| Author |
 Topic  |
|
|
Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
 Posted - 11/11/2005 : 22:49:27
|
The Abnormal Is Not Courage
The Poles rode out from Warsaw against the German
Tanks on horses. Rode knowing, in sunlight, with sabers,
A magnitude of beauty that allows me no peace.
And yet this poem would lessen that day. Question
The bravery. Say it's not courage. Call it a passion.
Would say courage isn't that. Not at its best.
It was impossible, and with form. They rode in sunlight,
Were mangled. But I say courage is not the abnormal.
Not the marvelous act. Not Macbeth with fine speeches.
The worthless can manage in public, or for the moment.
It is too near the whore's heart: the bounty of impulse,
And the failure to sustain even small kindness.
Not the marvelous act, but the evident conclusion of being.
Not strangeness, but a leap forward of the same quality.
Accomplishment. The even loyalty. But fresh.
Not the Prodigal Son, nor Faustus. But Penelope.
The thing steady and clear. Then the crescendo.
The real form. The culmination. And the exceeding.
Not the surprise. The amazed understanding. The marriage,
Not the month's rapture. Not the exception. The beauty
That is of many days. Steady and clear.
It is the normal excellence, of long accomplishment
Jack Gilbert
|
Edited by - Doug L on 11/11/2005 22:50:26 |
 |
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2825 Posts |
Posted - 11/12/2005 : 13:01:32
|
Lang..... You and Roison are such a treasure.... oh my God.....
Thank you, Newbury for bringing these people into my life..... There is not enuf gold to pay Mick for what his songs and meeting you folks has meant to me....
OK, back to your real lives, Knuckleheads.... Hank
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
|
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2196 Posts |
Posted - 11/12/2005 : 18:18:30
|
| Through veiled green mesquite trees she talks with her hands. He listens with his heart when she trips over clouds walking backwards. "One life many times," he tells her teaching her to fly. The future in his eyes when he takes her into the sky. How his blue hair burns the pillow. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2196 Posts |
Posted - 11/13/2005 : 18:52:32
|
| Standard time. The kettles tune. Steaming late Fall's kitchen window blind. "Okay," she says. "This is how the heart works," he says. Laughing in a coastal town where she chooses mangos and avocados under a green and white striped awning. Patting the fat tomatoes. Still afternoon sun-warmed. She has bells on her shoes. Tied with invisible fish line. The moon of memory burns. The nights lay down together. The perpetual stars spin in their fatal insomnia. "Flame. Not sparkle," he says. Again. |
|
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2825 Posts |
Posted - 11/15/2005 : 21:31:31
|
The horse stopped at the river...
She knew it was where I hid the moon...
She skittered,
she danced,
oh, how I loved when a horse danced...
She loved when she found
My secret place...
There were so many places that she
Had never found thet I
Could never tell her...
If I told her
I would have to leave her...
So many places yet to find,,,,
She has yet to find the sun....
Rev Buckman
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
|
|
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2825 Posts |
Posted - 11/16/2005 : 07:58:28
|
There are thoughts which are prayers.
There are
moments when,
whatever the posture of the body,
the soul is on its knees.
--Victor Hugo |
|
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2825 Posts |
Posted - 11/16/2005 : 08:59:07
|
Mom and Dad took me to the
Old Madison Square Garden in 1959
To see the Roy Roger's Rodeo...
The Sons of the Pioneers sat right
In front of us
Tall on their horses and sang
Cool Water and the horses never moved...
When they sang Tumbling Tumbleweeds
The horses danced sideways like they
Really liked this one... |
|
|
|
Karen Runk
Firefly
USA
4925 Posts |
Posted - 11/16/2005 : 10:21:09
|
Oh lucky you. That was my kid's dream to see Roy and the whole bunch. I had to settle for Saturday matinees, or radio programs.
But, I have Lois to fill me in on things. Her last name isn't Spencer for nothing. 
I try to catch Riders in the Sky when they come to town. The draw a big crowd.
Karen Runk |
|
|
|
Randy B
Swinger
USA
586 Posts |
Posted - 11/18/2005 : 05:52:53
|
St. Cecelia couldn't save him
But she gave him a little time
To water the flowers in his garden
And become a friend of mine |
|
|
|
Karen Runk
Firefly
USA
4925 Posts |
Posted - 11/18/2005 : 14:32:42
|
That is beautiful, Randy
Karen Runk |
|
|
|
Joe Z
Windchimer
USA
1819 Posts |
Posted - 11/19/2005 : 13:16:08
|
There she stood with eyes so sweet
To brighten up the night
When she turned and looked my way
I couldn't tell a lie
She touched the soft spot in my soul
Where very few have gone
I saw her for a second
I've known her for all time
Sure we could have been lovers
We've been eternal friends
I saw her for a second
I've known her for all time
The sun will rise to end the night
The earth will spin away
Her memory will stay with me
Long after we must leave
|
|
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2825 Posts |
Posted - 11/25/2005 : 12:53:58
|
Oh, how I love this ride...
Going south to see Mom and Dad...
River on my left
Graveyards on my right...
Sparkling
Blue Hudson is all I see...
So Blessed am I....
Rev Buckman
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
|
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2196 Posts |
Posted - 11/26/2005 : 16:28:11
|
I think this was how it all started. A man at the bar. A man at the card table with a sleeping dog at his feet. A woman sweeping the floor with Fate's broom.
Nightly Vigil at the Cafe Lupe
It is dusk
The Cafe is empty
The kerosene lamps yellow glow
Throws shadows against the adobe
She turns up the chairs on the tables
Sweeps the dirt into a pile by the door
Outside
The street is deserted
Except for stoney-eyed horses
Shivering in equine fear
How the land falls away from them
He stands beside her
Looking out from under his wide hat
Dreaming of horses
His eyes trace the hawks flight
Above canyons
She lowers her eyes against what he knows
His predatory knowledge
When she looks back again
His eyes have turned
To stars
*
...if we could freeze the frame and go back... |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2196 Posts |
Posted - 11/27/2005 : 17:49:07
|
| Folks roasting pistachio and pine nut-stuffed game hens in the hills off chilly Mulholland. A crisp, late Fall fragrance rises out of the canyons into the smoky air where two spirits keep watch from behind clouds of white oleander. Gazing down on now Christmas-tree-lit LA. There they wait for a pirated grill when all of Mulholland finally steps inside to decant the wine. "I didn't think we'd still feel so cold," she says, shivering. Blowing on her long, brass-ringed fingers. His shoulders shrug. He grins. Enigmatic under the oval glow over his head when he hands her a hot dog on a stick. |
|
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2825 Posts |
Posted - 11/28/2005 : 19:42:47
|
Oh, MiLady....
Nightly Vigil at the Cafe Lupe is my favorite poem Ever....
Every line is a painting....
Thank you for sharing your heart and talents so generously....
It is the joy of my day to read your words.... HB
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
|
|
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2825 Posts |
Posted - 11/28/2005 : 23:44:02
|
I sit in the dark in the back of the saloon...
What is between my table and the dusty
street is twenty feet that is
on the very edge of Hell...
The townspeople say they are sinners: the townspeople say they are evil...
The reality is that they are just Cowboys and
they are very much alive and much of the
rest of this town has already died... I talk to
the Lord and I Know what is Evil
and what is not,
which is why I hold services here and
not in a church....
These men make a decision
every time they put the whiskey to their
lips, every time they put the
tobacco to their mouths....
They make a decision between a
longer, duller life or the life
that they are choosing to live....
Yet I can see the desperation in
their eyes; I can see
that for every year that they age,
they remove themselves another year from their
childhood and their youthful dreams...
I can see that the only time
They will smell the
fragrance of a lady is
when they choose to pay for her...
I can see that they care not a
bit about Eternity, but only for today...
But, that is Just Alright
with me and the Lord
If everybody went to heaven they'd run out of room.... Rev Buckman
http://members.tripod.com/buckmaniac/index.htm |
|
|
|
Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
Posted - 11/29/2005 : 23:21:53
|
He came back again last night, the old man who
lived here before me. I let him in, steering him
to the wooden table which, fourteen years ago, he
let me have for twenty bucks.
The bathroom is new but hasn't moved and he
uses it, sighing while his bladder does the chore.
Coming into the living room he stops beneath
the photo of my ex-wife, pinned exactly where
his Eleanor used to smile. I'm not sure he realizes
it's not her, nor sure if it matters now.
This is maybe the twentieth time he's showed up,
taken the wrong bus, his senility an innocence.
The entire apartment has undergone renovation
except the kitchen, everything where it was before.
Reading the paper while he puts the kettle on,
I answer yes when he asks if I'd like tea.
visit http://www.betterdaysradio.blogspot.com |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2196 Posts |
Posted - 11/30/2005 : 19:11:46
|
| Five miles after leaving the Dragon's Cave he pulls up to the curb where she's leaning on coincidence, waiting. "Not random or accidental," he says, "so, hop in." Their elbows out the windows. His fast foot to the floor. A long ride passing grain elevators and silos. His quirky magic in the glove box just under the coffee-stained maps distilling like anniversary wine. Days go by and years pass. |
|
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2825 Posts |
Posted - 12/01/2005 : 16:16:39
|
Carmelita asked me why I choose
to sit in the darkness so much...
I laughed and said that
when I lost my family and my religion,
the darkness kind of chose me...
I stood and we
moved gently to a Newbury Waltz;
I could smell the sunshine on her...
I told her how apart
I felt,
how I lived but did not live,
how a veil separates me from them,
and that if she
knew who she was dancing with
she would be surprised...
She tossed back her aching beauty
and laughed and said,
Don't you really know?
We are all like that,
every one of us...
I try to believe her,
but belief is a strange
and difficult thing this
far into the darkness...
So far into it that I can
hardly hear the waltz anymore.......
Rev Bobblehead
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
|
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2196 Posts |
Posted - 12/01/2005 : 21:36:13
|
| Sunset on water. Four counties long. November's melancholy splendor. Doves cooing in oval arches. Before shadows step from smudged corners. Life going on for hours. His lightning-struck, summing-up eyes. His voice of many colors. No sad days. No sad nights. Stars on the floor when he walks in. And he walks in every night. |
|
|
|
Topic |
|
|
The Nightly Vigil