| Author |
 Topic  |
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
 Posted - 02/20/2014 : 20:40:00
|
| San Elijo. There's a certain resolve in this painting. The spit of land he placed in the center of the canvas with a stroke of bent water where the lagoon turns back under the bridge. The colors mostly muted blues except for the Railroad Crossing sign and smear of black in one corner. The black of plus-tide nights when he pulled up on the porous sandstone strip (too narrow to turn around so he had to back his way out) and cut the lights. DANGER - SLIDE AREA - PARKING PROHIBITED. The dark water rising. He'd light a cigarette and tell her to roll down the window. She'd grip the car door handle and stare down the track until the train roared across the trestle. The car would rock back and forth loosening fistfuls of stones into the water. He said she cried out when the train went by. |
 |
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 02/20/2014 : 20:43:02
|
| In the next painting she's laughing with the water can in her hand. Enamel blue and sturdy. Too heavy to carry full. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 02/20/2014 : 20:45:44
|
| Both stubborn and born to it, the pixels were adding up. A steep incense rising. Fever stories. Flash paper. Consequence on every page. |
|
|
|
BarbraG
Windchimer
1824 Posts |
Posted - 02/22/2014 : 19:29:08
|
| She had wrecked the car. He would never believe that she hadn't done it on purpose. He thought she did everything on purpose. She only knew one thing for sure. She would rather go home and face the consequences, instead of having him lurking behind every tree the next day, and in the days to come. There was just one thing. She couldn't remember if the gun was loaded or not. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 02/23/2014 : 17:51:45
|
| That winter they lived inside their coats in a city so steep there were stairs built into the sidewalks. A wet wind off the Bay lifted the curtains away from the sill and rattled the window panes. Rarely a morning without three feet of fog on the floor. They kept their shoes on a shelf stuffed with newspaper, and a bucket of charcoal behind a closed closet door. There were coffee kiosks on every corner and a tight-wired harp-like bridge. Salt mist on the finials of their high iron bed where his hair burned a hole through the pillow. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 02/26/2014 : 18:15:20
|
-for Mick.
I was thirteen and living in the Commodore Hotel above Grand Central. The big three were Ford, Conover, and Powers. I worked for Conover. My picture on the cover of magazines. Christmas issue Peter Pan collar with halo over my head. Holding a book of carols with my mouth in a little O. I'd pass the news stand and see that girl and imagine her house in the country and big noisy family. I named her older brother Ted after a photographer at Pagano Studios who kept a fishbowl full of candy bars. My irritating sister was Monique whose mother was always on set lunging with a can of Aqua Net. Her cloud of flammable vapor in a room full of Klieg lights. Star was the makeup lady who drew on my face. MaXFactor Pan Stick her camouflage of choice. Star kept a "secret weapon" hidden in her smock pocket. A greasepaint called Clown White that made your eyes camera-bright. Star wore bangle bracelets and smoked Parliament cigarettes. She had a boyfriend who worked in the Terminal and a daughter who played cello at Julliard. I was a good model. I could stay still in an awkward position for a very long time. "Don't sweat, don't scratch, don't sneeze." Take your chit to the pay window and get it in cash. Clean up and hit Horn and Hardart...
He loved this story. Many versions. "I can see it..." he'd say, and start with his twenty questions. Where I was born wasn't the first question he asked me. "Manhattan," I said. "Oh, Lord," he said, "OH, LORD!" Days gone by. Smell of Pond's Cold Cream... Scent like a photograph. |
Edited by - Ailinn on 02/26/2014 20:53:32 |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 03/02/2014 : 14:32:42
|
Friday night at Sunrise Retirement Home.
Lu- "...surely them pearly gates will be open for me 'cause the life I endured made me worthy. We were married right outta High School, my Tommy and me. Rented a railroad flat in a tenement his aunt and uncle owned. Aunt by blood, and uncle by squirrely. We had the top floor above them and I told Tommy they probably held a glass to the ceiling when the lights went out. They kept fish and parakeets that died right away. The birds went out in shoe boxes. My in-laws kept fish too. The bowl so cloudy I never saw fish 'til the day I tapped on the glass with my new engagement ring. I worked in his folks hardware store a dozen years. I wanted to wallpaper my kitchen and was flippin' through the big books when Tommy's Ma says, "Pick from the barrel, Lucille." A huge wooden barrel with off-print seconds. Twenty-five cents a roll. Let them take it outta my wages, I told Tommy, I want what I want. But Tommy said they were offerin' the barrel for free and I couldn't offend them. We were married forty-one years when he passed in '98. I realized how angry I was when I stopped going to sleep in his tee shirts."
Yoli- "He had a limp. He was easy to see coming to me." She's speaking of a time in another country where men worked on site all week long and were let off half-day Saturdays. How she would pick him up in the truck and they'd drive the hour home to share bolillos and bowls of pozole. "Later we drink Antonio's salty wine and have a bath with candles."
Lucille and Yolanda. Two women in felt slippers in the Day Room splitting buttermilk bars from Cove Bakery.
*
One of Mick's favorite meals was grilled cheese sandwiches and Campbell's Tomato soup. The last supper we had in San Diego when Mick, Susie, and Laura were on their way to Texas. "Newbury Gourmet," Mick called it. Cameron said the blessing. He was six, and at the end he added "...and please, God, take that thing out of Uncle Mickey's nose." "Amen," Mick said. He was an inventive cook with daring kitchen instincts. Off-the-wall combinations that worked. He tweaked my Thanksgiving menu many years. I said, Mick, you could be a great chef. "I know," he said, "hahaha."
|
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 03/12/2014 : 21:38:14
|
| On the new way to Ensenada. Always a guy in a black leather vest with a carbine slung over his shoulder. Bandolier bullets. Black Talon ammo. All those blue nights slow dances trip-wired. |
|
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2818 Posts |
Posted - 03/27/2014 : 03:01:39
|
For Ailinn
Effortlessly she paints.
Moonbeams from other planets.
Sounds from a future passed.
Colors remembered from dreams.
Stories from astral travels.
Windchimes with no breeze.
A taste not recognized, but pleasing.
All things considered...
Rev Buckman ~*~ |
Edited by - buckman on 03/27/2014 03:01:59 |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 03/27/2014 : 20:16:21
|
| Thank you, Reverend B, my dear friend and traveling brother for more than a decade. I miss you and hope you are well. Love from the other side. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 03/27/2014 : 20:25:22
|
| Hide-and-seek house in the Valle de Guadalupe at the end of an unpaved road. A house with no right angles. Arches and alcoves. A bygone shrine with faded paper flowers. God's Eyes bright on the beams and three tall Virgin votives in the window. Wavery glass makes a double image looking out and looking in. She watches him digging post holes beside his equally able twin. Their movements indivisibly efficient. She sits on the porch step with her arms wrapped around her knees when he washes up for supper. The well is deep and the water he flings from his fingertips is icy cold. Later he pulls quilts from the bed to spread on the metal glider. A short run of moonlight paling the vineyard and then the astonishing stars. |
|
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2818 Posts |
Posted - 03/28/2014 : 16:43:10
|
BUT
Sometimes we live like the world is
always going to be black and white
But,
then we age and we spend
most of our time living in the grays.
We tread those center lines,
walk the razor's edge and
Do our best just to get through the days.
It wasn't but a few years ago when
Just a glimmer would draw me to a flame
But, now these days even a raging fire doesn't
Get me close to even watching the game.
But,
There isn't a name for it
And there's no one to blame for it,
It's just time going by all the same.
If I could reach out and grab it
And just stop the tick of it
Maybe then I could remember my name.
They say we need faith and hope to get by,
But
It's hard
When deep down you can't forgive yourself a thing
You always thought there was plenty of time
Before you had to climb the stairs to that final fling.
But,
Don't the nights get so cold
And the news gets so old
And nothing ever seems to rhyme
If I could reach out and grab it
And just stop the noise of it
Maybe I could remember the time.
But,
There isn't a name for it
And there's no one to blame for it,
It's just time going by all the same.
If I could reach out and grab it
And just stop the tick of it
Maybe then I could remember my name.
Rev Buckman - http://youtu.be/_OLTJgtzclQ |
|
|
|
Jonmark
Windchimer
USA
1791 Posts |
Posted - 04/05/2014 : 18:45:28
|
"But,
There isn't a name for it
And there's no one to blame for it,
It's just time going by all the same.
If I could reach out and grab it
And just stop the tick of it
Maybe then I could remember my name."
Amen, Rev.
So... are you ever going to get your gifted sorry ass to a gathering?
We're dropping like flies doncha know... |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 04/06/2014 : 09:07:17
|
| In a slanted rain they rushed up the hill with their collars pulled up tight under their chins. When they reached the high-step house he invented suddenly the sun broke through. All that falling-down Shangrila light. "...roof of rainbows..." he said, "...count on weather to do its job." |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 04/09/2014 : 09:56:20
|
| It's a story of rental cars lost in airport garages. Glass-edged freeways and the green arches of Eden-like trees. Abalone light on late afternoon Café tables. Clouds caught in the spokes of an alphabet bridge. |
|
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2818 Posts |
Posted - 04/10/2014 : 17:00:55
|
There's a story or two he could tell you
But he'll never get the time
He woke up late one morning
And the years had robbed him blind.
The shame and regret caught up with him
Like a Hellhound on his trail,
When she slammed the door, the sound he heard
Was the pounding of that last nail.
His parents always taught him
Walk tall, face life like a man
But
The winds of change blew one time too many
Life crumbled in his hands.
There's a story or two she could tell you
But he never gave her the chance
She woke up early one morning
And found they were dancing a different dance.
Lies and broken promises stole her heart
Like a thief that came in the night
She woke up that same morning
Across the fields she saw the light.
Her parents always taught her
Stand tall and love your man
But
The winds of change blew one time too many
Life crumbled in her hands
There's a story or two they could tell you
About pride and lies and years
They woke up one morning in different beds
Drowning in the same damn tears.
Lies and broken promises stole their hearts
Like a thief that came in the night
They woke up late one morning
Different paths and a different light.
Their parents always taught them
Stand tall, enjoy the dance
But
The winds of change blew one time too many
Life crumbled in their hands.
Hank Beukema Copyright revbuckmanmusic 2014
http://youtu.be/0qMcjpzkfu4 |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 04/16/2014 : 11:29:25
|
| He's at the wheel off the holy coastline on a Winslow Homer sea. Storm-smudged eyes and journey-driven profile. Determined to bring the ship in. His fate-burdened shoulders. His melancholy right eye when his mouth settles into that bereft expression. She's in a white-washed room in a candlelit corner at the ocean end of town. A pastel courtyard. A postcard view. A life preserver floating in an aquamarine pool. "...so many forevers..." he said. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 04/19/2014 : 11:40:48
|
| She said, "Love, love is a feeling with fear in it." He said, "I'm holding your heart out of harm's way." Contagious candles behind shuttered windows. Litany of tides to enchant them. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 04/23/2014 : 22:26:29
|
| In the Valle de Guadalupe soot-smudged votives on the sill. A frayed carpet with a worn-away pattern where the matador prayed pacing in circles before entering the ring. Paper flowers on a San Pedro Regalado shrine abandoned a decade ago. In a dark corner of the old wardrobe they found the bullfighter's pink stockings and soft leather shoes. They did not disturb them. Surprised the shoes were so small. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 04/24/2014 : 18:02:25
|
Dark clocks and empty closets waiting for his black umbrella and her waterlogged bell-tied shoes. Ghosts waiting in the foyer. Silver dollar sandwiches. Typhoo tea. Cups translucent as their cheekbones now that they're free.
|
|
|
|
Topic |
|
|
The Nightly Vigil