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Trad climber
Top of the Mountain Mun
Topic Author's Original Post - May 31, 2008 - 04:48pm PT
Ah to be alive
on a mid-September morn
fording a stream
barefoot, pants rolled up,
holding boots, pack on,
sunshine, ice in the shallows,
northern rockies.

Rustle and shimmer of icy creek waters
stones turn underfoot, small and hard as toes
cold nose dripping
singing inside
creek music, heart music,
smell of sun on gravel.

I pledge allegiance

I pledge allegiance to the soil
of Turtle Island,
and to the beings who thereon dwell
one ecosystem
in diversity
under the sun
With joyful interpenetration for all.

"For All" by Gary Snyder from the Gary Snyder Reader. Counterpoint.

Trad climber
Top of the Mountain Mun
Topic Author's Reply - May 31, 2008 - 05:31pm PT
SS, what happened to your other poem? Did you write these, they are wonderful.
Standing Strong

Trad climber
the secret life of T*R
May 31, 2008 - 06:13pm PT
i deleted it cuz i thot it 2 much 2 share

yes i wrote them

May 31, 2008 - 07:06pm PT

Mighty Hiker

Social climber
Vancouver, B.C.
May 31, 2008 - 07:08pm PT
T*R artfully avoids awkward questions about her job interview...

ps Note use of alliteration.

Trad climber
The hear and now, currently Pasadena, CA
Jun 1, 2008 - 03:05am PT
That is a beautiful poem, Mtmmun. I've just recently discovered Gary Snyder (how did I miss him?) and am looking forward to finding more.


Trad climber
electric lady land
Jun 1, 2008 - 07:00am PT
my favorite d.h. lawrence poem.

How beastly the bourgeois is

especially the male of the species--

Presentable, eminently presentable--

shall I make you a present of him?

Isn't he handsome? Isn't he healthy? Isn't he a fine specimen?

Doesn't he look the fresh clean Englishman, outside?

Isn't it God's own image? tramping his thirty miles a day

after partridges, or a little rubber ball?

wouldn't you like to be like that, well off, and quite the


Oh, but wait!

Let him meet a new emotion, let him be faced with another

man's need,

let him come home to a bit of moral difficulty, let life

face him with a new demand on his understanding

and then watch him go soggy, like a wet meringue.

Watch him turn into a mess, either a fool or a bully.

Just watch the display of him, confronted with a new

demand on his intelligence,

a new life-demand.

How beastly the bourgeois is

especially the male of the species--

Nicely groomed, like a mushroom

standing there so sleek and erect and eyeable--

and like a fungus, living on the remains of a bygone life

sucking his life out of the dead leaves of greater life

than his own.

And even so, he's stale, he's been there too long.

Touch him, and you'll find he's all gone inside

just like an old mushroom, all wormy inside, and hollow

under a smooth skin and an upright appearance.

Full of seething, wormy, hollow feelings

rather nasty--

How beastly the bourgeois is!

Standing in their thousands, these appearances, in damp


what a pity they can't all be kicked over

like sickening toadstools, and left to melt back, swiftly

into the soil of England.
Fish Finder

Social climber
Jun 1, 2008 - 09:44am PT
kayaking in malibu 1996 after a long day on the ocean.

"Today I chased the Sun until it fell into the Sea

and when I turned to chase the Moon it was already chasing Me."

Trad climber
Jun 1, 2008 - 10:06am PT
Friends may come

and friends may go

and friends may peter out

you know

but we'll be friends

through thick or thin

peter out


peter in



A place with cats...bare naked cats...
Jun 1, 2008 - 10:22am PT
On Reading Aloud My Early Poems

This ignorance upon my tongue
Was once the wisdom of the young.

John Williams

Hey Kath! How's the traveling?

Trad climber
Jun 1, 2008 - 06:36pm PT
Hey L. . . the traveling is FABULOUS!

The east coast is blowing my mind. . . I drove through 7 states today and saw no fewer than 20 times the entire population of Montana.





Trad climber
Top of the Mountain Mun
Topic Author's Reply - Jun 11, 2008 - 10:23am PT
Rye Whisky
by Anonymous

I'll eat when I'm hungry, I'll drink when I'm dry;
If the hard times don't kill me. I'll live till I die.

I'll tune up my fiddle, and I'll rosin my bow,
And make myself welcome wherever I go.

Beefsteak when I'm hungry, red liquor when I'm dry,
Greenbacks when I'm hard up, and religion when I die.

They say I drink whisky; my money's my own,
All them that don't like me can leave me alone.

Jack o' diamonds, jack o' diamonds, I know you of old,
You've robbed my poor pockets of silver and gold.

Oh whisky, you villain, you've been my downfall;
You've kicked me, you've cuffed me, but I love you for all.

I'll buy my own whisky, I'll make my own stew;
If I get drunk, madam, it's nothing to you.

My foot in the stirrup, my bridle in my hand,
A-courting fair Mollie, to marry if I can.

I've no wife to quarrel, no babies to bawl;
The best way of living is no wife at all.

You may boast of your knowledge, and brag of your sense,
'Twill be all forgotten a hundred years hence.

Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
May 11, 2012 - 01:21pm PT
Resurrecting this thread... Seems like a good time as any.

Here is another D.H. Lawrence poem:

Go Deeper than Love

Go deeper than love, for the soul has greater depths,
love is like the grass, but the heart is deep wild rock
molten, yet dense and permanent.
Go down to your deep old heart, and lose sight of yourself.
And lose sight of me, the me whom you turbulently loved.
Let us lose sight of ourselves, and break the mirrors.
For the fierce curve of our lives is moving again to the depths
out of sight, in the deep living heart.

~ D.H. Lawrence ~

(excerpt from Know Thyself, Know Thyself More Deeply)

Mountain climber
love, trust, pixie dust
May 11, 2012 - 01:53pm PT
wow fletcher, i love that. thank you for posting.

Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
May 12, 2012 - 06:00pm PT
Here's another from a wonderful poet (sorry to say he left us way too early):

Square Top and Green River
Square Top and Green River
Credit: Not sure, came from an e-mail list. Not me, but will give credit to whomever shot it.

In Praise of the Earth

Let us bless
The imagination of the Earth.
That knew early the patience
To harness the mind of time,
Waited for the seas to warm,
Ready to welcome the emergence
Of things dreaming of voyaging
Among the stillness of land.

And how light knew to nurse
The growth until the face of the Earth
Brightened beneath a vision of color.

When the ages of ice came
And sealed the Earth inside
An endless coma of cold,
The heart of the Earth held hope,
Storing fragments of memory,
Ready for the return of the sun.

Let us thank the Earth
That offers ground for home
And holds our feet firm
To walk in space open
To infinite galaxies.

Let us salute the silence
And certainty of mountains:
Their sublime stillness,
Their dream-filled hearts.

The wonder of a garden
Trusting the first warmth of spring
Until its black infinity of cells
Becomes charged with dream;
Then the silent, slow nurture
Of the seed's self, coaxing it
To trust the act of death.

The humility of the Earth
That transfigures all
That has fallen
Of outlived growth.

The kindness of the Earth,
Opening to receive
Our worn forms
Into the final stillness.

Let us ask forgiveness of the Earth
For all our sins against her:
For our violence and poisonings
Of her beauty.

Let us remember within us
The ancient clay,
Holding the memory of seasons,
The passion of the wind,
The fluency of water,
The warmth of fire,
The quiver-touch of the sun
And shadowed sureness of the moon.

That we may awaken,
To live to the full
The dream of the Earth
Who chose us to emerge
And incarnate its hidden night
In mind, spirit, and light.

~ John O'Donohue ~

(To Bless the Space Between Us)
Donald Thompson

Trad climber
Los Angeles,CA
May 12, 2012 - 11:12pm PT
Cortez School

I closed my eyes
and then I could see
a thousand noisy kids
crowding this same cracked black top
where four-square games
raged near the fifth grade building
nearly a half-century ago.

The cool white fog, omnipresent
sought to shroud by scheduled moving phases
every motionless adobe outline
every shifting broken contour
every billowing angled partition
set betwixt morning and noon
in open vaults of sudden yellow sun
and teasing streams of golden light.

How odd it must have felt
to taste the chilly fog
rubbed in place by unheard wind
against my little boy face
as I ran to this future on the black top
where I now stand
with folded arms and closed eyes.

How stranger still
that I should loiter unmoving in this spot
by way of an old volleyball court
on the ancient cracked black top
this clear and fading afternoon
a vagrant out of the unfeeling future
again closing my eyes to glimpse a past
of little friends with bouncing jelly balls
soon to be bouncing back within
a long ago
morning fog.

D. Thompson
mouse from merced

Trad climber
merced, california
May 13, 2012 - 12:00am PT

So glad this thread
got re-instated.
I was beginning to wonder;
Now I'm elated.--MFM

Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
May 14, 2012 - 03:33am PT
Good stuff MSM and Donald!


Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
May 16, 2012 - 11:42pm PT

(After Rilke)

Whoever you are: step out of doors tonight,
Out of the room that lets you feel secure.
Infinity is open to your sight.
Whoever you are.
With eyes that have forgotten how to see
From viewing things already too well-known,
Lift up into the dark a huge, black tree
And put it in the heavens: tall, alone.
And you have made the world and all you see.
It ripens like the words still in your mouth.
And when at last you comprehend its truth,
Then close your eyes and gently set it free.

~ Dana Gioia ~

(Interrogations at Noon)
mouse from merced

Trad climber
merced, california
May 17, 2012 - 06:11pm PT
By Helen Louise Blank
Phoenix, AZ

(A True Story in Jingle Form)

I never thought to thank my feet
Who take me safely down the street
I never thought to thank my toes,
Each little one that strongly goes
To take me where I want to be,
Supporting uncomplainingly
The weight I put upon it.

But then one day I changed my ways
And to my feet I gave some praise.
I rubbed and scrubbed and talked to them.
With marble games I strengthened them.
And then, when dressed in silken hose
And wearing shoes with satin bows,
Ah, foolish me, I even said,
"For you I'll write a sonnet."

Now if a sonnet I would pen
I must go out and find a friend
Who might to me the right book lend
To show the meter and the rhyme
That's been agreed since early time
For those who write a sonnet.

And there she came, just walking by
As if by summons from the sky.
She said, "Yes. Surely I've a book.
Why don't you come and take a look?"
I did. Since reading poems grand,
Alas! I hope my feet will understand
I do not have at my command
A sonnet in my bonnet.

from Under The Great Bowl of Heaven/1989

We've heard the "blank" verse jokes, folks...
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