| Author |
 Topic  |
|
|
Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
 Posted - 09/25/2010 : 20:40:26
|
BODY & SOUL
So this is how the separation begins, the body no longer
a friendly host, calling out from its sleep with annoyance when
the soul comes in late, intoxicated, nudging tender places.
Where before there was rhapsody, the shoulder turned open,
now the body closes. Its dreams become exclusive, preferring
sleep to the touch that makes the blood sing up.
The union we have with our flesh is not permanent,
that essential trust not inviolable. The glowing soul may strut
while the body's fingers tremble, the urge to dance assaulting
joints which have lost their oil. In the dark, the soul is awake,
attuned to the growing distance, wheels on rain-wet roads,
sad for the first time again.
DL |
 |
|
|
San Diego
Swinger
509 Posts |
Posted - 09/25/2010 : 21:14:48
|
| This is amazing. |
|
|
|
Joe Z
Windchimer
USA
1819 Posts |
Posted - 09/27/2010 : 14:38:01
|
That “eye for an eye” stuff in the Old Book is an easy sale. On a planet where paranoia roots itself like Southern California sticker patch, I-Me-Mine is quite literally a no brainer.
Personification of money is the illusion, while what matters most gets lost in the glitter. Where to draw the line is the debate, but when gold rules, the Golden Rule takes a rear seat.
Balance is the trick. We plunder for years and then apologize with tears. Winds from the south take the apology as Karma blows in from the west. When the two winds meet, a tornado forms.
Perpetual emotion.
|
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2217 Posts |
Posted - 09/27/2010 : 18:29:07
|
Well, Henry... Six years you've kept the saloon open. I remember the first time you swung through those batwing doors. It was twilight. The sun was setting. I was sweeping the dirt into a pile by the door, watching the canyon catch fire. The place had been boarded up for a couple of years, but the slap of the cards, the rap of the glasses, the keening sound of that spectral dog remained in the air. And the haloed light over the card table. And Juarez in his singular chair. His voice split by divination...his cracked-in-half laughter...his well-worn wings...
I remember all the lives, old friend. To days gone by. |
|
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2829 Posts |
Posted - 09/27/2010 : 18:44:13
|
Ahhh.
The room goes on |
|
|
|
rodeo
Swinger
USA
733 Posts |
Posted - 09/27/2010 : 21:20:58
|
"I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity."
-e.a. poe |
|
|
|
BarbraG
Windchimer
1825 Posts |
Posted - 10/05/2010 : 20:02:58
|
Sunlight radiates through the curtains as I write this on this cold October afternoon. The warmth of Summer has left suddenly, without warning. That's what suddenly is. No warning. But, that's okay for now. I can live with it. Missie's coat has grown in some since her last grooming...a sure sign of autumn leaves beginning to turn, with the winds whistling through the trees. Nature prepares her for the cold winds that blow, while I have to run for my coat. But, I love the changes that autumn brings. The beauty of it all is breathtaking at times, as I wait for the snows of Winter. And, before I know it..in just a few months..Newbury's words will come to mind when "Winter's in labor and soon will give birth to the Spring." Nature -- the wonder of it all.
BGee |
Edited by - BarbraG on 10/05/2010 20:07:17 |
|
|
|
rodeo
Swinger
USA
733 Posts |
Posted - 10/11/2010 : 04:14:36
|
quote:
Originally posted by Joe Z
That “eye for an eye” stuff in the Old Book is an easy sale. On a planet where paranoia roots itself like Southern California sticker patch, I-Me-Mine is quite literally a no brainer.
Personification of money is the illusion, while what matters most gets lost in the glitter. Where to draw the line is the debate, but when gold rules, the Golden Rule takes a rear seat.
Balance is the trick. We plunder for years and then apologize with tears. Winds from the south take the apology as Karma blows in from the west. When the two winds meet, a tornado forms.
Perpetual emotion.
Politicos push a new approach to the same old problems using tired-ass clichés.
Leaders sin, and sinners lead, and we’re caught in between.
Preachers preach the “flavor of the week” … promise to help us find self esteem...self worth...self fulfillment...have they forgotten something?
While our children's teachers manage to blur the lines that we try to draw for them; the school board has multiple meetings to decide not to pray or play the national anthem at football games anymore.
We got in trouble for shooting rubber bands at girls; an 11 year old took a gun to my nephew's school today. His father and his older brother are in prison. His mom is a crack-head.
Oprah's guest has a solution...a secret. It's in his book. $24.95.
Weapons of mass discussion.
 |
Edited by - rodeo on 10/11/2010 05:13:56 |
|
|
|
Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
Posted - 10/18/2010 : 22:39:57
|
Ballpeen hammer moon on a summer night in Anaconda, Montana, local
heroes playing baseball under the lights against a team from the
next town over. We're up in the peel-paint wooden bleachers behind
home plate watching booze bottles pass hand to hand in the rows
below, wives with hair bundled up under ball caps jabbering, husbands
in t-shirts laughing-near-choking with trays of fries and nachos
balanced on their laps. The visiting team is kicking the crap out of
the local boys, up by eight runs in the top of the ninth when a kid
comes in to pitch relief for Anaconda, burly tattooed righthander with
a sneer of a smile that says the game isn't over just yet. His first
fastball cracks the helmet of the leadoff hitter who goes down like a
shot horse and the crowd goes silent. The visitors' dugout empties,
then the home team's, and while a retired doctor limps out to attend
to the fallen player the others start shoving at one another, sending
firecracker f-bombs into the night sky. The umpires can't do anything
but take notes. The plate umpire has the batting helmet in his hand
and while watching the boys pull at jersey tops and swear at each
other, the ump pulls the helmet apart with his big hands. The fallen
player sits up, the doctor talking to him, eyes peering over the top
of his spectacles, and before any punches are thrown the coaches
corral their players and start guiding them back to their dugouts.
The visitors tack on another run and lead by nine going to the last
half inning. With two out and nobody on, the burly righthander comes
to bat and the pitcher fires a fastball three feet behind his back.
Rinse and repeat. The batter races to the mound and the pitcher, ready
for him, kicks him in the crotch for starters. They're on the ground
wrestling, hats flown off, testosterone fierce as teammates race out
again, blocking our view. The two managers are soon chest to chest,
poking fingers into each other, their faces reddening, voices going
hoarse from righteous emotion. Done our dogs except for the mustard
in Billy's moustache we leave the ball park quietly before the field
is cleared and walk two blocks to the JFK bar, where a bear-sized man
wearing a shirt with the left chest pocket torn open is telling a
story about his days at the copper smelter, saying they'd come out of
there on a Friday after work with hell in their eyes. The black soot
was poisonous and a lot of his buddies died early from breathing it,
and the graveyard up the hill is full of headstones with birth and
death dates too damned close together. The smelter has been closed a
while now, smokestack still on the hill as a reminder, largest in the
world at one time. Jack Nicklaus designed the local golf course and
instead of sand they filled the bunkers with that same black soot.
Billy's got his maps out and he's asking a woman at the next table
about the back road unpaved mountain route we're planning to take in
the morning through to Idaho. I wouldn't dare drive that road, she
says, it's too dangerous, one lane wide and no railing between you
and the canyon below. Billy turns to me with that outlaw grin of his
and says, that's the one for us then. |
|
|
|
rodeo
Swinger
USA
733 Posts |
Posted - 10/21/2010 : 16:56:55
|
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
---poe (the real one)
|
|
|
|
rodeo
Swinger
USA
733 Posts |
Posted - 10/21/2010 : 17:06:06
|
"The wisdom of the Sage;
Burnt edges around all his words"
|
Edited by - rodeo on 10/22/2010 07:14:56 |
|
|
|
rodeo
Swinger
USA
733 Posts |
Posted - 10/22/2010 : 09:32:22
|
I believe...
that imagination is stronger than knowledge
That myth is more potent than history
That dreams are more powerful than facts
That hope always triumphs over experience
That laughter is the only cure for grief
And I believe that love is stronger than death
~Mickey Newbury~
|
Edited by - rodeo on 10/22/2010 14:29:59 |
|
|
|
Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
Posted - 11/01/2010 : 17:32:27
|
You come here without calling ahead.
No one else does that.
If your shirt has one or two buttons open,
I know something troubles you,
that you want to talk.
You remember a shack near the border
where birds, high winds and old
stones are the calendar.
You whisper of death, of how
close to it we are, how alive
its presence keeps us.
If a third button is open,
there's nothing to say.
DL |
|
|
|
buckman
Firefly
USA
2829 Posts |
Posted - 11/01/2010 : 18:02:20
|
I miss front to back to front again
just to prove we could.
I miss the smell of a dream of a memory,
in the backyard burning wood.
I miss most evrything the law allows
and in between the lines,
She was too much in this world
I was too much in this time.
She said, Things can't continue long this way.
I said, Little by little they don't.
There's so many things I've never done
But not too many that I won't.
The valley runs red and gold again
Winter's right around the bend
Blue blue skies and cold cold nights
Hearts and souls need time to mend.
A coyote sings Harvest Moon in the
woods beyond the yard,
I hum along with the melody
the words come too damn hard.
I climbed the ladder the best I could,
I slipped on the last rung.
Her memory's left the back of my mind
And gone to the tip of my tongue.
I miss most evrything the law allows
and in between the lines,
She was too much in this world
I was too much in this time.
The valley runs red and gold again
Winter's right around the bend
Blue blue skies and cold cold nights
Hearts and souls need time to mend.
Hank Beukema revbuckmanmusic 2010
|
|
|
|
Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
Posted - 11/02/2010 : 01:25:46
|
I REMEMBER WAKING
I remember waking at the loneliest hour of the night,
lighting one candle, that I might look at her while she slept, this
woman so dark it took the light of a flame to find her.
It took an assault in an elevator to bring her from the sad Qu'appelle
to the dry sage country, tassels of her buckskin jacket lifting and
falling with her stride, long hair flying out behind her dark eyes.
I have never seen a woman look more beautiful, and her sorrow
was part of her beauty, as if all the kisses I had to give her
were cheapened by the violence she had suffered.
I wanted to put my lips against her eyelids many weeks before
she trusted me enough to close her eyes. Even then, the lashes
fluttered as my mouth drew near, a reflex from memory.
In the gold center of the dark where the light of the candle wavered
I saw no such fear beneath her sleeping eyelids. In our deep bed she
trusted dreaming again. Kissing her eyes, I pinched the flame.
DL |
|
|
|
aussiedave
Swinger
Australia
509 Posts |
Posted - 11/02/2010 : 03:18:30
|
THREE CHILDREN
have ever known
the perpetual two become one......separation
a husband and wife facade
a mr and mrs charade
it split their children
into a brother and sister......divide,
into familial isolation
into sibling cathartic-ism
this
a residue of parental abdication
she never loved the father
of her children......she said.
it turned her eldest child
to numb-
it permeated his whole being
until he nothing felt,
he withdrew
until he never was-
it lasted for the first twenty-one years
of his existence-
......then he died
or a large portion of him did-
it corresponded
with his woman's first love,
a chastity given,
and taken away......together
it lasted for all eternity
her second child-
sacrificed her innocence
upon the altar of motherly scorn,
she too withdrew
she returned to a fetal conception,
she remained there
for the rest of her life,
seeking love from every man,
only to die, so she could die again,
her third child rejected her.......from birth
for he never stood a chance,
so he became some-one else,
in order to find love-
but found lust instead
......it killed him,
father,mother and the three in one,
children,
remnants of a love born to fail,
emotional scars,hidden
by genuine smiles
and false tears,
fragile thoughts
and forgotten whisperings
AD October 2010 |
|
|
|
rodeo
Swinger
USA
733 Posts |
Posted - 11/08/2010 : 10:53:11
|
| I re’main stunned by the quality….read/koala tea...o’what we’re seein’ here |
|
|
|
rodeo
Swinger
USA
733 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2010 : 13:47:06
|
When a child, down by the river for target practice with his Father; he had to hold the pistol with both hands. When he was told how good he was for a kid, he thought it was just a daddy’s proud encouragement, mixed with amazement that his son was standing next to him with a gun. Looking back, he recalled that there was a sadness in the old man’s eyes.
He had no way of knowing that what he thought was a father and son outing was something else. His father was a preacher for goodness’ sakes; he didn’t even know what “keeping my edge” meant and he only saw the pistol down by the river. He never knew it was always within reach.
Fast forward:
When, a grown man, out in the street with his Father, he held a pistol in both hands. When he was told how good he was, he thought it was a daddy’s sad lament, mixed with amazement that his son was standing next to him with a gun...…and that they were both still alive. Looking over, he saw that there was still a sadness in the old man’s eyes.
The old man had kept his edge.
They'd spoken to each other five minutes before for the first time in years.
When they spoke again, there was still smoke in the air.
“I’m so sorry, son”.
“Me, too, Dad”.
“Well, I’d have a drink; but I quit”.
“Me, too, Dad”. “Think more of 'em will come?”
“Oh, yeah”.
“When?... What do we do now?”
“Can’t know for sure....
...Reload”.
|
|
|
|
Ailinn
Windchimer
2217 Posts |
Posted - 11/12/2010 : 19:17:00
|
| Blue hearts and contagious candles. Words rushing her ruby-stung ears. Speechless when he covers her mouth with his hand. "...if this were a true story..." he says, inking the pages, burning the midnight oil. She talks in her sleep. She turns when he reaches for her. Her hands move toward him when he calls out her name in the dark. |
|
|
|
rodeo
Swinger
USA
733 Posts |
Posted - 11/21/2010 : 16:41:41
|
Were we blinded by the moment?
…was that “the light” we saw?
Do either of us want anything that the other doesn’t really want to give?
…is there some strange (twisted) obligation?
Let’s not take on more than we can bear.
You’re not willin’…
and I’m not able
‘Cuz it just ain’t my cross to share.
|
|
|
|
Topic |
|
|
|
|
The Nightly Vigil