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Karen Runk
Firefly

USA
4925 Posts

Posted - 04/28/2005 :  20:39:28  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Send Karen Runk an AOL message  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
While I was reading your memory of Mickey, Ro, I was listening to the Bluebird Cafe Radio Player broadcast of Mickey and Jack Wms. It isn't very clear, but it is so nice to see him again and listen while he is singing in his raspy voice. He had the audience in the palm of his hand. Bless his heart, he was a sweet man.

The things you say brings a smile on my face and tears to my eyes. God bless him, he was a sweet man. Thanks for sharing your story.

Karen Runk
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Lee F.
Firefly

USA
2550 Posts

Posted - 04/28/2005 :  20:48:50  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
All I can say is AMEN !!!! I loved him.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2217 Posts

Posted - 04/30/2005 :  18:27:41  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"Please stay out of the trees after sunset!" he implores. But there she is. Up high again. Silhouetted against the moon. So he hires a General Contractor. To build a house closer to ground. "Earthbound!" he says, and approves the rueful blueprints immediately. The construction crews arrive at 6:52am. A keening sound occurs at 7 when their hammers begin. "Time and a half!" he shouts, "if you can get it done right away." She watches from a crook in the lower branches. The first day; "bang! bang! bang!" She climbs higher to where all she can hear are birds sighing. And contrails making their white X's against a blue sky. She gazes down on the flagged, colored courtyard and twin golden parasol gazebos. She lifts the edge of one turreted roof and looks under. Vaulted dormers and brocade spreads on the beds. Her tears make a stream that criss-crosses the property line. A singing brook. Past the moat and the frozen statues. Past the trellised gardens paper-maiche blooms. Past the FOR SALE sign shining at the edge of the manicured lawn. That evening he joins her at the top-most part of the tree. She serves him fresh baked bread on a perfect-shaped leaf. "Pass the butter," he says, finally smiling.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2217 Posts

Posted - 05/01/2005 :  19:52:01  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Each morning in a low-lit room he wound his heart full measure. Through dreams and high fevers. Through tricks and through treasure. His preparation for another day. And when he was finally settled he would sometimes drop his pen. A thousand miles away. Then the X in her wrists ticked him into her blood. In and out of the flames she listened. A mute Valentine. Stitched to her sleeve. Where they sat under Heaven's high floor. Enough sunshine between them to make the day last 'til 11 pm.
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2829 Posts

Posted - 05/01/2005 :  20:15:29  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Not one wasted word... Every line a treasure... Richard Brautigan said that he prepared to write a novel by writing sentences that were perfect.... When he could do that he would write a paragraph with no wasted words... Then a page... Only then was he ready to begin his novel... Your paragraphs are a delight... HB

http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2217 Posts

Posted - 05/03/2005 :  20:12:33  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
I live in a small house on a hill with many plates on the table for each meal. Where we often eat in rotational shifts. Everyone being welcome. There's always a kettle of soup. With bread or biscuits to nibble. And sweet butter. He will have it no other way. The back and front doors wide open. To move outside as well as in. May is a good month for this musical-chair arrangement. And June through September. The lamps are lit late and the tame flowers still shield their lovely faces when the sun leaves the sky. It was apples I was slicing. That forbidden fruit made fresher with a hint of lime. From my kitchen window, across the courtyard the Church bells chimed as it's steeple stabbed the darkening blue. I tried to hold myself together when I first saw his reflection in the mottled mirror. But his eyes were the same unmistakable hue. And his quiver of hand-forged arrows still burned under his immaculate shirt. A radiance that showed through the hole in his worn breast pocket. Sure, I dropped the cinnamon. And the knot of nutmeg too. Venial transgressions. Proof on the floor. A pyramid of shining sugar where he stepped closer. When he put his finger to my lips and winked and whispered, "Shhh..." I turned up the tender tune on the radio. Standing there with the cold knife in my hand, faces appeared in the doorway. Hesitant and curious. But nobody asked when dinner would be served. Ah, the acquiescent power of music.

~Diary of Red Rose~
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Karen Runk
Firefly

USA
4925 Posts

Posted - 05/03/2005 :  20:22:36  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Send Karen Runk an AOL message  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Quivering sounds

Karen Runk
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2217 Posts

Posted - 05/09/2005 :  20:14:04  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Rough sugar, this wreath of thorns. When the night falls down and the stars turn up their volume. Here they come again. Crash-landing. Missing the X in the cleared cornfield by a country mile. All green encroaching. Sticks and stones and brambles too. Where the silken chute drags them haphazardly. Limp Raggedy Ann and Andy. How memories walk ahead turning back to glance over their shoulders now and then. Pieces of promises scraping their cheeks. Their lives finally settling like restless leaves.
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2829 Posts

Posted - 05/11/2005 :  19:49:46  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
So when Christopher Robin goes to the Zoo, he goes to where the Polar Bears are, and he whispers something to the third keeper from the left, and doors are unlocked, and we wander through dark passages and up steep stairs, until at last we come to the special cage, and the cage is opened, and out trots something brown and furry, and with a happy cry of "Oh, Bear!" Christopher Robin rushes into its arms. Now this bear's name is Winnie, which shows what a good name for bears it is, but the funny thing is that we can't remember whether Winnie is called after Pooh, or Pooh after Winnie. We did know once, but we have forgotten....
--Introduction to Winnie-the-Pooh - A A Milne

Ralph

http://www.mytown.ca/outsiders/beukema/
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Karen Runk
Firefly

USA
4925 Posts

Posted - 05/11/2005 :  20:04:33  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Send Karen Runk an AOL message  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Winnie is my hero



Karen Runk
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2829 Posts

Posted - 05/11/2005 :  20:06:14  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Somewhere between Exit 12 and 13 I wrote a song once about a dime a dance romance under a quarter moon to my Barbie...

Somewhere between Clay Marsupial and Winnie ther Pooh is Rev Buckman..

Somewhere between the moon and New York City is Ralph, taking a few nights away from us on his beloved Hudson River raft...

Somewhere north and west of the Hudson is me reading The Vigil, my nightly adventure into reading True Artistry...

Somewhere Between San Diego and Heaven is Ailinn, weaving her spell of words on my heart...

My point? Oh, bother, I seem to have forgotten it... Oh well,As Procol Harum said, Life is a beanstalk, my son.... Enlightenment, I don't know what it means....

HB
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2217 Posts

Posted - 05/12/2005 :  19:44:17  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"...poor as a church mouse, I tell ya, Ro... I was starvin'!..." "...bad time, bad time, hahaha." "...that's when I really started writin', though..." "...once I allowed myself to write... ...Then I was okay..."

~Mickey Newbury~
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2217 Posts

Posted - 05/12/2005 :  19:50:10  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
I tried to italicize 'allowed' five times. Sorry.
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buckman
Firefly

USA
2829 Posts

Posted - 05/13/2005 :  03:54:11  Show Profile  Visit buckman's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"""""S'okay""""" ~*~..... Rev
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Craig
Firefly

Kyrgyzstan
3793 Posts

Posted - 05/13/2005 :  04:35:25  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"...poor as a church mouse, I tell ya, Ro... I was starvin'!..." "...bad time, bad time, hahaha." "...that's when I really started writin', though..." "...once I allowed myself to write... ...Then I was okay..."

~Mickey Newbury~



Sometimes all that is needed is a little help from a friend, if it's allowed.

craig
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2217 Posts

Posted - 05/14/2005 :  18:09:01  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
I love those slanting letters. Thank you, both.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2217 Posts

Posted - 05/14/2005 :  18:21:33  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Blue breeze mica-flecked air. Sunlight glinting off water. Jeffrey and Cameron are fish. Surfing the off-shore ledge in a southern wind. San Diego water 67, air 81. Paddle out. Snap up. Wide arms spread reaching for destiny. Fingers are brakes. Raking the rolling walls. What slows you inside the whisper and the roar. Hear your heartbeat in the curl before you scream looking out through green windows. Silver streamlets spinning off the ruffled edge. No two waves alike. The trick is finding bottom. And not getting hit in the head with the board. A long ride in when we're lucky. Or wipe-out and eat a lot of sand.

There's a party for the Lifeguards tonight. A tradition before Memorial Day. Moonlight Beach between Swami's and Eden. Combination Mexican/Luau/Barbecue. Food on leaves and sticks. Beer in cans. Wine and the Beach Boys in boxes. "...help me, Rhonda. Help, help me, Rhonda... GET her outta my heart..."
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2217 Posts

Posted - 05/15/2005 :  17:44:32  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He caught the spirit in the glass before she raised it to her mouth. In that house where he was always happy. Where chaos lived a mile down the road. Not welcome. But not shunned either. He was Mercy. And when new flowers nodded and preferred to doze he understood their summer longing. His dreams in a satchel. Haphazardly tied. The punched ticket fraying in his back pocket.
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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5446 Posts

Posted - 05/15/2005 :  21:29:53  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Lament

Whom will you cry to, heart? More and more lonely,
your path struggles on through incomprehensible
mankind. All the more futile perhaps
for keeping to its direction,
keeping on toward the future,
toward what has been lost.

Once. You lamented? What was it? A fallen berry
of jubilation, unripe.
But now the whole tree of my jubilation
is breaking, in the storm it is breaking, my
slow tree of joy.
Loveliest in my invisible
landscape, you that made me more known
to the invisible angels.

Rainer Maria Rilke


visit http://www.betterdaysradio.blogspot.com
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2217 Posts

Posted - 05/18/2005 :  20:39:28  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He has the scorched Almanac out on the table. His maps and charred ancient charts. He unscrolls the parchment with it's edged terra cotta. No apparent X appears. Just the legend in heiroglyphics. She watches as he coaxes the fickle latitude and longitude to align. Where the earth's rent rim is fissured with salt waterways. Where stakes, like swords await the bright fruits arrival. The children lean closer. Press their small faces to his sun-warmed shoulder. Follow the finger he points to the welcoming ground. This is the time he loves. The beginning. Before the first green shoots appear. Before new leaves break through to start their summer-long ascension. May 19th.
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