bushman sweeps our kitchen

Discussion Topic

Return to Forum List

This thread has been locked

Messages 1 - 8 of total 8 in this topic

Norwegian

Trad climber

dancin on the tip of god's middle finger

Topic Author's Original Post - Oct 1, 2015 - 04:54am PT

this pad is full of bags
and bachelors; drinking,
hard-climbing fools.

fighting and insulting the ladies, we.
posting tasteless photo-stamps
of our barely-respectable adventures.

messing things up in general.
yelling our heads off.

and in comes bushman.
with a poetic broom
and amicable demeanor.

stepping around our
wretched, sweating, flailing frames
while sweeping up our emotional spoils.

though he's a lifetime logger
and tobin's little brother;
though he's been to the bottom
of the bottle and back,
dragging himself at eden
with fettered feet,

he somehow has graduated
unto grace;
broke the damn stride-shackles
of shame
and now wears among
us a crown of humility
beaming forth
golden prose
in a poetic structure
that completely strips
the utility from
our strangled communication medium
and leaves only art,
with his message
a bystander,
idling next to
the expression.

thanks bushman.
it is always significant
to meet someone
who knows no other
way than extraordinary.

climber

California dreamin' on the farside of the world..

Oct 1, 2015 - 06:19am PT

That was beautiful, Weege.

feralfae

Boulder climber

in the midst of a metaphysical mystery

Oct 1, 2015 - 07:24am PT

Weeg,
That is a beautiful bit of word-smithing. Also a wonderful message. Thank you.
feralfae

Bushman

Social climber

Elk Grove, California

Oct 1, 2015 - 07:33am PT

Thanks Weej,

As ice anoints the peak of crooked knee
I read with pride this praise so far unwarranted
A smirk of smug unworthiness
Working like a smudge across my cheek
When words o Weej elicit welcomed laughter
Blurted from below my 'humble brow'
Thanks for that, Sir Weej
I feel so much better now

-bushman

mouse from merced

Trad climber

The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.

Oct 1, 2015 - 08:17am PT

Your word-smithy seems to have a back-log, Bushperson.

The generation of quality poems by you in the past several months have provided me with endless hours of emulation, most to no satisfactory conclusion.

The mind works like a river works:
There are log-jams of thoughts.
There are the whirlpools of lost rhymes.
There are crumbling banks of weak imagery.
There are long runs of ideas with no outlet,
damming up and breaking loose constantly.
There are quiet runs where pleasant couplets,
titillating triplets, and cute little quatrains flow by 'neath the scrunched-up brow.
Once in a while a lunker comes to the surface and reveals himself,
only to sink back to the bed of the stream of consciousness,
out of my control.
And there are flash floods, where ideas just fly by, waiting for rescue.
There are the 'big trees' of fallen poets across the stream, too,
thus giving us access to the 'other side' with their classic words.
And it all flows eventually somewhere.
The Lake of Humanity is large and its depths are un-plumbed.
These poems we make will raise the level of the lake if we are not careful.
Then there will be a flood of useless old words on the land.
If we lived to a great old age, like a Sequoia, maybe we can fill the lake in a trillion billion years.
Meanwhile, the petals keep fallin',
the moon still rises into the lake,
and the sun still sets in splendor somewhere, every day.

You need your toilet bowls scrubbed, weej, I'll be your 'volunteer.'

WTF did you do to your knee, Bushman? Get better soon. You spend your time wisely by scribblin' such fine mind-wine. This is a vintage year for your talent.

Oh, and there will be a meeting of the Drunk Poets Society next week on The Flames. Ya comin', weej? We'll be roasting Bukowski and Thomas.

Bushman

Social climber

Elk Grove, California

Oct 1, 2015 - 10:27am PT

Wow Mouse,
Somehow I was reminded of a favorite old song by,
of course you know...

"Brokedown Palace"

Fare you well my honey
Fare you well my only true one
All the birds that were singing
Have flown except you alone

Goin to leave this Broke-down Palace
On my hands and my knees I will roll roll roll
Make myself a bed by the waterside
In my time - in my time - I will roll roll roll

In a bed, in a bed
by the waterside I will lay my head
Listen to the river sing sweet songs
to rock my soul

River gonna take me
Sing me sweet and sleepy
Sing me sweet and sleepy
all the way back back home
It's a far gone lullaby
sung many years ago
Mama, Mama, many worlds I've come
since I first left home

Goin home, goin home
by the waterside I will rest my bones
Listen to the river sing sweet songs
to rock my soul

Goin to plant a weeping willow
On the banks green edge it will grow grow grow
Sing a lullaby beside the water
Lovers come and go - the river roll roll roll

Fare you well, fare you well
I love you more than words can tell
Listen to the river sing sweet songs
to rock my soul

-Robert Hunter, Jerry Garcia
(of The Grateful Dead)