
We’ll both be feeling better
Once we get a meal
Afterwards you catch a wink
I’ll take over the wheel
Get us into Portland safe
Find a cheap motel
It’s gonna work out perfect
Make Seattle Sunday noon
Ballgame starts at one o’clock
The Yankees are in town
Look up my friend, Cyndi
If the phonebook’s got her name
Call and say we’ll pay her way
If she wants to see the game
I did her show on the radio
Last time that I came
Before you take a little kip
Dig out that tape to play
The demos from the Graveyard
We made on Good Friday
Hey, Billy, what do you think
Ol’ Corry’s doing now?
Is his front door still guarded
By that donkey and that cow?
Is that Trix there in the background?
Still sounds good, you know
That’s how we always did it
Drive and drive and drive
Until the highway’s all there is
And we’re the only ones alive
Drive as far as time allows
Refill the tank with gas
Overtake the semis
Let the sports cars pass
Try not to let the state patrol
Sneak up on our ass
The rhythm of the wipers
Rain still pourin’ down
Bill asleep in the tilted seat
As we sail through Salem town
I’m listening to that long one
About the orphan, Bill McClynn
Look forward to that ballgame
See that southpaw pitch again
He barely has a fastball
But all he does is win
God that rain is something
Look out! What was that?
Could’ve been a squirrel, Bill
Might have been a cat
Sorry that I woke ya, pal
I was entering the curve
Almost left the mother road
Was dangerous to swerve
Could’ve run him over
Guess I didn’t have the nerve
The rhythm of the wipers
Just east of Eugene
Highway sign for Springfield
Ghost letters on the green
Years later I remember
That midnight highway sign
It came clear to me in memory
Last September 29
A spirit went out of the world
Just east of Eugene
DL |
|
|
|
BarbraG
Windchimer
1824 Posts |
Posted - 07/06/2013 : 01:00:10
|
There is no going forward now, and there surely is no going back. It's a terrible thing to know that, and know it to be the truth. The snow is cold. The fire is hot, burning. There's just one thing. They are not close to each other. So, it really doesn't matter. The snow can blow and the fire can burn, hundreds of miles apart and never be able to do anyone any good. The thought of freezing to death is almost equal to the thought of burning. The end is the same. If help comes before morning, life could win and death could lose. But, I'll need a fast horse. I have to make sure I get back on the road to where I was going, and the irony of that is .. it isn't far away. I lost my dog yesterday. He knew the way. I don't think I'm going to make it. I'm getting very sleepy. I need a fast horse .. It feels like warm hands are touching my face,
trying to warm me and get me up on my feet. The aroma of perfume washes all over me, and it's the sweetest thing I have ever known. It has to be an angel, come to take me home. I hear the sound of angel's wings .. or, maybe .. I am freezing. I know it. Sleep is coming. I know it. ........ |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 07/30/2013 : 18:43:12
|
| He disliked having his photograph taken so she focused on the scenery around them. Outline of leaves on the trees. Framework of smoke and of willow. Pepper and palm. Silver dollar eucalyptus whispering across Mission court yards. Sharp or aromatic. Variegated green. Benches under shady trees. Flowers in a vase on a table. Something beautiful to look at. "Tell me a secret," he said one early seabright morning, "...something no one else knows." Watery edge of North America. Glass beads with their tiny flasks of light burning color onto the walls. |
|
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2819 Posts |
Posted - 08/02/2013 : 22:13:18
|
There's a certain sound a heart makes
When it starts to break apart
Some say it happens little by little
Some say it's there from the start
The Indians take their fables
and make them into a special tea
It takes their eyes inside themselves
But it blinds them when they see.
The only thing I wanted to learn
Was to enjoy the passing of time.
It turns out while it was passing
I was learning to lose my mind
They stood in a circle around a fire
Jumping in and out of the sparks
The leader was a large man
Painted and very dark
He called me by my rightful name
and ordered me into the arc
The magic words were spoken
Then everything went dark
There's a certain sound a heart makes
When in starts to break apart
It ends up roaring in your ears
But it's quiet at the start
Like a freight train moving slowly
Building speed along the way
You find yourself alone again
With nothing left to say
There's a moment when a heart breaks
You can almost mark the time
It happens when it comes to you
That there's no reason left to rhyme
When there's no way left to make it work
No magic that's not been tried
When a soul and body go separate ways
Nobody knowing why.
There's a certain sound a heart makes
When it starts to break apart
Some say it happens little by little
Some say it's there from the start
http://youtu.be/LF_sALAMPoM
|
|
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2819 Posts |
Posted - 08/04/2013 : 11:46:16
|
I've been walking in the shadows so long
My eyes have completely adjusted.
I see things in the dark that are
long past wanted, tossed away and rusted.
One of the things God gave us
was an indeterminate amount of time.
Did we have too little, did we have too much
It all depends on the paths we've walked
And the songs we've found that rhymed
The sunny days and the restless nights
Are never up to us
Those events are left to chance
Like fairy tales and dust.
Did the angels come to sing you a song
Did the demons come out to play
Were you the winner of the battle
Or were you the one that was slain?
We struggle and strain, we run through the rain
All for a piece of the pie
When all we ever really wanted
Was someone to see through our eyes.
The path to my future was going so well
Until it went through the path of my past
The friends and memories grow hazy
As if they don't want to last.
Decisions are made and some choices are wrong
But some never make it that far
Sometimes it's fate and the Gods do the choosing
And they're the ones that tear at the heart.
I've been walking in the shadows so long
My eyes have completely adjusted.
I see things in the dark that are
Long past wanted, tossed away and rusted.
Rev Buckman http://youtu.be/PryGEIQu65s
|
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 08/04/2013 : 17:42:50
|
I used to ride my bicycle all over town. That's how I got in trouble. Watching the hang gliders sail off the cliffs and lift into the crowded blue. "...sky full of wings," he said, suddenly beside me. He dropped a fistful of stones in the bucket. Stones I was collecting to level the sundial in the courtyard. "True North..." he said. And something about sun time versus clock time. As if they were unidentical twins...
It's Sunday morning with the photographs I found last night propped up against the sugar bowl. Not just the heart of the past, but the breath of it. Insistent. The myth in the trunk under quilts growing stronger year after year. Pentimento of ten thousand days. What flew out of the sky those decades. His quicksilver mind. His DNA on all the pages.
|
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 08/11/2013 : 19:27:12
|
| It was August. Hot blooms in extravagant gardens. Blinking lizards randomly quick under the pepper trees. His bold strokes set down when the easel was up and the fine brushes from Spain seduced him. Misty morning in the painting. A man and a woman at a watery edge. Liquid shoulders touching. Layered clouds. Sky on sky. Some daystars showing through. |
|
|
|
Topic |
|
|
The Nightly Vigil