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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 27, 2017 - 10:27pm PT
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And you'd not believe the amount of trouble this took.^^^^
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 28, 2017 - 12:04am PT
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Goodnight, Nadja.
It's surreally been great hangin' with ya.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 28, 2017 - 02:24am PT
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Just suppose we juxtapose Margaret Bourke-White, seen here high up in the Chrysler Building.
Obvious to the most casual observer, she did not take this photo.
She owned several long jackets, I'm sure.
Probably had countless sacks of big apples, too.
Cake - Never There
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VxqaI_c9j_g
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jun 28, 2017 - 05:05am PT
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According to my Horoscope
According to my horoscope
It's time to see my bookie
The planets have aligned
For some unexpected windfall
Yet something feels foreboding
Like a crumbled fortune cookie
But according to my horoscope
I might have heard a beckoning
Some harbinger of doom
Or icy hand of reckoning
To seal my final fate
In some unexpected happening
There was no threat across the way
To unleash a final sentence
No judgement or tribunal
Or an angel nor a reaper
No boatman or gate keeper
But just a sunny day
I thought I heard approaching
Something cold and something lethal
A glint of a stiletto
Or the rattling of chains
But there rustling through the shadows
Were only breezes whispering peaceful
According to my horoscope
In leu of all contrition
With regards to my condition
I might stick with local news
Or what's even scientific
And steer wide of superstition
According to my horoscope
I'll have many years to live
With prosperity and happiness
No penance shall be overdue
A long ocean voyage looms
Yet somehow I'm still feeling blue
-bushman
06/27/2017
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 28, 2017 - 06:15am PT
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Let me take you down
'Cause I'm going to Strawberry Fields
Nothing is real
And nothing to get hung about
Strawberry Fields forever
Nothing Is Real (After Taxes)
Vague angry thoughts concerning
How much dough the president's earning
Goes against my lifelong learning
Maybe it's his luck that's turning
Or possibly it's something burning
And I'll ignore fake news concerning
His affair with Charles Durning
But his legitimacy I'm spurning
Cuz he's a pussy-grabbing bastard
--MFM in a lousy/shitty mood
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 28, 2017 - 06:32am PT
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jun 28, 2017 - 07:56am PT
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Well Mouse, you can cheer up or gag on a spoon with this poem tailored to lift your spirits, sir.
With Rainbows and Lollipops
Don't mind the television
Or the radio fake news
If you read the morning paper
It will only leave you with the blues
Pink unicorns and butterfly's
Are whistling your favorite tune
So rest your head and close your eyes
They'll be taking you to dreamland soon
Don't worry about the government
They're embarrassing bafoons
Just disconnect your brain now
It could never be too soon
Pink unicorns and butterfly's
Are whistling your favorite tune
Where rainbows and lollipops
Are floating over Neptune's moons
Don't mind the television
Or the radio fake news
If you read the morning paper
It will only leave you with the blues
Pink unicorns and butterfly's
Are whistling your favorite tune
So rest your head and close your eyes
They'll be taking you to dreamland soon
-the lollipop-man
06/28/2017
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jun 28, 2017 - 12:14pm PT
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When Animals gets their Vegetables & Minerals
Dogone that dog
Dogging me with his dogma
As he spits out a doggerel
About Trump or Obama
And catty little Catnip
Among the cattails and the gnomes
Has left me catatonic
From my cat-tharsis in the catacombs
Why oh why oh why
Oh that eel eye from Ely
E leaves me at a loss
I can't but wonder why
My son the bear
By the name of Bear
Oh where oh where's he gone?
Gone without a care, where?
Play like the Bird, bird
Least on the street it's word
With a fifth or seventh, or even a third
Play like a demon spurred
Then let it be, you bee
You buzzed and buzzing busy bee
For so it goes and so it be
Winged and striped, and stinging me
Last of all Aardvarks and Otters
Do like Zebras what they oughta
With striped pants they peel pataters
In animal prison, tough tamaters
-bushman
06/28/2017
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 28, 2017 - 03:40pm PT
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for everyone who wears a long jacket ~
Fall Fashion Show
Spectacularly unfashionable
Malodorous, too
As much as possible Out of Fashion
Worse than murderers or arsonists
Laces un-laced and Faces un-washed
Hairy-faced and often too loud
Swaggering slow and eying the crowd
They are on their ways to stardom
Ragged, rugged, rope-slung rare birds
Sporting bedraggled plumage
Their clothing mostly left-overs
From their former lives
They never moulted, but simply bolted
For the heights, seeking weather suitable
For their clothes and, finding it here,
They gather at dusk in round pools of light
Sharing their food, their hope, some wine and dope
Somehow they learn they can mostly cope
With the wind and the heat and the rain and the beater cars
While watching Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.*
--Paddy Goniad
* Take that, Kerouac.
Would just like to note that eccentricity is what made this country "GREAT."
"Conformity, hah!"--Bumhug
Monk - Straight No Chaser
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ujChUYkPvec
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jun 28, 2017 - 05:03pm PT
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Touché for Clichés
I'm biding my time
And not biting a dime
Nor putting on airs
But growing lots of hairs
In all the wrong places
Like disappointments and disgraces
As time goes by
And I'll tell you no lies
Just the usual tall tales
Never ends then without fail
Don't give me that line
Oh yeah, now you're feeling fine
For once were the days
Of no regrets or malaise
But soon you'll feel the burn
No deposit no return
So put up or shut up
I'm your daisy, Buttercup
-bushman
06/28/2017
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 28, 2017 - 06:54pm PT
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I've never et huckleberries much less been one b'longing to 'nother guy.
Well, bye. I said what I had to...
but, y'know, it seems like I meant to say something besides that.
Trainin' Wheels on My Tritecycle
The memory wheel goes round and round
up and down
up and down
The memory wheel goes up and down
round and round
round and round
That wasn't what I was thinking. Oh...of course...it was my old train of thought pulling into the station and it's a long one. Landed right in my wheelhouse as I awoke from a bit of siesterly nappery. It was Kerouac, that rude bastard. He's always awake so everyone else has to play along. I'm tired of it, m'self. Bushed, in fact. "Define Bushed, Mouse." This from Clinton, blowin' sax out the back of the bus at the fading past. "Define Bullshitted," I yell back, but the words go drifting off unheard in the rush of wind, the vigorous vibrations of his reedy brass thing. I'm more concerned over this, though: Should Bowie be driving so soon after his demise? What would Iman say? That lass used to scare the hell out of me, so tall and dark and planely well-modeled. She did look good steppin' out with the Zigster, though. But this is for real and we don't need to die because some skinny-ass rockstar decided to transform himself yet again.
(breathe)
Where was I when he died? It'll come to me. Would be weird if I was listening to one of his tunes. What would be weirder would be if we ALL were listening to one of his tunes when he croaked. What would be weirder yet would be if we were ALL listening to the SAME Bowie tune at the same time. So the mantra becomes: Where were you on 1/16? Or if you're a peein', Où étiez-vous le 16/1?
[Click to View YouTube Video]Of course the date is right. Why?
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jun 28, 2017 - 09:43pm PT
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The Valley Pimento
There once was a lad
Who came from Sacramento
Who soloed everything in sight
And studied quattrocento
He free soloed down in Mexico
Sendero Luminoso
Then sent three Valley big walls
In a one day virtuoso
There once was a lad
Who hailed from Sacramento
He free soloed huge El Capitan
Just to find a ripe pimento
So get your Hannold's Olives
As a keepsake or memento
Before free soloing is outlawed
By a government pronunciamento
Hannold's Olives are endorsed
By dear Doctor Demento
And sell only by the jar
For a hundred and seventy pesos
There among us climbs a lad
Who comes from Sacramento
He solos everything he sees
To find his ripe pimento
-bushman
06/28/2017
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 29, 2017 - 05:41am PT
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jun 29, 2017 - 06:21am PT
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Why I Write Poetry
Why do I write poetry or simple silly rhymes? There is a satisfaction to sorting out words into a kind of order, an order for which to chart my wandering imagination, an imagination in which my dreams combine with whimsy framing a singular or collective attitude or point of view.
Or maybe it's simpler than that. Most of the time there is nothing too serious or factual about my poetry. Images discordant, like random rattling noises along a mental drainpipe, where the downspout clogs upon occasion and requires an auger for expungement.
So perhaps that is the essence of it. My poems are but the roto-rootered mental excrement piled up outside the porto-potty of my mind. Go get a firehose, yo! Ah, but wade through it, hold your nose, and look about you.
Occasionally I write poems about water or features of the natural world. Rare and simple, those are some of my favorites. But I do like the random romps through a carnival freak show or fun house. Man, do we look freaky in those mirrors.
-bushman
06/29/2017
PS
Mouse, the 'Fall Fashion Show' by Paddy Goniad was excellent. Thank you for posting that. I hope yesterday's funk has begun to dissipate.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jun 29, 2017 - 09:04am PT
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In this Place
Late to bed and late to rise
I wipe the cobwebs from my eyes
To see the world how it should be
When troubles never bothered me
A near unbroken row of ants
Where sunlight falls and shadows dance
Navigate the garden hose
To come and go where no one knows
Beyond in brilliant yellow light
The dry grass contrasts to the night
In a morning where I stumble forth
With thoughts both here and way up north
A pilgrimage is set for me
But for the moment I only see
The woody podocarpus trees
Swaying gently in the breeze
A so so bill of so so health
Worth more than all earthly wealth
For now is more than I can ask
Grateful in that I now bask
And breathe the breath of kings again
Beyond these ills and mortal pains
That plague the world living around
Excepting once this place I've found
To linger here in the garden space
With birds and beasts in their own pace
Where a peace is secreted away
And carried with throughout the day
-bushman
06/29/2017
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 29, 2017 - 09:51am PT
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As for myself, sometimes I feel like a capering thing
Up on a stage expected to dance and to sing
Fresh ideas and fresh cilantro mix themselves in my brain
for however long a time and come out as salsa for the Taco
Like one of the dirtbags I poeticized on the Camp 4 runway
I model what others have created in a different form or another genre
There are no consequences for failure to please
This is what keeps me content to write what I sees
To write it with no great concern about Peter
Or the great book he keeps that's in strict pentameter...
In the end all poets are Dead Poets.
ERGO, what do I care that the world continues without me and ignores my words when I'm dead myself?
Little. Very, very little, my tree-climbing friend.
It means more to SEE a smile on a face
Or to READ words like yours that express your enjoyment.
It doesn't take much, you see, to feed the ego of one like me.
The best thing about our poetry is it is free,
Just like the best things in life.
So let me just say it's fun to have fun with another liker of verse for better or worse, but I'm not married to that. I can get serious, but why?
We are like two old dogs who still have some play left in them.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 29, 2017 - 10:06am PT
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In fact,
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jun 29, 2017 - 11:19am PT
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...you are correct, sir!
Like an old pair of shoes
Always useful if only for
Two four legged friends
Or in a smoothie
With fruit puréed
And deliciously nutritious
From your palate
To the bitter end...
-Lord Alfred Tennie's Son
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