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Craig
Firefly
Kyrgyzstan
3793 Posts |
 Posted - 06/07/2006 : 18:40:03
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quote:
Originally posted by Ailinn
Here he comes. Riding Rocinante. From a hole in the clouds he commands, "Fly now!" The sun blinks. The fog fractures. The beach goes back to the birds. Gulls and terns and pipers. The turquoise sky suddenly fills with wings.
Sorry to interrupt but that was just unbelievable...really.
Craig |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 06/08/2006 : 19:34:55
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| Thank you, Craig. I love your pictures/stories/shadows. The haunted ones especially. And your Tennyson post. "...someday when we all sit down at the big table, hahaha," he says. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 06/08/2006 : 19:37:31
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| PS We had to cross the 74 to get home tonight. A road with a long story. Bumper stickers ~I SURVIVED THE ORTEGA~ |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2819 Posts |
Posted - 06/10/2006 : 07:39:34
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I said to her, There's a new preacher in town
And he's out of his mind...
Carmelita was away, so I introduced myself
To the, um, darker side of town...
She bought the whiskey and I drank it...
Later, as I watched the sun come up
From her room,
She called out to me...
I forgot to tell you, my ex
Is a sherrif, and he's still in love...
Pity, the nite had been going so well...
Rev Buckman
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2819 Posts |
Posted - 06/10/2006 : 07:40:37
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Off in the distance I could see a cloud of dust...
I woke the poor redhead up and told her
Get dressed as fast as you can and climb
Out the back window...
If Carmelita finds you here our other problems
Will be over because she will kill us both...
I, however, will die more slowly and painfully
Than you...
Rev Buckman
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
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Craig
Firefly
Kyrgyzstan
3793 Posts |
Posted - 06/10/2006 : 21:02:40
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Suffering hot today, no air moving, like dog's breath in this small Texas town.
Went back to the old church, it's been a lifetime.
Wedding today, in the church I grew up in...
Saw the staircase there, where I saw the face peeking around the corner at the top. It looked like a clown when I was but a child.
The staircase didn't appear as high today as it did then.
I still don't like clowns...
Remembered the building for Sunday school classes behind the church and the portico were we got caught...
We had camped out in a tent in Tim Simon's backyard. We decided to go to the filling station to get candy on our bicycles...
At 1:15 in the morning.
I was eight years old.
Constable Graham caught us and put the fear of God in us. We never made it to the service station. Being the youngest had it's advantages, I never got the blame...
The old church.
Where I almost lost an eye from pulling a stuck pencil out of a pencil holder when I was four years old.
The old church, where old skeletons abound, some to remain locked away...forever.
craig
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2819 Posts |
Posted - 06/11/2006 : 13:22:28
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When Carmelita came that morning
She had brought me the cooked dough with
Sugar sprinkled on it that
I loved so much...
She kissed me and said,
It is good that you are alone for
Now I know that I can trust you
With my heart forever...
Now that she is gone for the last time
And finally...
Those words hurt me more than a beating....
Rev Buckman
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 06/11/2006 : 16:53:10
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I went from walking around with my chin up and pounds of encyclopedias on top of my head to kneeling up straight on rice. The first to improve my posture. The second to discourage my venial ways. "Chest out, shoulders back, and wipe that defiant look off your face!" the Sisters ordered. I was the 9 year old bane of their lunchroom/dinner hall existence. The thorn in their rosaried sides. Too loud with the trays. Too much hot water for dishes. Too "daydreamy" saying my prayers. The fact that I ran away once a month and the train conductors brought cartons of milk (Sealtest, Ron) and cheese sandwiches didn't help. More fuel for the fire. My not-yet-dead soul duly smoldering. I vowed to become a good orphan. Until I could step out of that strict frame. I brightened my rebelious, dark stare. Changed the angle and slant of my handwriting. Left my Catechism margins pristine. I told truer stories. When that didn't work, I quit peanut butter crackers and the Coca-Cola machine. I made up sins for Confession. "Three Hail Mary's, Roisin," Father said. "Now be a good girl and tell Sister there's still too much starch in the Altar cloths."
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Edited by - Ailinn on 06/12/2016 13:49:34 |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 06/13/2006 : 20:31:25
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| No flat days. Every wave a spiritual invitation. Every five second ride a reminder to be humble. Zero's. Heaven. Zuma. County Line. Trestles. Beacom's Footsteps. Swami's. Eden. All alive. "...but words can't do music's work, baby," he says. The ruby earrings burn in her ears. The close Santa Rosa's are at flashpoint. The lists he's assembled. Notes and doodles in the margins. Different color ink. "...for different days..." he says laughing. Laughing. Turquoise faces. The telephone number of everyone in the world. Fog climbs in hundred foot cliffs. Salty. Shivering. Holes in the horizon. No compass to find true North. At dinnertime a thousand car dealers from El Cajon assail them. |
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Craig
Firefly
Kyrgyzstan
3793 Posts |
Posted - 06/17/2006 : 22:15:48
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East Bay – revisited
One is no longer with us, two remain, three generations still exist…
Just an ordinary red lantern, of the Coleman variety. Is there any other? I remember we used "white gas", from the Amoco service station. We always filled the metal gallon gas can prior to going on the expeditions.
Many a night did it give us comfort in the smothering darkness. If only it could tell the tales that were told under its light. A novel could be written of fishing, shrimping, oystering...watermen and their boats.
It was his custom, the one with the gnarled hands, disfigured from years of arthritis, to light the lantern. A few quick pumps to pressurize the fuel, he fumbles to strike the kitchen match and the entire room is illuminated. Moths and mesquitos dance. The same routine for the Coleman stove…white gas gave us both light for the cabin and provided heat for cooking…hand cut french fries, fried shrimp battered in corn meal and ranch-style beans, the staples of the small cabin on East Bay.
Cold night. Two of the mariners fast asleep in their bunks…long day. The one with the gnarled hands shuffles into the cabin…
“Boy! Take a look at what I got!” he exclaims in his Mississippi accent. Barely able to hold them up in each of his hands were two bull redfish, well over thirty-five inches long. The pride of his catch woke the other two from their slumber and the last thing they wanted to do was to rise from the comfort of their warm bunks. He returned to the small pier and caught a number more of the redfish while they were still running. It was a good night for the oldest of the three and exclaimed the next day that the smell of watermelon of the school of fish was so strong that night, meaning many fish. Schools of fish smell that way when they are running or feeding on bait fish, he says.
The lantern remained lit in the other room as long as one of the watermen were awake…the last one awake was obliged to turn it out.
One night, after “lights out”, snoring started almost immediately. It became louder and louder until one of the three could no longer take it….
“Curt?”
“Yeah, boy!”
“I guess that ain’t you then, is it?”
“No boy!”
“Wanna go see what it is?”
“No boy!”
Gator…just on the outside of the cabin…it must have crossed the bay from Anahuac. Flashlights always accompanied us on any foray outside the cabin at night afterward.
We never fished for pleasure, it was always for food. We shrimped and oystered for money, to make ends meet. It was always work regardless if it was for food or money. Late nights after getting home, heading shrimp for 10¢ more a pound or in the winter time, trying to go to sleep hearing another oyster shell thrown in the pile, oysters being opened for six dollars a gallon.
The old lantern hasn’t been lit in over 16 years. I am now the owner of it and the Coleman stove. The oldest of the two that remain parted with them just yesterday. “They still work” he said “but I have no more use for them”, always being the practical man. I am sure they still do work. They must be passed to the next generation…
I study my own hands a lot lately. I see hands that are now older and have been weathered with age. They are much like the gnarled hands I remember and also of the oldest one of the two that still remain.
I am quite honored and proud to see the hands of my father and my grandfather…in my own.
Craig
"Only write what you know, boy. They'll know it when you lie"
I have only written what I know...
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Edited by - Craig on 06/18/2006 04:56:54 |
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Joey L.
Swinger
USA
1383 Posts |
Posted - 06/17/2006 : 22:28:10
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Beautifully written, Craig,
Beautiful, indeed.
J
The Future's Not ... |
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Karen Runk
Firefly
USA
4925 Posts |
Posted - 06/18/2006 : 08:38:55
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Thank you Craig. You are taking us to another place, another time, and other reflections. A sign of a good writer. Very good stuff.
Cya soon.....
Karen Runk |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 06/18/2006 : 16:57:54
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Craig, this is wonderful. I loved it the first time. Whole paragraphs stuck in my head. Thank you for posting it again. Especially today. Happy Father's Day!
Roisin |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 06/19/2006 : 22:11:09
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| The ship went down in 1872. They explored the deep for a hundred years. Their dream stayed ahead of their breathing. "Back to Durrow," one day, he says. Her skirts are long. Red mud at the edges. Her high-buttoned shoes are water-logged. |
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Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
Posted - 06/21/2006 : 03:49:45
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MAGIC NIGHTS IN THE LOBBY BAR
A feast, this song, and with the magic in it.
John Spillane and Louis de Paor perform it live at
www.myspace.com/johnspillane in a tour de force
of the gentlest variety. Oh, and I just heard
Ger Wolfe tonight, too, for the first time...
and with my ancestral great grandma from Cork it's
all the more transporting...away, away in the air.
They were magic nights in the Lobby Bar
With Brendan Ring playing Madame Bonaparte's
Every note that the piper would play
Would send me away, send me away
Away through the window, away through the rain
Away 'cross the city, away in the air
To a field by a river where the trees are so green
The deepest of green that you've ever seen
Where once you have been you can go back again
You can go any time, you can go any time
'Cause it's only in your mind...
They were magic nights in the Lobby Bar
With Ricky Lynch and his golden guitar singing
"Autumn in Mayfield and the barley was ripe
And the harvest moon hung low in the sky
We were children and our mothers were young
And fathers tall and kind"
And every note that Ricky would play
Would send me away, send me away
Away through the window, away through the rain
Away 'cross the city, away in the air
To a field by a river where the trees are so green
The deepest of green that you've ever seen
Where once you have been you can go back again
You can go any time, you can go any time
'Cause it's only in your mind
They were magic nights in the Lobby Bar
When Ger Wolfe would sing like a lark, singing
"I am the blood of Erin, spilt in an empty cave
I am the flower of Ireland, out on the drifting wave
I am the lark of Mayfield, tumbling down the hill
I am the child of summer, I can remember you still"
And every word that Ger would say
Would send me away, send me away
Away through the window, away through the rain
On a carriage of music, away in the air
To a field by a river where the trees are so green
The deepest of green that you've ever seen
Where once you have been you can go back again
You can go any time, you can go any time
'Cause it's only in your mind...
"It was autumn in Mayfield and the barley was ripe
And the harvest moon hung low in the sky
We were children and our mothers were young
And fathers were tall and kind..."
John Spillane, County Cork
http://www.myspace.com/mickeynewbury |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 06/22/2006 : 19:12:17
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| The ship lies safely anchored. Finally. Rocking like a cradle. Now he's on land. His footsteps coming down in the bibical dust. A frieze of conflagrant flames rising up behind him where she's waiting. Patiently. Beside Fate. Beside sparks in the tamarisk grove. He hands her the list. Charred and unfinished. Corners curling like her cinder-singed soul. "Take your sunglasses off," he says. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 06/23/2006 : 21:00:10
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| At his insistence, she was apprenticed to The Magician when Durrow was cold. 600 years AD. Give or take an ornamental evening or two. Dim stars only he could see. An Ocean. Steadfast history. His gaze so grave. Her smile so brazen and free through centuries. The dust of past lives holding them in thrall. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2155 Posts |
Posted - 06/29/2006 : 21:16:26
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| He makes the cut. He blends the blood. An owl blinks in the eucalyptus. Quails stir and murmur in the tumbleweed. Forgotten history rises. Around them The Garden shivers. A pinch of kindling. A sip of broth. A few sprigs of braided lavender on the pillow. |
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booty
Sitter
USA
93 Posts |
Posted - 07/06/2006 : 23:34:01
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Limbo
From the pain of nature I cry
And from nature’s good fortune I laugh
I laugh at those attitudinal mocking the original
Unaware they are the progeny of a native soul
Tears are the wife of laughter and she cries unknowingly
At the fullness of her affection – to see where there is tears
And no laughter turns a husband wayward, while to conjugate
Begets the appreciation of life
I laugh and cry but not in vain,
For from one ground arises the beauty of humanity
The humanities ridiculed by brachycephalics
As if they sprang up without roots
Creation bears both dark and light, ignorance and
Wisdom, with the first preceding the latter.
The onesame grounded me with both hands, the
Left and the right – where lays the ineffable Blue and Gray
Where in their crimson inscribtion I see
The son of man’s blood only bears one truth.
And so it be I will labor in limbo imaging beauty
Somewhere between the darkness and the light
And naught long – for is it not O Meistergeiger?
The truth is, I would be first a man.
boots
Robert Knowles |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2819 Posts |
Posted - 07/07/2006 : 14:42:27
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It's not that I don't
Try
To have faith...
I do try
I really do
It's just that when I
Try
To believe
Or pray
I feel like a
Japanese maiden about
To be sacrificed to the
Fiery volcano
Asking for a ricepaper fan...
REV BUCKMAN
http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
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Topic |
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The Nightly Vigil