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| Messages 1 - 910 of total 910 in this topic |
Mtnmun
Trad climber
Top of the Mountain Mun
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Topic Author's Original Post - May 31, 2008 - 04:48pm PT
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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.
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Mtnmun
Trad climber
Top of the Mountain Mun
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Topic Author's Reply - May 31, 2008 - 05:31pm PT
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SS, what happened to your other poem? Did you write these, they are wonderful.
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Standing Strong
Trad climber
the secret life of T*R
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May 31, 2008 - 06:13pm PT
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i deleted it cuz i thot it 2 much 2 share
yes i wrote them
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Ouch!
climber
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May 31, 2008 - 07:06pm PT
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Grouchy................
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Mighty Hiker
Social climber
Vancouver, B.C.
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May 31, 2008 - 07:08pm PT
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T*R artfully avoids awkward questions about her job interview...
ps Note use of alliteration.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The hear and now, currently Pasadena, CA
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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.
Fletch
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d-know
Trad climber
electric lady land
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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
thing
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
England
what a pity they can't all be kicked over
like sickening toadstools, and left to melt back, swiftly
into the soil of England.
http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/37
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Fish Finder
Social climber
THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART
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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."
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L
climber
A place with cats...bare naked cats...
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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?
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Mtnmun
Trad climber
Top of the Mountain Mun
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 11, 2008 - 10:23am PT
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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.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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May 11, 2012 - 01:21pm PT
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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)
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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May 12, 2012 - 06:00pm PT
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Here's another from a wonderful poet (sorry to say he left us way too early):
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)
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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May 14, 2012 - 03:33am PT
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Good stuff MSM and Donald!
Eric
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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May 16, 2012 - 11:42pm PT
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Entrance
(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)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
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May 17, 2012 - 06:11pm PT
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By Helen Louise Blank
Phoenix, AZ
Feet
(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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Norwegian
Trad climber
Placerville, California
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May 17, 2012 - 08:27pm PT
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enslaved as reality's bitch.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
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May 21, 2012 - 02:32am PT
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Frankly, Wee J, I thought it was humorous. Genteel ain't happening with you, ya perp. there is no reason for slur. We just went through that, man.
Let me tell ya I been to the place I love the best
I haven't any photos but I got some views
The Swan Slab wske-up was sweet as sin
This lovely lady oak (a blue, I think, but I'm not as smart as Muir, whose bench I slept "neath)
She spread her boughs to me and shared them with the alarm-bell jays
Welcome, brother, they said, rest a bit more
And the mind photoshopped the blue background from the ground
With the arms of the woody nymph spread with delicate green nails on her hands
Swan Slab's a good place to park, if alone, and it's dark
I probably fell asleep where Muir might have.
That is photo one of my trip report.
The shot from the ground at the bench.
After rolling my pad there was a nut dropped by some trad
And I had slept on it. No one training there claimed it.
My lucky day was well-begun.
Then I visited SAR, met two new friends.
I was building a rack, hardly out of the sack.
Coffee and bagels to a stranger returned,
Tales of speed climbs and dream climbs
And all manner of shenanigans.
So I am selling gear today, I feel I could sell cheap
While sitting on Raffi's bench reading H.L. Blank.
"Against the winter sky
Behold the elegant pecan.
Dark flowers cling
Long after summer's gone.
The winds may sing
God's praise upon the lyre
Of her arms uplifted."
automatic +1 for the Weej.
another shot or two from the Swan
then I'll move on
The profile of YPB, the Castle Cliffs, the Lost Arrow Tip, and the Upper Falls,
Hidden by the slope of Swan as it plunges into the growth at its base.
You are standing on the trail which passes through the area.
The second shot is kind of grim.
By standing at the base of Lenna's Lieback and looking up, the trees have grown so much in 41 years, they obscure the view of the upper two pitches.
I would not want to fall into those branches. I took that screamer there in '71 and those branches were nowhere the size they are now. Yuck! I wouldn't want to really press my luck.
Let's get back to Big Columbia boulder and Raffi's bench.
You know he dropped an "a" from his name and Peter Paan picked it up.
So the boy's resting his nogg on his hands lying stretched out on the marble
He's thinking of the Fires of his youth (a "relative youth" even when purchased; God had just learned to "tie His shoes, always tie His shoes") that are in the bag for sale with the iron
He thinks how he hates them they've never been nice,
What the f*#k would good old Helen have to say if I laid that on her?
Back in the darkroom of my mind I am framing the view with my head on the SAR site side of the slab of granite, it's granite, I get it. I just took it for granite it was marble earlier.
so the boulder I'm weejing on the left side, the twisty cedar grows next to it behind the bench is bringing in the right side
snap the shutter and you see mainly tree
its branches spiral. its trunk twists. its barry bates in the fiber!
bump for the tree which has mastered the lightning and the bench which lies below
and Columbia's the gem of my notion
Helen was my wife's stepfather's mother.
Why all the blank looks?
And the sun sinks west of Screamy Valley.
And the lights wink on.
And the dreams move in.
But I'm back on the bus.
(Barking Dog Good dog Good beer)
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Wayno
Big Wall climber
Seattle, WA
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May 21, 2012 - 04:04am PT
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Frothing forth through my insipid dilemma
Aw fuhget about it...
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Da_Dweeb
climber
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May 21, 2012 - 10:49am PT
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I used to wonder what friendship could be.
Then I took an arrow to the knee.
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tom Carter
Social climber
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May 21, 2012 - 12:54pm PT
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Introduction to Poetry
BY BILLY COLLINS
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
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MikeL
climber
SANTA CLARA, CA
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May 21, 2012 - 01:15pm PT
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To die, to sleep—
No more, and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to—'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep.
To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil
Must give us pause.
(Hamlet: 3, 1, I)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
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May 21, 2012 - 01:22pm PT
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The Diners' Club, or
Carter Blanche
Sitting at the laureate's table
sipping his wine.
Bending my ear to his wicked
witchy wit.
Twitchy I sit until
it's my turn to squeak.
The r's roll and the ums hum.
Speaking in tongues with a mouthful,
I said,
Looking him in the eye with a stalk of celery,
"I can't for the life of me figure out what you are saying."
Too much Sauvignon Bland.
Too much Blank verse.
It gives me paws to think I am drunk on wine and what's worse,
Verse.
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tom Carter
Social climber
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May 22, 2012 - 01:09am PT
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Very Nice BB
Here's another -
"Hard Rain,"
by Tony Hoagland
After I heard It's a Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall
played softly by an accordion quartet
through the ceiling speakers at the Springdale Shopping Mall,
I understood there's nothing
we can't pluck the stinger from,
nothing we can't turn into a soft drink flavor or a t-shirt.
Even serenity can become something horrible
if you make a commercial about it
using smiling, white-haired people
quoting Thoreau to sell retirement homes
in the Everglades, where the swamp has been
drained and bulldozed into a nineteen-hole golf course
with electrified alligator barriers.
You can't keep beating yourself up, Billy
I heard the therapist say on television
to the teenage murderer,
About all those people you killed—
You just have to be the best person you can be,
one day at a time—
and everybody in the audience claps and weeps a little,
because the level of deep feeling has been touched,
and they want to believe that
the power of Forgiveness is greater
than the power of Consequence, or History.
Dear Abby:
My father is a businessman who travels.
Each time he returns from one of his trips,
his shoes and trousers
are covered with blood-
but he never forgets to bring me a nice present;
Should I say something?
Signed, America.
I used to think I was not part of this,
that I could mind my own business and get along,
but that was just another song that had been taught to me since birth—
whose words I was humming under my breath,
as I was walking through the Springdale Mall.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
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May 25, 2012 - 08:39pm PT
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A Simple-minded vision of a twisted fire.
Stayin' alive on Turtle Island.
The Ouch-less F*#ks or Deeper than Love.
The Bee vs. the Wasp.
Championismo.
Grasping at Straws.
Elbow of El Cap: Tales of Nerve.
Winding Wind River Stories.
Los An-jealous/Los Angle-ees.
Summer's Midnight Dream of "Avondale" Bard.
All titles of stuff I'd like to compose.
Too lazy.
Also, like Ed Hartouni observed regards Robson,
"I'd have to want to go through that kind of suffering...and even then it's a crap shoot."
I obviously need...Music!
Something to which I could perchance poeticize to.
A nightmare a dream a reality a fake
It's all the same asleep/awake
Rilke Mozart
Rocky Raccoon
All the same
Even though
It's all the same.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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May 27, 2012 - 06:23pm PT
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Mysteries, Yes
Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
to be understood.
How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds
will never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.
Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.
Let me keep company always with those who say
"Look!" and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(Evidence)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
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May 28, 2012 - 09:52pm PT
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The Pie Shop, Tahoe. Wedgie, I, 5.3.14159
Mary Oliver got me thinking of peace. Then I thought of the olives in my Mom's tamale pie. This nostalgia led to pies I had eaten before.
It was a transcendent moment. The circle of my thoughts came to nothing. Which is represented by a circle.
With no further circumlocution, remember happiness runs in a circular motion, according to Donovan Leitch, not in a straight line.
If inside a circle line
Hits the center and goes spine to spine
And the length's line is "d,"
The circumference will be
d times 3 point 1 4 1 5 9.
Simple Simon met a pi man
Going to the fair.
Said Simple Simon to the pi man,
"You have unusual ware.
The pies I've seen were round
But, gosh, your pi's are square."
Joni's Pi Conic Song
The Circle Game
Yesterday, a child came out to wander
Caught a dragonfly inside a jar
Fearful when the sky was full of thunder
And tearful at the falling of a star.
Then, the child moved ten times 'round the seasons
Skated over ten clear frozen streams
Words like, "When you're older," must appease him
And promises of someday make his dreams.
Sixteen springs and sixteen summers gone now
Cartwheels turn to car wheels through the town
And they tell him, "Take your time it won't be long now
Til you drag your feet to slow the circles down."
So the years spin by and now the boy is twenty
Though his dreams have lost some grandeur coming true
There'll be new dreams, maybe better dreams and plenty
Before the last revolving year is through.
And the seasons, they go 'round and 'round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return, we can only look behind
From where we came
And go 'round and 'round
In the circle game
And go 'round and 'round in the circle game.
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Norwegian
Trad climber
Placerville, California
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May 29, 2012 - 09:55am PT
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more word art than poetry,
i am a mountain.
well-being and prosperity, mountainears.
up me they climb until
they find my highest.
enjoy a brief reprieve, they.
life then unleashes good storms
and my crown of respectability
comes a-avalanching down in the form
of illness and bad habits.
i just stand here, geo-like.
the fleeting life seeds
they come and they go
and i am hardly phased.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Like the train of your thought, MfM! Need to get the schedule so I can jump on at the next stop.
Sublime, weeg.
More Mary Oliver:
Can You Imagine?
For example, what the trees do
not only in lightening storms
or the watery dark of a summer's night
or under the white nets of winter
but now, and now, and now - whenever
we're not looking. Surely you can't imagine
they don't dance, from the root up, wishing
to travel a little, not cramped so much as wanting
a better view, or more sun, or just as avidly
more shade - surely you can't imagine they just
stand there loving every
minute of it, the birds or the emptiness, the dark rings
of the years slowly and without a sound
thickening, and nothing different unless the wind,
and then only in its own mood, comes
to visit, surely you can't imagine
patience, and happiness, like that.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(Long Life)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
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The tree felled the climber
Inside each tree is a circle
One flat round plane set atop another
An infant, it numbers its chances to survive as good
There are an infinite number of possiblities
It might grow fast or slow
It might grow high or low
It might grow wide or slim
It might grow up to be matchsticks
Take those matchsticks and burn the forest down
The trees will make mock and return
Boulder-makers
Beetle-feeders
Gymnasiums for the quadruped tribe
Home to billions of arthropods
Lonely on Sentinel and Point Lobos
And the flag of the state of my mind
Grow where you are planted
Take nothing for granted
How can a tree be
Smarter than me?
Fletcher, it's not a train of thought so much as a bumper car ride of the imagination, non-scheduled and destined who knows where?
No mileage restrictions, though.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
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Eye Can't See Underground!
The roots of the tree of which we listen are the froots.
They lie beneath the soil up in the Top Forty.
Bod Dylan's a root. The Roots are his froots.
Jimmy, please don't fall on me. Thank you, Jimmy Fallon, for Thank Yous.
This child is spoiled enough.
! can't say much good about Rod McKuen's pottery, but he seems like he was a nice guy. Just a mediocre poet.
It's why they aren't called the Rods.
But what ! meant to say,
About whom ! meant to speak,
He lies in bed awake,
To think.
Perchance to climb.
To write.
To finish where the Eagles fear to play,
Where soloes are the only way to go,
The froots of his labor devoured
By apes like !.
(thanks for the p.m., Norv. Heart of the World.)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
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Toast a Reply
There was a time a short time back ago,
When I used to have to repeat myself to myself
To remember there is no I in me.
If that means anything to me
It is meaningless to thee
Unless thou read me again.
These are my thoughts
And now they are yours,
A gift, me to thee.
The article I saw in Dot's Me magazine?
That the last thing I would have thought of.
Period.
Who ate my Post Toasties
And left me none?
Guess I'll have some Texas Flakes and listen to Janis sing.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
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Just saying,
If a video is posted, let it be a ballad, a poem set to music.
I guess that's a ballad. Here's a good example, even if she was a Texan.
The Rose of Port Arthur.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Jun 29, 2012 - 10:29am PT
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A Rescue
Today I wrote some words that will see print.
Maybe they will last "forever," in that
someone will read them, their ink making
a light scratch on his mind, or hers.
I think back with greater satisfaction
upon a yellow bird--a goldfinch?--
that had flown into the garden shed
and could not get out,
battering its wings on the deceptive light
of the dusty, warped-shut window.
Without much reflection, for once, I stepped
to where its panicked heart
was making commotion, the flared wings drumming,
and with clumsy soft hands
pinned it against a pane,
held loosely cupped
this agitated essence of the air,
and through the open door released it,
like a self-flung ball,
to all that lovely perishing outdoors.
~ John Updike ~
(Americana, 2001)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
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Jun 30, 2012 - 06:16pm PT
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"Blue Bowls and Hoses"
Been gone two weeks
But it seems like yesterday
They left me and took my heart away
While my bowl gently leaks.
They'll be back soon
Can't be soon enough for me
Cause I'm just lying here in misery
Just four days left in June
Geraniums, compadres to the roses,
We both love the leaky hoses;
Don't we, polemoniums?
Bring back, bring back,
Oh bring back the family to me.
B.Bermingham
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
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Jun 30, 2012 - 06:22pm PT
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"The Dog Nanny"
The dame I'm watching is a Shepherd.
She in turn is watching a bug crawl by her nose.
Such a vast difference in size!
As I watch them, I wonder
Who might be watching me?
I can believe in gods, or "a God,"
In beings being greater than I can see
In reality or in my mind's eyes.
I would like to believe in a female Shepherd,
Benevolent, watchful, and unworried
That I might eventually figure out Her game
And thus spoil the surprise.
I lean silently down as she sniffs her new-found pet
And I gently whisper in her big old ear,
"Boo, Dawg!"
She rolls over on her back and wags her tale.
I hope that I am able to do the same
When some mythtical Dame
Leans down and gently whispers my name.
B.Bermingham
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froodish
Social climber
Portland, Oregon
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Jun 30, 2012 - 06:32pm PT
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One Train May Hide Another - Kenneth Koch
In a poem, one line may hide another line,
As at a crossing, one train may hide another train.
That is, if you are waiting to cross
The tracks, wait to do it for one moment at
Least after the first train is gone. And so when you read
Wait until you have read the next line--
Then it is safe to go on reading.
In a family one sister may conceal another,
So, when you are courting, it's best to have them all in view
Otherwise in coming to find one you may love another.
One father or one brother may hide the man,
If you are a woman, whom you have been waiting to love.
So always standing in front of something the other
As words stand in front of objects, feelings, and ideas.
One wish may hide another. And one person's reputation may hide
The reputation of another. One dog may conceal another
On a lawn, so if you escape the first one you're not necessarily safe;
One lilac may hide another and then a lot of lilacs and on the Appia Antica one tomb
May hide a number of other tombs. In love, one reproach may hide another,
One small complaint may hide a great one.
One injustice may hide another--one colonial may hide another,
One blaring red uniform another, and another, a whole column. One bath may hide another bath
As when, after bathing, one walks out into the rain.
One idea may hide another: Life is simple
Hide Life is incredibly complex, as in the prose of Gertrude Stein
One sentence hides another and is another as well. And in the laboratory
One invention may hide another invention,
One evening may hide another, one shadow, a nest of shadows.
One dark red, or one blue, or one purple--this is a painting
By someone after Matisse. One waits at the tracks until they pass,
These hidden doubles or, sometimes, likenesses. One identical twin
May hide the other. And there may be even more in there! The obstetrician
Gazes at the Valley of the Var. We used to live there, my wife and I, but
One life hid another life. And now she is gone and I am here.
A vivacious mother hides a gawky daughter. The daughter hides
Her own vivacious daughter in turn. They are in
A railway station and the daughter is holding a bag
Bigger than her mother's bag and successfully hides it.
In offering to pick up the daughter's bag one finds oneself confronted by the mother's
And has to carry that one, too. So one hitchhiker
May deliberately hide another and one cup of coffee
Another, too, until one is over-excited. One love may hide another love or the same love
As when "I love you" suddenly rings false and one discovers
The better love lingering behind, as when "I'm full of doubts"
Hides "I'm certain about something and it is that"
And one dream may hide another as is well known, always, too. In the Garden of Eden
Adam and Eve may hide the real Adam and Eve.
Jerusalem may hide another Jerusalem.
When you come to something, stop to let it pass
So you can see what else is there. At home, no matter where,
Internal tracks pose dangers, too: one memory
Certainly hides another, that being what memory is all about,
The eternal reverse succession of contemplated entities. Reading A Sentimental Journey look around
When you have finished, for Tristram Shandy, to see
If it is standing there, it should be, stronger
And more profound and theretofore hidden as Santa Maria Maggiore
May be hidden by similar churches inside Rome. One sidewalk
May hide another, as when you're asleep there, and
One song hide another song; a pounding upstairs
Hide the beating of drums. One friend may hide another, you sit at the foot of a tree
With one and when you get up to leave there is another
Whom you'd have preferred to talk to all along. One teacher,
One doctor, one ecstasy, one illness, one woman, one man
May hide another. Pause to let the first one pass.
You think, Now it is safe to cross and you are hit by the next one. It can be important
To have waited at least a moment to see what was already there.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
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Jun 30, 2012 - 09:05pm PT
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"It's One Deja Vu After Another"
We have all heard it all before:
Bottom of the ninth, one man on third, two outs.
Yogi is managing, and says, "I'd seen this situation so many times I lost count. I just said tell me what happens this time."
"Rizzuto: "So that makes four times, right?"
"Bartlett's Only MVP"
Shakespeare shaped the language,
Some say he invented it.
Wilde and Shaw spun expressions of unrelenting wit.
Whitman taught the mother tongue
How to sing for us;
Yeats scaled the beauty of her lonely peaks.
Joyce uncovered something new,
And so did Eliot.
But unlike Yogi,
None of them could hit.
from The Yogi Poems, Raphael Badagliacca
"they say Yogi Berra is funny. Well, he has a lovely wife and family, a beautiful home, money in the bank, and he plays golf with millionaires. What's funny about that?"--Casey Stengel
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Norwegian
Trad climber
Placerville, California
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Jun 30, 2012 - 09:15pm PT
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the human brain pulses and
thrashes about it's containment sell,
it has been imprisoned within biological circumstance,
though it is mature beyond it's prescribed purpose
and thus we get something outta life that is beyond common,
though common is the thread pulled behind the needle that sews
the horoin ninandoutta arms,
and we unravel against societal will
and the cops try to corral the wonder,
thru and through the paridigms that strangle
our's understanding shift and slip and leap and
rip wide open the female politician's underwear,
and lobby consumation entrails
new realities borne of wreckless infidelities
now became policy.
"and the rainbow ends
and my sails are fillin'
and the wind is willin'
that im good as gone again."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
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Let Down Thy Hair
Imprisoned bitch,
The fickle muse.
Try to please,
She'll just refuse.
Make a rhyme,
It's just no use.
Face it, man,
The god must choose.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
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This one's for when the "Wind Is from the South" and the climate suits your clothes, but the climbing just isn't helping you out of your mood. I been there.
Bert's Blues on the Rocks
a Donovan rip-off
Been a-lookin' for a good climb, but it's taking time
A-Been a lookin' for a good line
A-one to please my mind as well as my time
I've been singing in the evening
Flying through the night
But I hurt my good hand
I hope I make out right
Flying through the night
I've been picking up the sunshine
I've been drinking down the rain, girl
I've been picking up the sunshine
A-Makes me think on when I'll climb here again
You know time could bring a change, now
It ain't for me to say
A-You'll soon be out of range, now
A-This could only be the way it's meant to be
Fairy castle stark and black in the moonlight
The jungle jangle jester rides his stallion
Seagull flies across my eyes forever
Sadly goes the wind on its way to Hades
Would I, should I, could I be a stranger?
I shall walk right by and sigh goodbye
Lucifer calls his legions from the hillside
Sadly goes the wind on its way to Hades
thanks to zBrown for that one
and Norwegian for the 'inspirazione alla Dante' (wind)
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Psalm for the 4th
Psalm 122
I rejoiced when I heard them announce,
“The time of warfare is past.
No more will brother hate brother
or violence have its way.
No more will they drown out God’s silence
and shut their hearts to his song.”
Pray for peace in the cities
and harmony among the races.
May peace come to live on our streets
and justice within our walls.
With all my heart I will pray
that peace comes to live among us.
For the sake of all earth’s people,
I will do my utmost for peace.
(The Psalms, trans. by Stephen Mitchell)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
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Aug 22, 2012 - 02:00am PT
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Hoppy's Favorite
Chocolate martinis.
Buttermilk schnapps.
The Grack arrack attack.
I'm too schnockered.
Let's go a rappello!
Great idea!
Find us battered and bruised like an olive.
For we went pub-crawling on the Apron.
We will never do it again, winos literally on and among the rocks.
See the blood pooling in my socks.
We heard but had not listened.
Splashed on the rubble, our blood glistened.
Echoes of an epic rock fall surround my phantom.
It's curious that the dying trees can hear me, but you cannot.
[Drinking is dangerous. Drink and climb at your own risk.]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
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Aug 25, 2012 - 01:26am PT
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//Ewe, Eye, Yew, We, Us
"Uiouious"//
Stimulus hummus hump us humorous generous ludicrous succubus homuculus impetuous.
You bet you us, you infectious Austalopithecus.
Omnibus obvious zealous contemptuous religious impecunious pernicious precious fatuous languorous platypus/octopus eucalyptus from Uranus.
St. Lous suicide issue Sue sous le mousse souffle shuffle.
Extemporaneous thus plus the must of crust in the dust.
Discuss the dangerous rhinocerus,
Lustrous in the cirrus above us.
Will you still love me when I'm super-annuous, cantakerous, a dependent in pendulous Depends?
Ridiculous and infamous, anything but both fast and bulbous.
Dean Rusk, autonomous, but not anonymous;
St. Nicholas, mysterious, luminous, despite his love for chimneys;
Marcus Aurelius, glorious, sagacious;
Los Angeles, rebellious, obvious.
Dude says: Great plan, Walter. That's f*#king ingenious.
Dennace the Menis, amorous emeritus;
Ambrus Americus, golden opportunist, or so it would seem to us;
Ponderous Ludovidicus and gracious Amadeus, each vicious and vivacious;
Jebus Bombz and zBrown, bogus zavior y zilly le Bruce, voulez-vous du Mateus?
Jesus and Beelzebus, ambitious and ambidexterous:
They all got together, did the dishes, and send best wishes.
So why fuss the discus, Justus? It's useluss, and less than unless. It's obstreperous and aduterous and nauseous and gaseous. I'm delirious. I'm serious. Aren't you curious?
Imerious furious bilious scandalous horribilis.
Germanicus and Britannicus and Arabicus cum Africanus.
Justice must bust in early August.
Amicus Mus mus is friends with us.
Captain Caribou, Leviticus' mucous blunderbuss, Meniscus, assures us,
t*r is a courageous narcissus.
(u*r no daisy, u*r a daffodil.)
Like. (Stop liking this.)
The Dreaded Credits:
Word architecture and meticulous punctuation inspired by Weej.
Lewd thoughts of Melissa Theuriau and a look at her thesaurus are mentioned here, gratuitous.
Reading group:
Use thesauri in a sentence. The sorry son of a bitch...
Suggest an -ous, -us, -uss, word of your own, climbing-related or not, spelt right, if you pleeze.
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hillrat
Trad climber
reno, nv
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Aug 25, 2012 - 09:39am PT
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I once thought I'd go be a climber
Bought all the gear, and did try some
But my partners were lame
They all put me to shame
Now I'm just a pathetic old whiner.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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ed, you posited that last poem on the 25th. I just now read it and Mr. Hine is way up there, isn't he?
He reminds me of Bucky Fuller on a lot of really strong coffee.
The food for thought I removed to my plate is contained in this sentence.
The past cannot matter except as an abstraction,
A flattering cariacature of happy lands
Wherein is many a grand imaginary castle
In fact turns out to be a tourist trap,
A vast palace that adrastic phantoms inhabit.
I'm candid in saying that "adrastic" does not appear in the standard online dictionaries and I have no clue, except its an apposite of drastic.
This is my food for thought.
The line speaks for itself and needs no interpretation, but I wish someone else who cares about poetic expression who reads it might say something. After all, it's a discussion forum.
What's writtten in the past stays not in the past, but goes on into the future sooner or later.--High-brow Yogi-ism
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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One granite ridge
A tree would be enough
Or even a rock, a small creek.
A bark shred in a pool.
Hill beyond hill, folded and twisted
Tough trees crammed
In thin stone fractures
A huge moon on it all, is too much.
The mind wanders. A million
Summers, night air still and the rocks
Warm. Sky over endless mountains.
All the junk that goes with being human
Drops away, hard rock wavers
Even the heavy present seems to fail
This bubble of a heart.
Words and books
Like a small creek off a high ledge
Gone in the dry air.
A clear, attentive mind
Has no meaning but that
Which sees it truly seen.
No one loves rock, yet we are here.
Night chills. A flick
In the moonlight
Slips into juniper shadow.
Back there unseen
Cold proud eyes
Of Cougar or Coyote
Watch me rise and go.
Piute Creek by Gary Snyder
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Sep 17, 2012 - 05:30am PT
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Barcarolle pour mi bemol peigne et du papier
(modestomente mais jivey)
Play your hearts out as I spout
And meanwhile I will fish for trout
And tell you of a night that started with a nightmare
In my dream of going to the Valley,
When my dark imagination led me astray
And I had to listen hard on my way.
Suite Myra Breckenridge!
Is that Vidal lying on his own bier,
It's sure to bring to my eye a tear.
They cried for Mozart in Salzburg, too.
But what's a dirtbagger going to do?
...if the musik dies.
Wipe the tears, dry the eyes.
They're at a Generous Donors for American Musik Sociey
All Comers Giving Appreciation Night bash
Lying side by side midst all that cash,
Grinning at each other,
The maestro and his ardent admyra.
Not that I can handle much of this classical "musik,"
But I'm bummed isn't here. it makes me sick.
Well, Chuck, you Farley. It's free, too, man.
It's no skin off my nose.
And the Toole Royale is stuck in Traffic
On Highway 4, Frosty in the back seat
Striking a pose, prolly thinking of the Nose,
Sleeping like a lullaby gone night-night.
A smile on his lips as always...
That was four days ago, dream-time.
On the fourth day they turned around,
Drove home to shower and came back within the hour
Only to find the road empty.
Suffering like on Watkins,
CM blandly reaches for the Cobar cooler,
Hauls out a frosty one,
Conserving musik for generations to come.
Reveling in his reserved private box,
With overtones of Doom and Conspicuous Consumption,
He is consumed with gobbling Peanuts
While never gaining a pound from all that brew,
Only more glory.
He's the lone audience other than creepy lurking mice.
He turns to me and says,
You must share the musik. Be the musik.
Love the musik as much as the musk.
It's audible love, the way I hear it.
Take my word and just listen to this:
[Click to View YouTube Video] Son, musik, if I learned anything from climbing and drinking and conserving and writing, sought to be shared like beer at a Camp 4 keg party. Except late at night when people are crashing. Use your Buds, your buds, your ear-buds wisely and you will be a happy man. A loving man. Go and honor Amadeus.
Then Royale and Frost and a musical mouse are back on the Mozart again,
Kerouac on the brain, hearing Tchaikovsly in the rain,
Fahey and Kottke and Rawls are over by the Falls...
Altamont II, read the signs, singing, pointy little markers looking like baby angles,
The Ironmonger's children.
But they're keeping out the dirtbags from this one,
Only yuppies and wetbacks and sport climbers can attend.
Charlie, Mick, and Keith have all sold their souls to one another.
This is the real stuff of nightmares, then.
All the Tubers respond: tu.be/pwC8v-evDyQ. Wouldn't you, tu?
Tourons pile in through the day, hoping for their lottery tickets to do them some good,
For this concert is just like the Revolution,
It will not be televised.
But in ever-increasing numbers
And in ever-multiplying rates,
The Tourons and the Morons are pouring through the gates.
And then the Crescent Arch crescendos
And thunder rocks my brain
And lightning strikes my eyes
And I'm howling out in pain.
Then I'm driving through Modesto,
Immoderately. Shotgun goes to Farfel
Looking farly in the side mirror
And he smells Chawklitty Goodness
Orff to the side of the road.
We must stop for a pit.
We're not in that large a charge
To get with the gods. Not yet.
O, melters-in-my-mouth in the gorp mix,
I think you have some competition for my favor.
You'd better ratchet up your flavor.
I can only signal for a left and say,
"Hot Dog Chocolate Mutt, mmmmmm-mm."
Sneeze! A-choo!
Dachsunheit!
Vee had a hund,
Heidi vass her name,
Unt a golden-red cat.
Tigger vass his own downfall.
He had to go for biting Mamma.
So away he went that awful Lent.
Raus-mitten, kitten. Marche!
No fickle friend of mine, Tigger liked me best.
And it was his tail Ma trod,
What would Henri the Nihilist do?
Blame it on the white fool?
Mike, come shoot this fiddle-dee-dee cat,
Mamma's deathly sentence said.
A Latin mass, I said,
Aiming to please the Father-Almighty-of-All-Cats-and-Mice.
And good Heidi wept.
I bet the cows were looking at the moon that night,
Nostalgia in their cuds.
So I grabbed old Farfel's shotgun and blew my mind.
You ran over it the last time you drove to the Vale of Yo.
And I didn't even know you then.
Such a brief, strange friendship on Highway 132.
But you renewed it on the way back to da City,
Trying to get there by dawn
And you drove right through my center mass.
You prolly don't know Latin, so it's cool.
And the dead sheriff swags up and confronts me.
Fine opera, you sing to yourself, mouse.
Who else is gonna listen? Haw!
Do you call that "musik?"
"Meow, miaow, miow" and
"PS I love you."
"Gay Paree," unt zo on, roll out of my mouth.
I do. And I love these songs.
And the more orffen and the harder I listen the better, Pigboy Six.
And then I awakes
Just as she awakes
And spreads her arms
And The Music blends your mind with hers.
How wonderful to she he's now
Orfferin Bach to her my orphan's cry, Mamma!
"I love you, Annie. Read between the lines as all good poets intend.
Know I love you by listening to The Music hard. And without end."
//"Sauvarde a tu, mon pursuivant. Mon cher pursuivant.
Oui can. Oui can. Oui can. Nous allons faire de la musique, musik, ou music. Es-tu le maestro, cher souris?" //
So much to say. I think she thinks she's French today. Encore. So for a time we play "Tag."
She is '"it,' but it is as she wishes.
She is my it, your it, their it, if only they knew it.
She is The Music in my soul.
And then I am still up for "it." TAG. You're conducting.
TAG. I'm conducting. TAG. I'm conducting. But I want my skin flute solo, s'il tu plait.
We are a team: We pronounce our love amid the very best sexy little adjectives, but mostly she is My Object and I am her Odd Verb.
"Merci bien, Annie. Would you like a cup of coffee? We can start a game of Scrabble while it's brewing."
"Bien. Y at-il du cacao? Ya know, I really am craving hot chocolate."
Mais oui. The right and only possile answer.
From the work She Understands French, Right? by Anne Sowego, soprano and reat friend of Fenbach, noted devotee of the French styleDedicated to Gore Vidal and my late wife, Elizabeth Ann.I loved writing this. I hope you enjoy it.All props to the icons mentioned. I am sorry for the typos. they are beyond by control, even if I am the maestro.
This was Liz's only real musical talent, kept under wraps:
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Peigne et papier.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Sep 17, 2012 - 03:43pm PT
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Heh. Now you're all bloated and stunned by my freaky dream...
http://grammar.about.com/od/spelling/a/spellcheck.htm
I hadn't ever read this goodie. Swere too Bhuddha.
This baby was worded on 9/17/2012.
and
I foondly deadicate it to Norweejuju, president of all the woods' genii.
The while I am cooopying I belisten to "Deadicated" songs--below--of Jerry covered by Manny Zgood et Al Arrestides. Born to be Kerouac, settling for Cassady or Cassidy. Real tough choice? I still can't decide which to be. What would my speel-schrekker spray, Hoppy?
Angered in Spite of his/her spell-chukkar
(His account)
Otto-enhanced, it taunts.
Go ahead, fake my day.
Use your spelf-chukkar,
But mine just makes me feel plane stoopid.
Like it is.
I named him/Otto-nomic.
So goe ahead and connect yourself sand
Collect the same. A name like Otto.
A Palin drone.
Or give it the fingus
To I.B. Em and Mike Rowsoft, Dingus.
Itell make you feel bettor.
We sent your letter
Before you wanted, sir.
But the punctoe is perecto,
Just not quite "reflecto" enuff for us.
And the positioning of periods
In a History Poem
Takes more tie 'em to learn
Than the tables of the turning of
The Moon and Tied.
I am bebounded by the differences
Twixt Thee and The
Midst Between and Betwixt
Among Mine and Thine
Amidst Plenty and Want.
I want plenty.
I get both and am left right behind.
Techno and pills do not mix.
Both contributed to this campaign.
And you'd continued
You'd thinked they'd leaved you alone.
So just put me to 'sleep.'
Fregedaboudit.
Off belie.
At least we agree on the spleelingo bivvy.
In your dreams or in mine!
Spell it how you'd want to be spelt.
Wheat the freak.
Sinistra don't care,
He's made it everywhar.
A sinistar, like Fred Astar.
A poet, a popper, upon and aching.
And I know this thing.
I can spell 'the shit' out of 't#*s: the.'
(Her Reply to His Assertions and Insertions
Or Express to Seattle)
Hitch-hiking with two thumbs is toff enoff
Let alone with just the right one
The docks by the bay left me.
Thank for leaving me my Poor Peter, Dr. lloyd "Pricey" Bever.
Your partner Dr. Earl the Eager
And myself commended you for restraint.
Beciding to visit Larry Scuzz Hodad Jokes up in C Attle
In Novembery-short daytime,
I was deliverately deliberated at the door.
42 hours ago I quit Merced.
Beat that, Kerouac!
(Add mission: Stay updated or fade away.)
I left my Airstream in the driveway of my mind.
Garage door wide open, dick hanging out,
I stand and twiddle me dee with my free hand minus one.
Wherever it has gone, I know it looks like me.
What the devil, what the heck.
I'll just spend the rest of my sentences in jail.
Friends not letting friends go when they pass
Is kind of hogging the road.
Let them bye.
"Olympia!" I cried.
It was like I was playing some quiet jazz to myself.
Alone in the Chico Chill of tule fog.
Being myself, by myself,
Selfishly begging the darkness for a lift.
The now-famous on-ramp where I caught a ride
Is lost in the fogetfulness of flowing time.
Time lost is not regained
In the song I heard refrained.
The Dire Warning that morning
Was just Timmy calling out in a nightmare.
I bolted awake when someone actually stoppered.
Another hexcentric Dood in a don't-give-a-f*#k pick-up truck
And we're off to the road.
Yippie-I-O! Yippie-I-A!
I'm gonna get to Seattle today!
Back in sixty-ate
Or forward on Five,
Either way my thumb kept me alive.
Five points
I go.
Through to Scuz
The friend that was
My over-the-back-fence buddy and fellow Flame.
He tutored me in the blues
Brought me my first stash
Took one in the nuts for me
And kept smiling.
The blues'll do that to ya.
They are friends like Hodad,
True blue.
And the blues NEVER lie!
I got where I was going
I'm sure that you will too.
It's a little east of Hatteras
Just north of Mugu.
You can see Seattle for less
Or Yosemite for more.
Just don't overstay your official welcome
If bagging in Camp 4.
Help! I'm stuck in Sixty-four.
I'm lost outside of Stockton
On State Route number Four.
"Oh, honey, that's ridiculous.
I have a map right here."
If your checker is a lady
It errs in favor of
The words that forever bind you
With silly words of luv.
Just follow the sines.
(See Instruction Manual.)
In an effort to stay current, updates have been made which may or may not reflect Ultimate Reality.
"Sound track"
[Click to View YouTube Video] Cassady/Suzanne Vega and Cassidy/1981 GD concert
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Sep 21, 2012 - 11:01pm PT
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I seem to be monopolizing this thread.
See here?
Friday Night Facepuke Ghosting While Drunk
If I like anything other than getting high
If I like anything other than praising 'I'
If I like anything that is 'flyy'
Then I'm not telling it like it is.
Like if I say I'm cool with that
It doesn't mean that it;s all that
But if you like,
Why a vis-a-vis?
We need to chat?
What's up with that?
You got a cat,
Go seek his 'Gee, Whiz.'
I am a Seven-Up fan,
In a bottle or a can.
It's part of their plan
To be liked. It is.
The bubbles fade,
The drinkers jade,
And I have made...
Synthesis.
I like wine.
I hate whine.
One more line.
There it is.
Like,
Lust,
Love,
Puke.
It's Friday, thank God I like Her.
Check out Her profile on Facepuke.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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The Mouse
What I imagine a mouse to be
is a small, furry brown creature
that constantly poops itself
in every and any situation.
"I found a piece of bread!" it exclaims,
and defecates all over itself and its treasure.
It runs and it poops, it sniffs and it poops,
it stops and poops and the mouse is elated;
it cannot get enough of it.
"And to what do I owe this pleasure?"
it says to its poop, a neat pile left behind.
And there is just so much of it,
a mountain of it, warm and steamy,
the mouse imagines it animates
and cannot contain itself when it speaks.
"There is not enough of me! Work harder!
You filthy animal! I am unhhappy!"
And the mouse works harder.
It runs faster, it eats copiously,
it scurries and poops so much until
it shrivels and dies in the corner,
exhausted from the day's work.
Wesley Golangco
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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"Many Facelift is an old Indian with whom I spoke and smoked with one night in the forest at the mystically-numbered ninth gathering of the trash. Yellow Pine, he muttered,
to believe, with me, that there are many mysteries contained in poetry which of purpose were written darkly, lest by profane wits it should be abused
MFM (he's MiWok, so...) quoted Phil Sidney from the sixteenth century. I recognized it soon as I saw no caps, only punks. He seems knowlegeable about the English poets; not so much American, surprisingly. I've talked with him before. So have others. He is rumored to have lived in the Darker Taller Forest in what's now called Calaveras, but this is all beside the point."
End the fantasy, begin the real poetry thingie.
Just today I ran into this intro to a friend's first effort at an anthology of local poetry. It is called Tree and is free. She, Melissa Eisner, is the owner of Coffee Bandits in the arcade of the Merced Theater downtown. She is a very nice, interesting, all-that, gaily-adorned and somewhat whimsically coiffed poetry addict, as will be apparent even to the casual reader of her essay. In short, she's my type of person. She's yet another redhead, as well.
n.b.: OK, Melissa calls it An Apology for Posey. Sic. I sees it as not that, but An Apology for Poesy. Such. Typo? Am I wrong? Is she? I'm just taking a break from typing the essay...
I'm the type of cowardly writer who always requires a quote to explain before I can say anything of substance myself. And in this case, I chose a particularly expressive quote, to delay my own opinion as long as possible. Sir Phillip Sidney, the guy who said above quote, was a dandy courtier in the beginning of the renaissance in Europe. And even though (let's be honest) An Apology is filled with bigotry and too-purple prose, its aim meets its mark. It speaks to the heart of why poetry happens, and why poetry will always happen.
Poetry night in Merced happens, and has been happening monthly for almost a year now, because people in Merced write poetry. Phil Sidney was just the type of fancy-pants to lay it out for us: there are mysteries exposed in poetry that not everyone gets. And I don't mean that in the sick and twisted bourgeois perspective 'oh you just weren't EDUCATED enough dahling you never had a chance to get it' or the equally nauseating hippie 'my movement is more obscure than your movement' viewpoints. I mean broadly. We bring our own meaning to abstraction; this is at the root of the human condition, for Chrissake! When I hear a poem, I hear something "written darkly," that I share with the poet. And it isn't the same thing Richie Rich or Cheech 'n' Chong or Ben Franklin or Bob Marley would hear. It's the entirety of my own experience, echoed back to me momentarily through the concave medium of someone else's words. And that's really cool, and trippy.
And if you don't get that, the WTF.:/
Melissa Eisner
Owner, Coffee Bandits
Edit: I don't know if you're serious, furious or what, but you can express your thoughts, dahling, somewhat better. just don't do it here thanks
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Wayno
Big Wall climber
Seattle, WA
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Oh, fer cryin' out loud, let it go.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Far from defusing I find it amusing.
Get on with some "muse"-ing, Thalia from Visalia.
Muse America
Purple MMMMMMMMM mountains of majesty.
Above, the chemtrailed planes.
Look into the long San Joaquin horizon
Or down into the abyss on which we stand
It will f*#k you as stupid as you have f*#ked it.
It's National Park Service land.
And it's wild; it will kill you.
Like Jesse James. Like Vito Corleone.
Or the rest of the posse,
Tommy Jeffergun
George Washingun
Ronald Raygun
Old Betsy Ross
George W-shaped Ambush
Richard Six-gun
The Russian River is at flood stage, head guy.
What must we do?
Call out the cavalry?
Call out to calvary?
Whatever it is, vary the ca-den soh caaaare ful-ly,
and then do an about-face crossing the span
On reaching Bridal Veil Creek.
Halt. And have a good cry at Lizzie's bridge
For her sake and yours and the kids;
And recall that the creek weeps not,
It is the land weeping for itself;
And you must do so, as well.Thanks, Ken!
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Fresh
To move
Cleanly.
Needing to be
Nowhere else.
Wanting nothing
From any store.
To lift something
You already had
And set it down in
A new place.
Awakened eye
Seeing freshly.
What does that do to
The old blood moving through
Its channels?
~ Naomi Shihab Nye ~
(You & Yours)
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Scanning through here way to quickly this morning.
Some bits caught my eye.
Gary Snyder, Piute Creek. Right on target (for my small corner of the world, at least).
Offenbach's Barcarolle. Definitely caught that. Twas sung at my wedding.
In gratitude,
Eric
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Summertimer in the Yosemite Museum
The fithools ooze tar from a mis-named weed
And the wild oats reflect the Spaniard greed
Which started a long-ago fire in Califarnotoff
There in the distances
The many distances
The many smoky, foggy, long egos
In the Golden Days state
We seem to be in now
See, I have some views and so do you
And the guys over there a-stare at Thomas Hill
They are looking at their own past
Though the eyes of a great painter
Who saw the same things they saw
Yesterday before they were born
Or before she was born
Lady-weaving-string-baskets
To entertain the people in her own past
She can and did explain
And remember how it was
In the museum of her mind
She was to me so kind
To tell me of her people
And why they carry on
Their work and play and song
As if it were a single thread
Made of many hairs
And some string added in
From the new guys
This was Julia Parker, who I met in the Yosemite Museum yesterday. What a lady. I did meet her years ago. She was making a red string and reed basket while we talked, or rather, she talked and I listened.[Click to View YouTube Video]
I had just come from speaking with Merry B. Two wise-women in two hours is just enough, let me tell you.
Thanks, both of you precious contrubitors to our community, for opening my eyes and broadening the skies for opening my ears and bringing home the years
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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http://www.supertopo.com/climbing/thread.php?topic_id=1054430&tn=1700
Based on Weej's latest expulsion:
New Thing Nor Northing
(Borrowed Intejections and Directions)
That question Norwegians ask when they get another year older: Huh?
That's the only interjection he needed.
Weej succeeded. I only needed to read it ten times.
Wood this been simpler?
Maybe. But not so much fun for him.
Or for you. Or me. I can tell it's a failed experiment.
Never up, never in.
You can try, but it ain't a sin.
A picture is worth a thousand words.
But not in Norwegian.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
[Click to View YouTube Video]
At least that's what I am taking away from this poem.
Huh.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Parable
Some fishermen pulled a bottle from the deep. It held a piece of paper,
with these words: "Somebody save me! I'm here. The ocean cast me on this desert island.
I am standing on the shore waiting for help. Hurry! I'm here!"
"There's no date. I bet it's already too late anyway.
It could have been floating for years," the first fisherman said.
"And he doesn't say where. It's not even clear which ocean," the second fisherman said.
"It's not too late, or too far. The island Here is everywhere," the third fisherman said.
They all felt awkward. No one spoke. That's how it goes with universal truths.
~ Wislawa Szymborska ~
(Poems New and Collected 1957-1997, trans. S. Baranczak and C. Cavanagh)
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Love that eKat! Economy that speaks giant volumes. TPFU!
Eric
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Holidays Among the Rocks
Our last visitor fled two weeks ago.
Then the rocks began to fall....
Hear the larger masses journeying down.
Then that reeky storm-tissue disappears.
I'll eat Royal Arches, salted with Bachelor's Tears.
I'll choose Riverbank Meadow.
And some purple granite for me.
It was a tranquil day in Yosemite.
--Reverntly lifted off of JMuir, Winter in Yosemite, Yosemite in Winter
http://www.yosemite.ca.us/john_muir_writings/yosemite_in_winter.html
"That giant speaks volumes," retorted MFM.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Love that eKat!
Economy speaks
Giant Volumes.
T P F U.--Fletcher
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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You guys are making my beautiful warm afternoon even better.
Warm days and cool nights here in the San Gabriels... the wheel is turning (did it ever stop?).
Bring on that Muir guy... I think we may have shared a tree back in another life.
Eric
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Cross posted from Neebee's "THE ROBIN SHED..." thread...
The Messenger:
My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird-equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me keep my mind on what matters, which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,
which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is that we live forever.
~ Mary Oliver ~
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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eKat of the North
Mouse plumbing the depths of mind
Both please the Fletcher
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Ah to be alive
On a mid-September morn...
Barefoot, pants rolled up.--Mtnmun
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Mtnmun
Trad climber
Top of the Mountain Mun
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Topic Author's Reply - Oct 8, 2012 - 08:01pm PT
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Thanks for the Julia Parker Vidio MFM. I do not believe I wrote that poem above, but here is a painting I did of Julia Parker after she touched my heart a few years back.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Begin video first...
The Meat Eater Diaries
I have never heard it said that we are getting to the vegetable course of a discussion
Nor never has someone ever said to me, "Ah, here's the Conversation Starter Soup."
We may scream for ice cream, but we all lean towards nice fatty, crisp bacon.
Even on our baked potatoes. Especially in our BLTs. What's a BLT without Bacos? Still a BLT.
I should start thinking about the meat of this discussion.
Should we begin with Lamb? Beef? Pork? Rattlesnake? Turkey?
Rodger's steer? Baloney Butt? I can't thank you enough.
I will thank Rodger and God, for it is mete, always and everywhere to give shanks for the glory that is marbled with fat.
I can't help it but I like big butts. Pork butts. Archery butts.
Fletcher, the target of many, the butt of the joke, but one of the funniest guys you'd ever want to meet.
Let there be potatoes as well. And the wine of your choosing.
Vintage photos. Really old. Like days of yessteryore. Jerked thoughts on paper.
And just to be shore,
A small salad of haiku
Served up on a wish.
A non-rhyming oddball
A vegetarian answer
For those who like fish.
It's not just the meat
In the ocean. It's the meat
That's the ocean's motion.
I move for more meat.
I move when my bowels say.
Drink Adam's ale today.
Haiku is much harder
Than you might think. It is not
Just count, then the ink.
But not all that hard.
At least it demands not rhyme.
At best a little time.
Getting to the heart of the matter I sense I have come to a fence.
I'd better jump over
And land in some clover.
I feel I have put in two cents.
How Wild Buffalo Got Wings
Father killed buffalo for the hides and meat to support himself and family. I have seen the hillsides, slopes, and flats black with herds of buffalo for days at a time. When the buffalo hunters would shoot at the herds you would hear a roaring noise like a big storm coming. The earth would almost quiver like an earthquake from their running. I saw Father shoot, before breakfast, as many as he could skin all day. We could see the smoke of his gun from the house every time he would shoot.
In the early days when we first moved there, the buffalo were quite numerous. We could see them every day--big bunches of them going by. they were our mainstay.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
We didn't eat only the choice part of the buffalo, what we called the hump. They call it loin steak now, I believe, if it's cut from a beef. It was quite a large steak which lay along the side of the high hump on the buffalo's back. . . . When we needed meat and Father was out killing buffalo, he'd bring in some of the hump.
Father used to take the buffalo tongues when he was killing them for the hides. Mother would pickle a fifty gollon barrel of buffalo tongues every fall; so we enjoyed buffalo tongues during the winter. They were black, blacker really than a Jersey cow's tongue, but they surely were good eating.
In pickling buffalo tongues, Mother always boiled them in water and then made a preparation of vinegar and salt and other things and poured it over them until they were all covered. When we wanted to use them, we'd take them out of the barrel and wash them thoroughly. then you could warm them or eat them cold...
In the summertime, when we couldn't keep steak very long, we'd eat jerky. They'd cut the steak in strips and hang it up in the attic of our log house, salt it well, and let it dry. That's what we ate for lunch lots of times, we kids especially.
[My grandfather preferred to jerk the neck meat of bears he shot; peppered heavily, it is like the biscotti of the meat world. Others prefer to jerk chicken necks, and various recipes are found. It seems to take women a lot of experimentation, but men seem to have a more instinctual grasp of how to properly jerk chicken neck. Buffalo Wild Wings, anyone?]
[Everyone wore home-made buvvalo Adidas.]
In still-hunting of buffalo, they had lots of running to do because they hunted on foot altogether. They'd see a group of buffalo coming and they had to be pretty speedy to get in the lead of them and lie down in a buffalo wallow or in a hole somewhere to be in shooting distance of them when they came along. With those black-powder guns they couldn't kill one more than about a hundred or a hundred fifty yards away.
Few people ever ran buffalo on horses and that was Bill Cody and a few others, but in horse-hunting they drifted them around so much, they'd run them off the hunting grounds and the hunters would have to move. If they hunted them on foot, they would't stampede so many of them, so they would leave the range.
[Everyone had light-weight camping equipment.]
In 1874, when Mother was making some bedclothes after she was able to get some other goods, she wanted some filling for a quilt because she could get no cotton or wool. Father used to take the long hair off the buffalo and bring it in. Mother padded the quilts with it. She would wash it thouroughly, get it all clean and nice and straighten it out with the cards as she used to card the wool, and get it into shape together just like a pad of cotton for a quilt. She'd put it in the quilt and then quilt it (sew it through back and forth) to hold the padding in place.
When I left the plains country to come to California, I had an old quilt in my camp bed that I'd carried for years and years. It had been re-covered and re-covered. It was padded with buffalo hair. I told my wife I wasn't going to leave that buffalo hair, so I took the covering off and put the hair in a sack. I had a burlap sack alomost full of it. It was just as nice and soft at that time as it was when it was taken off the animal. I brought it to California and kept it until our house burned down out west of Modesto about three miles away.
[Our first climbing rope was plaited buffalo hide strips.]
Being a plains rat, I knew nothing of the Rocky Mountains except they each had a summit. There were also rumored to be as many as the buffalo. I decided to see for myself. I knew only that I might need a rope and warm hat and the quilt padded with buffalo hair. I never thought about what I would do with the rope. There was nobody to hold it for me, nobody to tie it to, and mainly there were no mountains yet. I still had to get there. I wasn't going to leave that buffalo hair, so I took the thing along stuffed in a sack over my shoulder, put some fresh bananas in with it, and set off down the road. I got to the Rocky Mountains, but the bananas had gotten squashed the first afternoon when I sat on the sack I was lugging.
I was picked up by a gentle soul named Beckey, driving a dilapidated Studebaker wagon. I showed him my rope when he told me he was heading west toward the desert towers of the Carson Sink which he'd heard tell were numerous, virgin, and easy. Who could resist?
[More installments at a much later date.]
Edit://www.bsblog.com/09/10/2011/grief.html
Mtnmun--
Ah, young grasshopper,
you are the author Haiku.
Done by you. It's true.
See ya to da O.P., eh?
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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You guys got me going now... more baby steps came to me at one kid's football (that's soccer for you 'mericans) practice this evening:
Lying on the earth
Flat on back upwards to sky
Both grounded, far-flung
Eric
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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For All We Sing of Snow
Jack Rosenblum
http://vimeo.com/10165779
For All I Know I Blow
For all I know I blow. Beep-boop-boop-beep-beep
So I'll just jam with this dude, slow. Plinky plink, plinky plink
Where I'm at since you've been gone.
Typos all over the place.
Double space in your face.
Backspace backspace backspace
period period epic period GF's pregnant.
Beep-boop-boop-beep-beep
Plinky plink, plinky plink
Verbs and nouns in my hand,
A big old smile on my face.
And when we come to read it
A lone spark breaks through.
Beep-boop-boop-beep-beep
Plinky plink, plinky plink
--A Beefheart acolyte, apparently
Telephoto Mountain Messages
It's all about the hills,
Ecstasy in vertical.
Nothing finity.
Dancing on the peaks
Of the summits of the top
Of the world. Early. Often.
In ranks they fall away
Foreground, middle distance, far
Himalayan peaks
The years too drop away
Layers and layers of age
Ledges like ledgers
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Telly marking snow--
Snow better thing I know--
Always makes my day
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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panny cakes syrup
butter scrambled eggs coffee
and a ton of snow
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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wishes were horses
ghosts roamed my pockets
you remained as my friend
Jack Rosenblum's pretty cathartic listening.
He's a weird Dylanesque 'snew-age don't wannabe...but he is, fortunately.
"I can't decide what to shoot at.
Or choke. Is this some kind of joke.
I feel like a house detective who has lost his shopping bag.
I look like one too."
Jokers and thieves hang
Together, talking tacos
E-veh-ry dang day.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Soccer makes dads cry.
In spite, the kids laugh harder.
Don't you just love it?
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BLUEBLOCR
Social climber
joshua tree
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Oct 8, 2012 - 03:51pm PT
My Reality.
My reality is willy-nilly.
Having resonance with my creator.
I am in tune with the waves of control.
Feeling the rock is solid as my tooth.
My body is contoured to be a sacrifice for gain.
My mind is a flutter with the prescribed pain.
My spirit rockets on the hopes of the proposal of fame.
But my ambitions could be quenched by the verdict of shame.
Whilst my heart is playing another game.
My soul warns me that we are all the same.
I give thanks to the Lord, on a job well done.
And ask for strength, to keep hang'in on.
As he wraps his arms, around me and sez
I Love U Son
Jus Ryhm'in
BB
Edit
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neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
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Oct 10, 2012 - 10:59pm PT
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hey there say, flecher... say i saw the poem there, :)
love that robin! possibly, besides her and her mate, there just mayyy be another lone one that shows up later, not sure where her mate must be, though :O
well:
i enjoyed the poem, in both spots, as, it made me think of my mom...
she loves the greatoutdoors too, and worked in it... doing her
gardening things... is harder now, she is older--
like the old
clothes in this poem...
(and her sis, 79, that died fallling through the ice of her pond one year--well: her boots and clothes were old too--she worked hard in the greatoutdoors by walking through it, as she tended to it, and she loved these very things--she also had worked indoors, as oneof the main folks at the cleveland museum of natural history, since when it first started)...
thanks for sharing...
our true work IS to enjoy and to pass it onward...
money,though we DO need it, and must provide for our home of kids, after all, will NOT endure forever--but--love does, as we share it gleaning from our experiences and passing that love of life, onward...
gives a firm foundation of self esteem, for when the money times seems to
fail for a season...
:)
*oh--got the dreamcatcher email i just could not get the mail to work this eve, :( it DID work earlier, but i have to get off line now, so jjuust threw this in fast, :)
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neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
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Oct 10, 2012 - 11:01pm PT
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hey there say, ekat! i can picture you there, :)
as to your quote:
Montana big sky
Streaming in my log cabin
Fall is glorious
:)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 11, 2012 - 12:43am PT
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Point of Punctuation
? :) = 2 (syllables)*?
Symbols, icons, ideas.
Scannning the literature there are two accepted symbols for the building blocks of poetry, the syllables. A poem is a sentence, therefore, I is a poem because I is a poem.
It's a different concept than I am a poem or I am poem.
My motive herein is to show the breakage of the word ":)" into two short syllables, ":" and ")".
This yields the possibility that neebee's statement is a devilishly-conceived poetical conceit that could only arise from the fertile ground of Texas. Or it may simply be my imagination.
I admit, the word ":))," which neebee frequently uses, seemingly at whim, (but one never knows) but always to great effect, [ (> ] might have convinced me it wasn't so.
I am just a hopeless romantic, I guess. Boy, howdy!
[Did I say that right?]
I, poet.
* There are no "breve" marks nor "macron" marks on this keyboard, hence "syllables" is a substitution, which is the best I could do...But there is no substitute for neebee, I must say.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 11, 2012 - 12:58am PT
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Fletcher! Ha ha ha... "Mouse plumbing" Ha ha ha... I'm a sewer rat, a lawyer, but no plumber.
The Watergrate break-in, though, that was partly my idea.
Haiku, TX
Hey there say, eKat!
i can picture you there, :
) as to your quote
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Oct 11, 2012 - 02:16am PT
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A poem arrives like a hand in the dark. - Yahia Lababidi
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 11, 2012 - 02:51am PT
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A'S WIN!
The Athletics win
The Tigers roar like caged Lions
Tomorrow will tell
GIANTS TOO!
Lincecum, my man
This time, out of the bullpen
Just doing his job
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Oct 11, 2012 - 11:12am PT
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For all us type B's out there (you know, the one's that DON'T have heart attacks):
For Yaedi
Looking out the window at the trees
and counting the leaves,
listening to a voice within
that tells me nothing is perfect
so why bother to try, I am thief
of my own time. When I die
I want it to be said that I wasted
hours in feeling absolutely useless
and enjoyed it, sensing my life
more strongly than when I worked at it.
Now I know myself from a stone
or a sledgehammer.
~ David Ignatow ~
(New and Collected Poems, 1970-1985)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 11, 2012 - 07:30pm PT
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Old School Boy Blue
1
I have the old school blues
I've had 'em since the break of day
repeat
But I had 'em way before that, I had 'em back in the day
2
I know how to suffer
Been doin' it the whole damn way
Repeat
Ever since the Good Lord took my baby, back in the day
3
When if I come here broke
You gotta send me away
repeat
Cuz I never repaid anyone anything, Lord, way way back in the day.
4
My friendless life is nothing
Safe to say it's never even been
Repeat
Unfinished until then, way way way way way back in the day.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Oct 12, 2012 - 03:11am PT
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And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.
Pablo Neruda
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2012 - 10:38am PT
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A succinct tale tale of unsought success success, Eric Eric.
How cruel the shoes shoes of the poet poet who tries to create and is hardly ever satisfied with his output output.
The man man who is just sauntering through life life has a thought thought, a good idea idea. He writes it down. Each thought thought and idea idea he gets is not in his journal journal, but at least one thought thought or idea idea is in there from each and every day day of his life life.
When he retires he is pleased to sit down and write himself a poem poem each day day of his life life for the rest of his life life based on the thunk thoughts and ideal ideas he has in his journal journal.
That's one approach approach. I just wish that I had bothered to journalize. It's always something something or other other. So I just force myself to go with the flow flow and trust in The Mouse Mode Mouse Mode.
Mouse Mode Mouse Mode is hard to describe to a straight straight ora a mundane mundane. The key key is to not listen to other people people but to muse. A mouse mouse knows how to muse. It is instinct. People people can muse but it seems to take longer to get results results. I just put them down and reject them, the ideal ideas and the thunk thoughts.
It really doesn't matter if no one one reads them or not. I am pleased and this is my main goal goal. I know that not everyone everyone has time time to read these drivel drivels. Nor the time time to try to understand the convoluted convolutions.
But this is the real end reason reason. If they read and understand, by gosh, maybe they will improve their live lives and love their wifely wives just a bit and the world world will be a better place place to live.
I mean, it's pretty cool the way it is, but it could be better.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That's called "double-noun." There are stict rules. Read, observe, you shall see them. I invented it just now. I hope it will make my fortune and that of my heirs, but I am a poet now. If it doesn't work I try again. And if that doesn't work, I try again.
YOU SEE A GREAT DEAL OF REPETITION IN MUSIC. IT DOESN'T WORK THAT WAY IN POETRY. I THOUGHT I'D TRY TO CHANGE THAT, BECAUSE REPETETIVE MUSIC CAN MAKE ORDINARY CATS INTO ROCK GODS AND CLASSICAL MUSIC ICONS. IN POETRY EACH LINE NEEDS TO BE FRESH, IT IS EXPECTED, IT IS UNFAIR, AND IT WILL NEVER EVER CHANGE. BUT I TRIED.
"Mousie tried" should be on my stone but I don't plan on a stone. I plan on being dumped on the beach at the base of Mt. Clark's western face. Don't forget the tube of SP 50+ because it's hot up there.
Now is the time when we all casually observe. It's casual-observation and sit-around-looking-bored time, Karl Heinz. You look bored already, my dear. Just relax.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2012 - 12:21pm PT
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Massive Creative Epic V
Written by THE MANY MICE
Sponsored by Kalliope, "the beautiful-voiced" and Best Little Law Firm, in Brooklyn, NY, owned by "the melodious lady" Bevin, who suggests singing it to the tune of Lucy in the Sky-y With Stem Cells
http://io9.com/5950960/breakthrough-researchers-create-a-mammal-entirely-from-stem-cells
Edicated to John Lennon
Hooking glass headwalls in yellow and green
Towering over our heads
Using special glass tubes and genetic threads
Our lab is incredibly clean
Seeking a method to make up some mice
A presumptuous thing they all say
But we ignore them saying just let them pray
Our goal is incredibly nice
This world needed more mice it was so plain to see
But we need better climbers far more
And our new "Lynne's" Version Four
And by next month we'll have "Alex Three"
Imagine: Using just stem cell sperms and beautiful stem cell eggs could change the world. Then everyone can have a swimming pool. Zappa, the visionary genius foresaw it in 1965. And Lennon challenges us with his song.
A note on my creative process: this is the closest I have come to imagining a line and getting it down on paper and finished before my fourth cup of coffee. It kind of represents what I've been trying to do and have been too undisciplined and lazy to do. The ditty above is far from epic, so it is fair to say it is only sponsored by Kalliope, not inspired by her. No, it was inspired by my old friend, the demi-goddess Thalia. She pestered Kalliope into sponsoring me. And my daughter Bevin is my devoted daughter, so...That Thalia's a real pistol. She's flighty as hell and hardly ever sticks around to see the finished product. But you must love her.
A quote from Mark Rodell: "Dig on writing, it is a good and tough lover."
The same can be said for climbing.
Hey, I'm a poet and don't feel like a fruitcake. Must be doing something right.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2012 - 10:52pm PT
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I had an interesting conversation with my dad, Boomer.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2012 - 10:53pm PT
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Oh yeah? What did you talk about?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2012 - 10:54pm PT
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Poetry and verse and the distinction between the two. He asked me what I had been doing and I told him destroying a man's ego and writing poetry. He asked me to read him one of my poems, not a good idea, but I obliged.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2012 - 10:56pm PT
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What did you read to him? Did he like it? Did he criticize it? Did he venture and opinion?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2012 - 11:27pm PT
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I read to him Summertimer in the Yosemite Museum. He got lost. He didn't like. He said it didn't rhyme and he couldn't make out what I was saying about a woman after I'd been talking about some hill.
His opinion is that poetry should rhyme and he never cared for that which did not.
I explained that to him as the difference between poetry, which is not just rhymed, but is metered. Verse is a much broader realm and I asked him if he'd ever read any of the Eddas. He said he lacked the eddacation I had and that he hated Norwegians on principle because he tried lutefisk and his mother was scared by a Norwegian bachelor logger.
I often thought there was something weird about my verse, and it was because I thought it was poetry. Now I have reason to live.
And if you think I learned all this at some fancy-schmancy poet mill like old I.V. Leeg, the answer's no. I have The Complete Rhyming Dictionary by Clement Wood, and it is indeed complete. It's very first section, The Poet's Craft Book, begins with a chapter on Poetry and Versification.
It's rewarding reading.
Dad favored me with a poem he remembered and considered it his idea of what poetry should aspire to be. It is published yearly in all Hearst newspapers.
The Song of the River
The snow melts on the mountain
And the water runs down to the spring,
And the spring in a turbulent fountain,
With a song of youth to sing,
Runs down to the riotous river,
And the river flows to the sea,
And the water again
Goes back in rain
To the hills where it used to be.
And I wonder if life's deep mystery
Isn't much like the rain and the snow
Returning through all eternity
To the places it used to know.
For life was born on the lofty heights
And flows in a laughing stream,
To the river below
Whose onward flow
Ends in a peaceful dream.
And so at last,
When our life had passed
And the river has run its course,
It again goes back,
O'er the selfsame track,
To the mountain which was its source.
So why prize life
Or why fear death,
Or dread what is to be?
The river ran
Its alotted span
Till it reached the silent sea.
Then the water harked back
To the mountain-top
To begin its course once more.
So we shall run
The course begun
Till we reach the silent shore.
Then revisit earth
In a pure rebirth
From the heart of the virgin snow.
So don't ask why
We live or die,
Or whither, or when we go,
Or wonder about the mysteries
That only God may know.
--Wm. Randolph Hearst, d. 1951
Not bad for an entitled, shacking-up, yellow-journaling, walking-on-water ur-ego like his to even think in such terms.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2012 - 11:29pm PT
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If you say so it must be true. Did you explain to him why you write poetry?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2012 - 11:36pm PT
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It would be like explaining why I climb. It's fruitless because I don't know why. I know how, and it's hard or it's easy. Depends. I'm not very good at it but will be. Look at Wilma McDaniel, the Okie Poet. she never had it handed to her. She wrote beautiful verse.
Dad heard me muttering over the phone when I set it down to pull up the poetry on the computer. He asked me did I talk to myself? I said of course, otherwise I'd go crazy.
We hung up friends, both knowing we were right. And the other wasn't full of sh#t, but could reason with each other and come away satisfied. It's all you can hope for.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 13, 2012 - 05:05am PT
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A Lighter Side of Papa Hemingway
Papa, may I please have a light?
Asked Hemingway's eldest one night.
Lucky Strike.
Jack, no light tonight. You're too much "me"
For you to smoke. It really shouldn't be.
But it is.
You're far too young to take that road
That makes you sick before you're old.
Don't do it.
It's not for me to tell you "no"
Except that I would see you grow.
Answer's still no.
Besides, you'll kill yourself with vice.
Old man's advice? Please don't think twice.
Quit right now.
I'm having a Swisher Sweet no filter, best on the market. For the price.
89 cents. It makes me feel all Eastwood-y.
Not Far Off Faron (Have a Seat, Walls)
Hey there, Chair, say something, please? I'm getting toxic
talking to myself. Gee, Shelf, do you want to talk?
And I just bet you dread to spend another night with me. One more time.
Hello, TV, (hello, hello) I see that you're still not very clear.
Don't tell me that it's the rain that's given me this f*#ked-up pain inside.
I can't seem to hide the shame and guilt and pride I felt when I hurt her.
And I've got a bad feeling that she'll be gone a long long time. This time.
Hello, Clock. I need a hand to hold, a friendly face to shine on me.
There is no place I'd really rather be, I guess, than Up In My Room.
Gloom. Doom. Loom. Boom. Sue'm. Screw'm.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 13, 2012 - 09:36pm PT
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Did somebody say Okie?
Picking Grapes 1937
Magic seventeen
and new in California
working in bursting
sweet vineyards
hot sand on soul
one strap held by a
safety pin
a girl could be whatever
she desired
the first breath of
Eve in Paradise
--Wilma Elizabeth McDaniels
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Oct 18, 2012 - 01:21am PT
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So grateful this thread exists.
Liking the conversations of late.
Music and poety... Interesting mouse. I once was trying to write something that needed to be somewhat brief since I'd be reading it in front of a crowd (my wedding party). But old verbosity was having a hard time figuring out how to do that. So much to say, how to get at the essence?
Then it came to me... I was listening to a song, something that moved me from U2. Bono. I thought about the vastness that song inspired in me. And then it hit me: there were about 10 unique words in that song.
I then knew my screed had to be like a song. Terse, but speaking volumes. It worked.
Eric
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Oct 18, 2012 - 01:22am PT
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Do not depend much on guides. It is better for you to prepare yourself and remain awake. ~ Swami Rama
Double meaning in this forum!
Eric
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 18, 2012 - 07:46pm PT
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Cereal Dream
They're strange, the gifts that come in the night,
Or in the lobby of the place you live.
Some nights it's thoughts that turn to verse
Like chocolate-covered Cheerios.
I never expected them, yet there they are, free;
A-waiting for passionate milk's embrace and perhaps a piece of fruit.
Cheerios, the breakfast of mice and men:
But such a difference the chocolate makes!
Take your thoughts and spread them out
And lay them in a pattern on the table of your soul.
Play with them until the mother of consciousness
Comes and tells you it's time for bed again.
Then write them into the diary of your memory,
Turn off the light and say goodnight.
If you find Twinkies filled with butterscotch in the morning,
Please share them with the rest of us.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 19, 2012 - 04:09pm PT
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Hiku-Hiku
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 19, 2012 - 11:27pm PT
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Write a book, Mouse. Or have you?
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BLUEBLOCR
Social climber
joshua tree
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Oct 20, 2012 - 01:50am PT
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Man... Or, Mouse;
That is one of the most,
finest displays,
of creativity,
exhibited,
by matter.
Of factt..
Jus
Say'in
BB
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 20, 2012 - 01:57am PT
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Thank you for the shot of assurance, Wayne. I never wrote for pudlication. Only private stuff, generally.
'Do not Depends prepare guides?'--Heanas Screed
'Friends do not drive guides to drink, they take a taxi.'--Braverly Samson
Big Bill Bierkhan tells this one:
'Two guides walk into a bar. The bartender adks 'What'll ya have?'
The first guide says, 'I'll have a Mountain Dew, on the rocks.'
The second says, 'I'll have what he's having, but use ice in mine.'--Offa Deszneid.
ba-dump!
/and BB, from BB, TY.
Calls for a celebration of blind mice chased by Women. Love is "Blind." Dig the rhythm. Now, you got your rhythm and you got euythmitic you got them mice all around the house, tired of hearing good ol' Mouse, he's so screwed up screwed up screwed up.[Click to View YouTube Video]
[Click to View YouTube Video][Click to View YouTube Video][Click to View YouTube Video]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 24, 2012 - 06:39pm PT
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The Nouns of Time.
Not knowing much is better than knowing much of nothing.
Nothing is much more exciting than what I am doing right
Now.
Now then, having said that, it’s time to get drunk.
It’s Friday night but the booze won’t flow
Tonight.
The message is that the message is in the bottle,
But I am just not getting it at the present
Moment.
I must put it off until later on when I have some dinero
And it is in my pocket waiting to get spent in a great flourish over
Vintage.
Because I have no money to allow booze to flow
I am saving something of my dignity, I suppose, by not getting drunk
Right away.
But I’ll see about
Saturday.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 24, 2012 - 06:52pm PT
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Amor de Verdad or True Love Waits Down the Insinkerator
Words by Hubby Dolley
[Very saccharine. Real country sappy. A tad schmaltzy.]
I will bury thee
Or you will bury me,
For I can’t love another
Just only you.
And no matter
What’s the deal
Our fears will have seemed so unreal.
We’ll laugh at them and kneel for each other’s forgiveness.
And so trust me or go away
But please listen to what I must say.
Silence speaks volumes
When no one is talking
But I trust you to steer me straight
When I go off walking
Where I shouldn’t have gone.
No, darling, no one else.
Only you.
Finely spun
Are my thoughts of you,
Held together
And woven through
For all time
By my feelings true.
We will come to the end of our days
Together.
[Up-tempo]
Corny verbs and silly words
Cannot express my absurd wishes
I'd really love to wash your dishes!
[Real good musical stuff guaranteed to burn your ears off and penetrate your soul. No less.]
It’s only suds down the drain,
I’m probably wishing in vain
And I wish you no pain;
To be the goal of your wishes
Would be oh so delicious.
So don’t be suspicious,
Please, just let me wash your dishes.
[Wild-ass finish suspended by tepid, dish-watery muzak? I leave it to the musical director.]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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just fvcking haiku
no rhyme scheme and seventeen
such an odd number
Dante went to hell
finding thirteen circles be
divine poetry
Alighieri was
his own elegy since he
was terzarima
his cool divine wind
blows down the dry hillside
hell's heat now abated
yeah it seems to me
the haiku really does suck
it's very pointless
I am un-danteed
let us be friends signore
let's shake hands sonnet
5.13, let's get the hell out of here!
I know a coffee shop...
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Jaybro
Social climber
Wolf City, Wyoming
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Be Seven o'clock
Thirty five in the desert
Coffee to imbibe
Sip spro in the dark
Gollum way jacked my rig
Car shop opens at eight
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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"Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower" by Rainer Maria Rilke
translation by Joanna Macy + Anita Barrows
Quiet friend who has come so far,
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,
what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.
In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.
And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.
Sonnets to Orpheus II, 29
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Pueblo Blessing
Hold on
To what is good
Even if it is a handful of earth.
Hold on
To what you believe
Even if it is a tree
Which stands by itself.
Hold on
To what you must do
Even if it is a long way from here.
Hold on
To life
Even when it is easier
Letting go.
Hold on
To my hand
Even when I have gone
Away from you.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Nice Jaybro!
The last two I posted go out to those who are hurtin' at this campfire. At least it seems there is a lot of hurtin' lately. Or maybe they are just squeaky wheels. Still, that's ok by me.
Nonetheless, those poems were delivered to me out of the blue; they spoke to me; and I thought of ya'll. Maybe they'll find their way to those in need and maybe even help a bit.
Peace,
Eric
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 13, 2012 - 06:19am PT
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"The reader of modern literature, Piette asserts, distrusts poetic prose, sensing it to be an indulgence on the part of the writer unless justified by exigencies of the narrative itself. Piette's system allows for a writer's shift into poetic prose to be aesthetically justified -- or found to be unwarranted -- by exploring the mimetic relation between the fugitive music of rhyme and memory."
--review by Graham Fraser of: Adam Piette. Remembering and the Sound of Words: Mallarmé, Proust, Joyce, Beckett. Oxford: Clarendon P, 1996. 285pp.
Prose or poetry? Poetry or prose? How to sound like you know what you're talking about is half the battle, but you judge the article for yourselves.
http://muse.jhu.edu/login?auth=0&type=summary&url=/journals/modern_fiction_studies/v043/43.4br_piette.html
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 16, 2012 - 02:38pm PT
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Guns Kill Bullets Blame
I blame Twinkies and the Hostess Co.
I blame the Norwegian for making me blame the Twinks.
I blame Oakley and Cody.
But it's OK because eventually there will be no one to blame and no one who doesn't share the blame.
Better we get hit over the head with a rolled-up copy of Argy-sod magazine real hard twenty times right now than to have to admit we are wrong about our "need" for guns.
We'll all have killed each other off before we settle this.
Ma Deuce sounds sooo sexy.
But what's so "special" about Saturday night?
By the logic of the hunter, weapons of mass destruction seem good.
That may seem extreme, but the Rev sez my logic is to change the subject.
The Rev never lies, for the sake of argument or otherwise.
When he an his dad got into archery, they settled the bug duck question with their scores, not by pricking stags with those long flying things the deer knew nothing about.
Hinting that hunting with arrows is just as unfair as hunting with guns might get me in deep doodoo; some may even mention my duck size, but at my age, that's laughable.
Is there much difference in "conquering" a route with aid, leaving our sh#t on walls that are utterly (except for falling stones) defenseless?
My mind is spinning like a high-speed bullet.
There goes another couple of innocent bystanders.
When God takes away our guns and leaves us with stones to throw and just our fingers to grip the throat, at least we will not have this argument to plague us.
Then she will have given us true freedom.
Here's a "sport" which may appeal.
Put up firing benches on the South Rim and charge tourons for taking potshots at aid climbers on El Cap: out-of-state permits twice the fee for Californians, but the revenue-sharing would be between the Feds and the STate.
In an ideal world, Guns and Ammo would be Buns and Amour.
There's a full-page ad for Twinkies in there, and a half-page ad for the Traverse Winery, owned and operated by me!
Hold on
To what you believe
Even if it is a tree
Which stands by itself.^^^
The sentiment is a good one. We believe what we believe, we feel how we do. It's right to stand up for them and it's the purpose of a forum. I brought my thoughts here rather than try to turn them into arguments. I dislike arguing. It's puerile, and for all I know, even "ternary." :0)
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Reilly
Mountain climber
The Other Monrovia- CA
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Nov 16, 2012 - 04:07pm PT
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A poem by Willie Nelson on his 75th birthday:
"I have outlived my pecker."
A Poem--by Willie Nelson
My nookie days are over,
My pilot light is out.
What used to be my pride and joy,
Is now my water spout.
Time was when, on its own accord,
From my trousers it would spring.
But now I've got a full time job,
To find the f***in' thing.
It used to be embarrassing,
The way it would behave.
For every single morning,
It would stand and watch me shave.
Now as old age approaches,
It sure gives me the blues.
To see it hang its little head,
And watch me tie my shoes!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 16, 2012 - 09:51pm PT
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Liberty Cap by Joe Fitschen, from Going Up
The rest of the morning was marked mostly by ferocious thirst, the bete noir of Yosemite climbers.
Our saliva glands went on strike, our toungues felt like resin bags, our lips like slugs.
At cramped belay stances our muscles cramped for want of water, while below us Nevada Fall still fell, and amid the unceasing roar we heard the cry of that ancient mariner So there was suffering.
But during those seemingly interminable waits at a belay stance, while I willed my body into quasi-hibernation--lower pulse rate, lower blood pressure, mimimal muscle tension--my mind, not keen on suffering, cast about for something of interest.
Here a satisfying piee of astract art composed of facets of granite, there the peregrinations of a minuscule red spider, and, several feet away, a single-bloomed flower atop a green stem, thrust from a hairline crack and waving to and fro in the wafting air.
Yosemite walls are rife with Zen gardens that, if you were a nautral theologian, would make God a Buddhist wich, if you know something about Buddhism, is odd.
This represents a passage that has remarkable mimetics and wonderful imagery. There's an exuberance. There is a short bridge to cross between Joe's prose and what could be a really great poem with a little shearing here, some faint padding there. Royal would have been proud to have written this, I think. For that matter, I would.
So poetry's not hard if you are already competent at prose. It just requires a little time at the feet of the one's that the muses have already favored and some mimetic ability. Imagination's on you.
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Trevbo
Trad climber
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Nov 17, 2012 - 12:42am PT
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“Crow” by Ted Hughes
When God, disgusted with man,
Turned towards heaven,
And man, disgusted with God,
Turned towards Eve,
Things looked like falling apart.
But Crow Crow
Crow nailed them together,
Nailing heaven and earth together-
So man cried, but with God’s voice.
And God bled, but with man’s blood.
Then heaven and earth creaked at the joint
Which became gangrenous and stank-
A horror beyond redemption.
The agony did not diminish.
Man could not be man nor God God.
The agony
Grew.
Crow
Grinned
Crying: “This is my Creation,”
Flying the black flag of himself.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 17, 2012 - 08:47am PT
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Here's one for the Fossil Climber, in retaliation for your mouse-poem, and in thanks for the recognition and the (ghostly) recommendation to North Face, so long ago.
Mouse
Having written lots of words
He has not completed a book
Nor even begun to compile his droppings
Having left a pile of words
He defines them as his little turds
Like sundaes with gross chocklit topping
He's fond of cheese and all the nuts
Ropes and rice and other stuff
His bad habits send climbers shopping
Old hands know and hate his guts
They can't afford to feed him much
They get so mad they're often hopping
If you would save your things from he
Then string them up in yonder tree
Keep fixing rope they all need chomping
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 17, 2012 - 09:11am PT
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Here's Timid Tightrope's fine untitled poetry, his attempt at emulating the weej.
Mr. T., I hope you don't mind my lifting it gently for repose where it really shines!
The coward's tail's 'tween me legs
it's in the very name i named
but joy 'tis aint the game i play
just lost the flaming flume
it speaks or tweaks of bracken' hearteds
past the flames of dear departeds
wish i had the fire retarted,
restart my old game
in comfort combustfamulating
break a sound that sets to grating
turn a page of hister splaying
spray aginst the wind
icy winds that sinned her wounds
broke the cymbal of thine tombs
the magic harper fuccks the tune
and slowly plucks within
keeper of the sea sick sawing
saw bucks of my past belonging
longing for the thing that lacks
and laps at death-test doors
ner was i to come a scriber
all along just duck and diver
diving for divininations
like a paltry sum
sum of zero was summation
left it parked no jubilation
left the what? in what up zillions
'till i reach the silvery shore
but a new tune comes erasing
setting sun the sky still blazing
recriminations of my hazing
still paps the smear of navel gazing
pecker pecks upon my eaves
flicker quickly knows my deeds
sower of the deadened seeds
and slips before me done me screed
all is lost dear supertoper
not one to enunciate this dope no sir
silence on the killing floor
erections come elections go
lift the beam and raise the bong
won't you sing the siren's song?
may be two too stanza's long
knock on heaven's lawn
butthurt scribblers go a-walin'
comfort them no need explaining
rage aghast machines and bodies
'till we breathe no more.
the coward's tail's 'tween me legs
it's in the very name i named
comfort those that need the same
timidly i walk the plank
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 17, 2012 - 05:26pm PT
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Boogie woogie was a deer.
Boogie woogie had no "ear."
Boogie couldn't boogie.
Now really, how could he?
--Mouse
EL PERIFICO, OR SLEEP
A man throws ten thousand shovels of gravel at a window screen
propped upside a wheelbarrow so only the powder
passes into the wheelbarow and the gray rocks fall to the ground.
You musta died once to live like this.
Yeah he says I died once and I had lost my ear
so I was looking for it in a field and the stars were like a seiner's net
and then they were like a system of nerves
and then they were like a seive I came through
that right back into this country and got a job and married
the woman the first two things
she said to me in that fiery field holding in her hands
my ear were how this country now is full
only of pilgrims and residue and her name is Beatriz ending
like light ends with a z.
--Joshua Clover
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 17, 2012 - 05:35pm PT
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This was the eulogy I was not fated to deliver at my dad's memorial. It's a long story, involves anger. Rather not say now.
My dad and mom BOTH loved golf, but only after Mom decided she actually enjoyed it and had an interest did she doff her Golfing Widow Weeds. Once you get them on the course, they are hooked, sliced, and sunk, she would say..
A Man Who Loved Golf:
Boomer and Bobbye
(par four/300 words)
On behalf of my family, thank all of you for coming today.
It is tempting to memorialize my father with golfing metaphor, yet this is an inappropriate moment.
Even so--
I am human, like Boomer, and will resist the temptation to be completely decorous during this obsequy.
But I will make my attempt short and sweet, like a hole-in-one.
I may “ace” this address if I may say simply that the act of marrying Bobbye was like a “hole-in-one” for Dad: it was his stroke of luck and his stroke of genius, if you will, but he would ascribe his fortune as a gift from God, as is proper in a Christian.
His high school sweetheart was perfection to him, in spite of her peculiar breaks and swings: his swing might be off or his yardage miscalculated on occasion; and he might have missed the sweet spot any number of times; but the net score was perfection. They were a evenly matched, in my opinion.
No talk of handicapping, they played for keeps and kept it honest.
I don’t mean to sound flippant or irreverent at this solemn moment, but it is in fact not a solemn moment, but a joyous one. It doesn’t call for a mild golf clap. It requires mirth, but not frivolity.
Our honoree has reached his destiny as his partner has reached hers. They are content if anyone is content. Let’s be happy for that, among other important things.
I loved both my parents equally and love the prospect of playing the rest of my life’s round with a pleasant and well-loved foursome made up of my family, Mike, Lenna, and Tim.
Rest in peace, Dad and Mom.
Your loving number two son, Brian
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cowpoke
climber
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Nov 25, 2012 - 01:04pm PT
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I Ask You
By Billy Collins
What scene would I want to be enveloped in
more than this one,
an ordinary night at the kitchen table,
floral wallpaper pressing in,
white cabinets full of glass,
the telephone silent,
a pen tilted back in my hand?
It gives me time to think
about all that is going on outside--
leaves gathering in corners,
lichen greening the high grey rocks,
while over the dunes the world sails on,
huge, ocean-going, history bubbling in its wake.
But beyond this table
there is nothing that I need,
not even a job that would allow me to row to work,
or a coffee-colored Aston Martin DB4
with cracked green leather seats.
No, it's all here,
the clear ovals of a glass of water,
a small crate of oranges, a book on Stalin,
not to mention the odd snarling fish
in a frame on the wall,
and the way these three candles--
each a different height--
are singing in perfect harmony.
So forgive me
if I lower my head now and listen
to the short bass candle as he takes a solo
while my heart
thrums under my shirt--
frog at the edge of a pond--
and my thoughts fly off to a province
made of one enormous sky
and about a million empty branches.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 25, 2012 - 01:29pm PT
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Evocative and nuanced
Is what I want to be
In my writing
The germs of my soul
Revealed
Blatantly
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weezy
climber
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Nov 25, 2012 - 01:55pm PT
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Bluebird
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?
Charles Bukowski
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 26, 2012 - 11:53am PT
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He’s an uncommon love for the common man and godly wisdom resides in the least of things so that it may well be that the voice of the Almighty speaks most profoundly in such beings as lives in silence themselves.--Roy Tor Wrong Lee, chinese intellectual, on cloning the Devil
What the Fvck, it's Charles Buk.
Bluebirds fly and real men cry:
Those Euros flowing in and all that urine flowing out.
He's still a poet, though dead and commercialized
And even given as Christmas presents.
That's the spirit, consumers.
But Chuck Buck isn't Chuck Berry.
Some of his visions are way too scary
Let's just wait till/for rock 'n roll to really die.
In a Patrick Sawyer internal-view
Which I am watching, he is asked:
Who's likeliest to read you?
Who's likliest to heed what they read?
Who's Next, do you like that album?
It turns out that Chuck's checkbook
Is loaded with signatures of those who read him.
Marlow, for one, a Euro; Lolli, for two, disgusted;
And Mouse, who just had to check him out.
Like follows like like drink follows drink.
I thought I was Swedish, but I was just borracho, Dios mio!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 26, 2012 - 12:43pm PT
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Downward Monday Spiral
Poor damned Monday
Wants it still to be Sunday.
Not too happy in its own calendric skin
Wants like hell to be free of all out sin.
Long holidays are OK, for Monday can then still come out and play.
Monday isn't guilty of a thing except having to follow a sanctimonious day like Sunday.
In a parralel universe it might be Sinday,
But why be such a bitch?
It might you get voted off the team, like poor Grenday,
Named for that one, yep,
Whom was shown the door by Bolt-Tosser for making light of the Dark.
But we heard that story second-hand and read it in AP English, freshman year.
Well, history didn't really exist back then,
When ever back then took place back, back, back in the Day-Daze,
When in spite of our modern outlook,
Days didn't mean much and Truth and Whimsy consorted more equally.
Time was asleep at the wheel.
We had eight days here on Earth.
Now there are just seven and we may have it right.
Only Time will tell, but he's over at Starbucks with ChuckBucks.
Sobering us up is Monday's job.
Monday is the Salvation Army of the span we call the Week.
In fact, the muses suggest, the eight-day version was called the Weak,
Signifying Earth's relative place in the Cosmos.
Pretty heavy stuff for a Monday,
But I haven't much time myself,
So I just play like I know these things
And hope like the Prodigal Son
That you laugh and think
"Monday, Monday, such a tragedy."
Yep, Monday used to be another kind of day of the Weak.
Now it's the worst for many.
Unlike Black Friday.
Now that's something to think about, shoppers.
Think about returning the Charles Buk book,
And order one of neebee's Jake's Ranch series.*
You'll thank Grendel/Grindl, Greenday,
And A Confederate General from Big Sur.
Have a peachy day, Americans, in the Amazon jungle.
* The story of Jake and his twin sister's love, will touch your heart forever...
* http://jj-ns.read-jake-and-donate.com * http://go.neebeeshaabookway.com
Blatant commercialism? Not in the least. It's the least I can dofor our beloved nature-praising, God-fearing lady of charm.
What else can I say to thank her for us?
Hey there say a prayer or draw a cartoon
For the little lady of the haiku moon.
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neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
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Nov 26, 2012 - 02:41pm PT
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hey there say, mouse...
well, my my...
what did i spy, with my little eye...
as the kids' games goes...
well, now you 'knows'...
i spied a mention of my book...
well--after YOUR mention, to take a look...
:)
say, all, the one link though, i had to sadly let go...
it was doubled in the pay, up to 25.00 for the year, i think it did a show...
but the 'go.neebeeshaabookway.com' is still good...
and this one, (soon to be below) is for you to see which
books, you may want, or order-should:
http://neebeeshaabookway.com
(go to the STOREFRONT link, on that page...
and see the 'lastest rage'...
we, as to neebee books, that is...
in your spirit, they really will a'fizz...
:)
see if this works, as a storefront link...
i say and hope, with a wink...
http://neebeeshaabookway.com/id31.html
(if not, just hit STOREFRONT on the main neebeeshaabookway.com deal_
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Nov 26, 2012 - 03:34pm PT
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To Mouse himself
No poetry here:
Be kind to Mouse
Don't judge too harshly
Know it or not?
It's there.
Thrives outside
...at the center?
There's many ways...only...
Be kind to Mouse
make his day...
his way...
The legislator
Edited:
Yeah, shucked simile is just one of the strengths of the text and fitting it's subject quite well.
hehe...
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 26, 2012 - 05:11pm PT
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The legislator's rule of thumb! ha-ha! heehee!
A 'haha' is a fence set in a ditch (Scrabble dictionary).
And they don't make no mo Ho-Hos.
Part of the Hole Mouse Story:
He made his way into the Ditch, down the south bank, then under the NPS haha made of withies, vines and sticks. It was laughable how easy it was. "Ha-ha," he laught to his left mouse, while his inner mouse was most hopeful. Heeding his instincts now, he followed the Ditch for some ways before he climbed out the north bank near Turtle Dome. He would find that left thunb in Thuolumbne Meadows eventually. Or one like it. Tome thumb things are just not too important, except it had to be a left. Color, length, strength, none of those mattered to him. He just wanted to play his guitar like a normal guy. Gladly, badly, radly, it didn't matter. As long as he could bar the frets!
Not to worry, this story is never-ending, too.
Pottery in prose is the next subject. Shards of shreds of shucked simile lend distinct grace to your text, a must-see for musetry lovers.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The rock doesn't care what I think
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Dec 15, 2012 - 02:00pm PT
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Wish I didn't feel inspired to post this today. But it needs to be out there.
Eric
Dirge without Music
Edna St. Vincent Millay
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost.
The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dec 15, 2012 - 06:52pm PT
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On a much lighter note
I dance my fool head off to entertain people and to educate people, most of whom can barely bring themselves to notice
Who live in the cross-hairs, always on the brink, addicted to both the bottom line and the summit
Can't go a day without chasing power, humbling or being humbled.
Why do I dance for them?
What choice do I have?
You either dance for them
Or become one of them.
--Jules Feiffer, 1999
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dec 16, 2012 - 04:17pm PT
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EPITAPH
Having lived long in time,
he lives now in timelessness
without sorrow, made perfect
by our never finished love,
by our compassion and forgiveness,
and by his happiness in receiving
these gifts we give. Here in time
we are added to one another forever.
--Wendell Berry
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection:
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is lead forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action —
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
~ Rabindranath Tagore ~
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Fire Maples and Epitaph... very good Mouse and DT!
Eric
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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For Presence
Awaken to the mystery of being here
and enter the quiet immensity of your own presence.
Have joy and peace in the temple of your senses.
Receive encouragement when new frontiers beckon.
Respond to the call of your gift and the courage to
follow its path.
Let the flame of anger free you of all falsity.
May warmth of heart keep your presence aflame.
May anxiety never linger about you.
May your outer dignity mirror an inner dignity of
soul.
Take time to celebrate the quiet miracles that seek
no attention.
Be consoled in the secret symmetry of your soul.
May you experience each day as a sacred gift woven
around the heart of wonder.
~ John O'Donohue ~
(To Bless the Space Between Us)
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Does doggerel qualify? I rather enjoy Ogden Nash.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Not quite poetry, but.... ahhhhh all Rumi is poetry. What was I thinking?
“Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.”
Should be the official taco motto!
Eric
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Anastasia
climber
InLOVEwithAris.
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wash his sheets
and wipe him clean
and in his misery
I reach for the better
to nurse and to heal
I'll take it all
through the sleepless nights
the rough days
into a better tomorrow
tomorrow you will feel better
my sick and weary child
tomorrow will be your day
today let us heal
for all the tomorrows
when you won't need me
when you will rarely see me
I'll gladly take them
for all the good tomorrows
that will be there
for you my child
for you
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Anstasia, how mellow a mom you are. I think "yer in" to something good.
Today's the feast of the Epiphany, BTW.
Epiphany - acrostic
by Grey Mouser
Energy cascades within synapses of thoughts
Pure and shining whispers of unclear attention
Instances of measured words that disappear
Purpose riddled spectacles of transition
Hemorrhaging conceptual perceptions
Avalanche of meaning brilliantly surmised
Noesis clear to sparkling realization
Yellow has become the color of love
Author notes
Noesis - the psychological result of perception and learning and reasoning
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 11, 2013 - 10:16am PT
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Leonard Cohen
God Is Alive, Magic Is Afoot lyrics
Lyrics: Cohen/Recorded By Buffy Sainte-Marie
God is alive, magic is afoot
God is alive, magic is afoot
God is alive, magic is afoot
God is afoot, magic is alive
Alive is afoot, magic never died
God never sickened
Many poor men lied
Many sick men lied
Magic never weakened
Magic never hid
Magic always ruled
God is afoot, God never died
God was ruler
Though his funeral lengthened
Though his mourners thickened
Magic never fled
Though his shrouds were hoisted
The naked God did live
Though his words were twisted
The naked magic thrived
Though his death was published
Round and round the world
The heart did not believe
Many hurt men wondered
Many struck men bled
Magic never faltered
Magic always lead
Many stones were rolled
But God would not lie down
Many wild men lied
Many fat men listened
Though they offered stones
Magic still was fed
Though they locked their coffers
God was always served
Magic is afoot, God is alive
Alive is afoot
Alive is in command
Many weak men hungered
Many strong men thrived
Though they boast of solitude
God was at their side
Nor the dreamer in his cell
Nor the captain on the hill
Magic is alive
Though his death was pardoned
Round and round the world
The heart would not believe
Though laws were carved in marble
They could not shelter men
Though altars built in parliaments
They could not order men
Police arrested magic and magic went with them
Mmmmm.... for magic loves the hungry
But magic would not tarry
It moves from arm to arm
It would not stay with them
Magic is afoot
It cannot come to harm
It rests in an empty palm
It spawns in an empty mind
But magic is no instrument
Magic is the end
Many men drove magic
But magic stayed behind
Many strong men lied
They only passed through magic
And out the other side
Many weak men lied
They came to God in secret
And though they left Him nourished
They would not tell who healed
Though mountains danced before them
They said that God was dead
Though his shrouds were hoisted
The naked God did live
This I mean to whisper to my mind
This I mean to laugh within my mind
This I mean my mind to serve
Til' service is but magic
Moving through the world
And mind itself is magic
Coursing through the flesh
And flesh itself is magic
Dancing on a clock
And time itself
The magic length of God.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 14, 2013 - 03:32am PT
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Enigmaticism
Climb an Enigma
Join the mice on the Stigma
Take a trip up Void.
Klesmer square-dancin'
No harder than polka-dottin'
Of that I'm certain.
Does living water
Die when it freezes? Just what
Does it do when dead?
All glaciers must die.
All glaciers just lie
In troughs of their own.
I may never know--
If bowls of Jello freeze
Will the stuff still shake?
I sit here writing.
You sit there reading my write.
Are we connecting?
I'll likely never know.
Is that the point or have you read
The one thing not said?
To all the brave f*#king ice climbing heros. It's f*#king water, I've never understood the compulsion, but it's a thing of beauty to watch. This one's for Mr. Lowe.
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Anastasia
climber
InLOVEwithAris.
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Jan 14, 2013 - 04:28am PT
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I miss Mtmun...
Yeah, here here to Mr. Lowe.
I like him very much too.
That is a great poem!
Fantastic Mr. Mouse.
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Tony Bird
climber
Northridge, CA
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Jan 14, 2013 - 07:39am PT
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wow--stasi was up til 1:30. what will she cook up next?
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Jan 14, 2013 - 11:50am PT
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Anastasia has a baby. All bets are off for sleep for at a least a year or so... if she's really lucky! :-)
With 3, 6 and 9 year olds, you never know when the call is going to come in. Was up at 4:20 am putting covers back on 3 year old who'd thown them off (on a night where it got down to 32 here in Socal!
And hear, hear for Mr. Lowe!
OK, back to poetry:
No postmortems, please.
The world is immortal.
The world renews itself.
What about poems and songs --
Do they perish?
Maybe they only
Vanish awhile.
Maybe they go underground
To gather some other
Knowledge and come back
In another form:
New words, a new melody,
Yet somehow
The same beloved,
Singing the same song.
~ Gregory Orr ~
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Jan 14, 2013 - 11:56am PT
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100 Butterflies (excerpt
Where you are going
and the place you stay
come to the same thing.
What you long for
and what you've left behind
are as useless as your name.
Just one time, walk out
into the field and look
at that towering oak --
an acorn still beating at its heart.
~ Peter Levitt ~
(100 Butterflies)
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Mtnmun
Trad climber
Top of the Mountain Mun
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Topic Author's Reply - Jan 14, 2013 - 11:58am PT
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The media wrestles the ire of one so appalled
School kids are singing the praises of President Obama.
“Kill your TV, end the media mind control BS”, says I.
"Get a life", I am told
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 14, 2013 - 12:14pm PT
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Ice melts winter begins
Miracles happen in cold
The Mtnmun returns.
Welcome back,
Your dreams were your ticket out.
Welcome back,
To that same old place that you laughed about.
Well the names have all changed since you hung around,
But those dreams have remained and they're turned around.
Who'd have thought they'd lead ya (Who'd have thought they'd lead ya)
Here where we need ya (Here where we need ya)
Yeah we tease him a lot cause we've got him on the spot, welcome back,
Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back.
lyrics by John Sebastian, a useful poet
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Tony Bird
climber
Northridge, CA
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Jan 14, 2013 - 12:21pm PT
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breastfeeding, huh? explains a lot.
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Mtnmun
Trad climber
Top of the Mountain Mun
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Topic Author's Reply - Jan 14, 2013 - 12:21pm PT
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Thank you Mouse and Anastasia. Lovely works coming from this entire crew.
Cold breath of winter, erupting ice crystal
Crisp pine scent wafting through the dormant forest
Warm hugs in the morning keep summer alive
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 14, 2013 - 12:34pm PT
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Say I Hear Ya Here
Is it "Hear Hear" Eric?
"Here Here" Sta?
There there Mouse
Say hey there and chill Won't kill
Ya to not worry.
Or infinitive
Split like ya just now did
It's all better kid
:))
They've gone haikuku
Seventeen syllables of
Stream of consciousness
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Jan 16, 2013 - 01:59pm PT
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The Sonnets to Orpheus, Part Two, XII
Want the change. Be inspired by the flame
where everything shines as it disappears.
The artist, when sketching, loves nothing so much
as the curve of the body as it turns away.
What locks itself in sameness has congealed.
Is it safer to be gray and numb?
What turns hard becomes rigid
and is easily shattered.
Pour yourself out like a fountain.
Flow into the knowledge that what you are seeking
finishes often at the start, and, with ending, begins.
Every happiness is the child of a separation
it did not think it could survive. And Daphne, becoming a laurel,
dares you to become the wind.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~
(In Praise of Mortality, translated and edited by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 17, 2013 - 08:45am PT
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Darkness, Darkness
lyrics/Jesse Colin Young
Darkness darkness, be my pillow
Take my head and let me sleep
In the coolness of your shadow
In the silence of your dream
Darness darkness, hide my yearning
For the things that cannot be
Keep my mind from constant turning
Towards the things I cannot see now
Towards the things I cannot see now
The things I cannot see now
Darkness darkness, long and lonesome
Is the day brings me here
I have found the edge of sadneess
I have known the depths of fear
Darkness darkness, be my blanket
Cover my head with the endless night
Take away away the pain of knowing
Fill the emptiness of right now
The emptiness of right now
Fill the emptiness of right now
Darkness darkness, be my pillow
Take my head and let me sleep
In the coolness of my shadow
In the silence of my dream
Darkness darkness, be my blanket
Cover my with the endlesss night
Take away away the pain of knowing
Fill the emptiness of right now
In the emptiness of right now
In the emptiness of right now
Just waiting for the sun.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Jan 20, 2013 - 02:36am PT
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Beautiful Mouse, beautiful.
Eric
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Jan 20, 2013 - 02:36am PT
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This one is right down my alley:
Shoveling Snow With Buddha
In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.
Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.
Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?
But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.
This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.
He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.
All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.
After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?
Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck.
and our boots stand dripping by the door.
Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow.
~ Billy Collins ~
(Picnic, Lightning)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 20, 2013 - 04:03am PT
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The Preceding Twenty-Four Hours
Any time you went into the warm bright sun from the gloom
Whenever you found an extra five dollars in your wallet that you had forgoten you stashed
When you found the chocolate chips were white chocolate and not just plain toll house morsels
That time you thought a message was wiped out only to find it again on your computer
Especially the last time you made it to the gas pump on fumes
The time some dork from the UC offered to buy you a drink and you found he's really just as decent as you and only slightly better educated and that's all in computers and carpentry, heck
Did it make your day?
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Jan 21, 2013 - 02:56pm PT
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Staring in the the abyss today...
Enriching the Earth
To enrich the earth I have sowed clover and grass
to grow and die. I have plowed in the seeds
of winter grains and various legumes,
their growth to be plowed in to enrich the earth.
I have stirred into the ground the offal
and the decay of the growth of past seasons
and so mended the earth and made its yield increase.
All this serves the dark. Against the shadow
of veiled possibility my workdays stand
in a most asking light. I am slowly falling
into the fund of things. And yet to serve the earth,
not knowing what I serve, gives a wideness
and a delight to the air, and my days
do not wholly pass. It is the mind's service,
for when the will fails so do the hands
and one lives at the expense of life.
After death, willing or not, the body serves,
entering the earth. And so what was heaviest
and most mute is at last raised up into song.
~ Wendell Berry ~
(Collected Poems 1957 - 1982)
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Jan 21, 2013 - 03:11pm PT
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To the Stone-cutters
Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated
Challengers of oblivion
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well
Builds his monument mockingly;
For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun
Die blind and blacken to the heart:
Yet stone have stood for a thousand years, and pained thoughts found
The honey of peace in old poems.
Robinson Jeffers
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Jan 21, 2013 - 03:26pm PT
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Birds
The fierce musical cries of a couple of sparrowhawks hunting on the
headland,
Hovering and darting, their heads northwestward,
Prick like silver arrows shot through a curtain the noise of the ocean
Trampling its granite; their red backs gleam
Under my window around the stone corners; nothing gracefuller, nothing
Nimbler in the wind. Westward the wave-gleaners,
The old gray sea-going gulls are gathered together, the northwest wind
wakening
Their wings to the wild spirals of the wind-dance.
Fresh as the air, salt as the foam, play birds in the bright wind, fly falcons
Forgetting the oak and the pinewood, come gulls
From the Carmel sands and the sands at the river-mouth, from Lobos and
out of the limitless
Power of the mass of the sea, for a poem
Needs a multitude, multitudes of thoughts, all fierce, all fresh-eaters,
musically clamorous
Bright hawks that hover and dart headlong, and ungainly
Gray hungers fledged with desire of transgression, salt slimed beaks, from
the sharp
Rock-shores of the world and the secret waters.
Robinson Jeffers
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Jan 21, 2013 - 07:25pm PT
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The highest good is like water.
Water gives life to the ten thousand things and does not strive.
It flows in places men reject and so is like the Tao.
In dwelling, be close to the land.
In meditation, go deep in the heart.
In dealing with others, be gentle and kind.
In speech, be true.
In ruling, be just.
In business, be competent.
In action, watch the timing.
~ Tao Te Ching ~
(Translation by Gia-Fu Feng and Jane English)
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Jan 23, 2013 - 02:22am PT
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“How to Be a Poet”
(to remind myself)
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.
ii
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
iii
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.
© Wendell Berry. This poem is excerpted from “The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry”
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Pillowattack
Boulder climber
DC
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Jan 23, 2013 - 03:22pm PT
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The ox pulls the plow
The earth breaks open
It is raining
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Jan 23, 2013 - 03:31pm PT
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Wanderer's Song
The thread in the hand of a kind mother
Is the coat on the wanderer's back.
Before he left she stiched it close
In secret fear that he would be slow to return.
Who will say that the inch of grass in his heart
Is gratitude enough for all the sunshine of spring?
Meng Chiao
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Jan 24, 2013 - 03:08pm PT
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Seek patience
and passion
in equal amounts.
Patience alone
will not build the temple.
Passion alone
will destroy its walls.
~ Maya Angelou ~
(Life Mosaic)
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Mtnmun
Trad climber
Top of the Mountain Mun
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Topic Author's Reply - Jan 24, 2013 - 04:20pm PT
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Good one Donald!
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Jan 24, 2013 - 10:25pm PT
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An old favorite:
Messenger
My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird —
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,
which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(Thirst)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 25, 2013 - 12:11am PT
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the inch of grass
God sent His only begotten son to mow the lawn and sweep the driveway but He went climbing with His friends instead.
Super-Cross meets Taco Sauce.
See what happens eventually?
There is no controlling them when they have become Crosstians.
They are out to convert the world.
Holy Mother Mary pray for us.
Mother Frank, come back. If you can't, it was nice meeting you when you were one foot tall.
Hello, Suzy, it's been years since you've been here.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 25, 2013 - 12:21am PT
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Curious about the Taco Sauce, lemme know when you get a chance.--Fletcher email to MFM
And so am I,
And so am I.--Frank Zappa
Who could imagine Life with NO SAUCE!
Certainly no Aborigine, Dreamy as he is, could not. NO WAY IN DREAMTIME.
And peyote chewers have no clue.
Strange Brew, kill what's inside of you, too.
Expresso doesn't express much, and three tenors means too much expression...
Which leaves us with the balancing act in the icefall, a nightmare.
Calling all dreamcatchers!
See the crevasse of surprises widen before your eyeses.
And run away! Run away!
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Anastasia
climber
InLOVEwithAris.
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Jan 25, 2013 - 01:26am PT
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a model poises
her body twist toward the camera
the image of the perfect curves
unmarked skin
her gentle knowing smile
should she be ashamed of selling her image
or is it a great failure
to honor beauty as is
without our ego
demanding shame
or ownership
when in the end
it's just youth passing
even beauty fades
like our words
meaningless
AFS
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 25, 2013 - 08:56am PT
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"Meaninglessness Without Pictures" Says It All
He lifts his own breasts in comparison.
His sister has recently gone down the hairy road to puberty and now he's twelve he thinks it's his turn.
But where are his boobs?
He was totally expecting them, kind of relieved now--
he wasn't looking forward to having to wear a bra like she said he would have to do.
She's going to have to answer to this one, he thinks. She mustn't tease him so much. She'll be sorry...
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 28, 2013 - 03:36am PT
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"Don't Interrupt."--Teacher
[Click to View YouTube Video]
It's just knice to now Flutcher's still buzzing around hear.
"Sunfinnished"
So, like, Poetrick, Oh!
--if I may be so bold as he, what need of poetry except to tell of "We" or us collectively?
Hey's one of There Gang here, I'd say.
Their more than, say, six hundred.
But hey,who's counting?
Half a Dome gone. Word.
Into the Valley of Dearth
Rode the dirtbaggers.
Talus to the left of them,
Meadows to the right of them,
Onward and downward they rode,
Full of the dreams and the stories
Of the old school and they're revered old hoaries
Who's names clogged the journals with glories
In the un-punctuated, missle-spelled equilibrium
Of the evolutionary process
"Believe it or not" says more sometimes than anything
--Sometimes you just gotta say WTF.
And they did and we did and the guys before them guys did
All the way back to and beyond the back side of Muir/Clark/Clyde.
We are a totem-pole-arrangement,
Stacked like black and white demi-gods
In black convexes this time
Arrayed in silly string glory
Winching along and cumming from camming
Damming the fact it's not free.
Nothing is for free, yet we all wish it were so.
And both it and I will be free. You know it. Your kids know it.
Tom, Yvon, Royal know it.
And, above all, Chuck knows more than we will ever know now.
But he knows.
I just trust.
--Lord Finnyshin.
"Hoot to Be a Poet"
Yuk.
Yuk.
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Anastasia
climber
InLOVEwithAris.
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Jan 28, 2013 - 04:34am PT
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as a poet should I have the skill to string my words together
and rhyme them with blue
should I be able to give them rhythm like a well played guitar
strumming my vowels of thought to a beat
with meanings that grasp you by the guts
twist you down onto your knees
and then is it still a poem
or is it a prayer
of a soul needing to be saved
from the devils of the world
of the mind
and the devil that is made up of "I"
I am not very good at rhyming with blue
and I can't hold a rhythm beyond the basic rocking of a child
and instead of you being brought to your knees
it is I clenching my guts with my words losing meaning
and yes, I am full of devils and ghost
random thoughts I'm not able to string together
am I still a poet
when I can't even write down my name
for here the waters call to Virginia Woolf
and to Ingrid Jonker
as Sylvia Plath forgets to bake a cake...
do I really want to know what drove them
as it vibrates beneath my hands
into the shadows of my thoughts
to feel so much
I really honestly should learn to be still
and replace my thinking with well worn passages that are safe
written by folks that have reached old age
anything but the passions of the lost
I don't have to write
stay up all night
yet here I am
does this make me a poet?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 28, 2013 - 11:05am PT
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Boy, howdy!
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weezy
climber
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Jan 30, 2013 - 12:25am PT
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you guys check it out
i just took the biggest dump
where's my camera?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 30, 2013 - 01:05am PT
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Papadopoulos
pretty much did it, too, right?
You should write a book.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 30, 2013 - 01:44am PT
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THE TANTRUM! by Jules Feiffer, 1979.
Chapter 1--"Metamorphosis."
Try to deal without the pictures--this is only an experiment.
Characters--
Leo Quog and Mrs. Carol Quog, dialog thus
Kids, a girl and a boy, dialog thus
(DR) Thus...
No give. No give. No give.
Leo, will you please come in from the window? You know how that scares me.
I'm in perfect control.
I'm bored nearly frantic by your depression, Leo. If you won't talk to me, how can I know what you want?
No danger. No mystery.
Remember, this weekend we're going out to grandman and grandpa's.
Not this weekend!
For Christ's sake! I've made plans!
You are a decent, thoughtful, responsive man and I love you. I don't know what you want out of our marriage, Leo.
I want--__MOMMY! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!
For God's sake, Leo, what are you doing? We hear you! This is insanity! I'm reasoning with you, Leo; you are a forty-two year-old adult!
I'm NOT forty-two! I'm NOT! I'm NOT! I'm four! I'm three! I'm TWO!
I'm back!
LEO!
Terrific, huh, Carol?
Leo, if this is your sick idea of a joke...This is obscene!
Wow! Won't the kids be surprised...Phil! Ruthie! Come look at you old man!
(on phone) Is it an emergency? It's an ASSAULT! Hurry! Hurry!
(DR) Is this someone's idea of a joke? This is a perfectly normal two-year old.
He's not! He's not! He's my husband!
Daddy! I need my father! I need my father!
I want my father back! I want to die! I want to vomit!
(DR) I've got four strep throats and a marrow cancer waiting. You people should be shot!
Let's play! Ruthie, want to carry Daddy piggy back? Do me a favor, Carol, powder and diaper me.
Leo, you are having too good a time at your family's expense.
I'm going to jump out the window!
Phil, Ruthie, I have had quite enough of this! It's time you children faced the real world, unblinking. I your father, have reverted to two. That happens to be my private and personal choice. I will love and suppport you every bit as strongly as when I was middle-aged. That's all that matters as far as you're concerned. My age is MY business, not yours. NOW CARRY ME PIGGY BACK!
--End of Chapter 1 by Jules Feiffer
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weezy
climber
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Jan 30, 2013 - 01:52am PT
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mountains rose from the earth the size of constellations
angry fathers looming over the land's inhabitants
and the land itself in stern observance with unseeable
unseeing eyes miles high
that guarded against beasts lurking beyond them
which you sensed only right before they were upon you
serrations bared like rotten teeth
trying to chew a hole into Heaven
yawning so wide and terrible
that all the stars might come tumbling out
to decorate their rocky flanks with astral broken glass
as if to disguise with glitter their dreadful intentions
black teeth screaming, invading a faceless mouth
and the gentle dawning sky, soft and pink as a newborn
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 30, 2013 - 02:13am PT
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Oh, why do you not run on, why do you not?
Blather and blah and weet not weet.
I, me, cannot punctuate or dot an i in the weet is what.
We have got to quit weeting like that.
You and I, weezy way too much bad grammar now
.
What happened to my letter which followeth the letter "r"?
It appeareth to have taken off with no replacement. Even the CAPITAL hat fled...
Now I'm plurally challenged as well as mentally challenged.
What to do? Go back to kindergarten and be five again!
Or head over to the Coffee Chop and a bit of pretend five ten
!
Dot an i for me
!
Twenty-four! Number twenty-four! Have you number twenty-four, any of you gentlemen
?
More experimentation. What letter can you do without? How do you get around the problem and still make sense? One hath a clue. No matter the problem, man can overcome it. We can think. We can do. Anything.
Kith my ath, Mithithipee.
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weezy
climber
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Jan 30, 2013 - 02:33am PT
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i love bad grammer
no dots or dashes for me
teachers are too smart
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Jan 31, 2013 - 11:50am PT
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AFS: gratitude for those two gems above. You added something to the world that matters!
Eric
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Jan 31, 2013 - 11:51am PT
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Nice take on another Greek who made a huge impact:
Ithaka
As you set out for Ithaka
hope the voyage is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them:
you’ll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope the voyage is a long one.
May there be many a summer morning when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you come into harbors seen for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind—
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to gather stores of knowledge from their scholars.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you are destined for.
But do not hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you are old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.
~ C.P. Cavafy ~
(Collected Poems, Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard)
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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When you poets are caught in the flow of creation
All too often you yield to the siren temptation
Of structureless symbolic representation.
And though you’re avoiding versification
We’d be grateful if there were no need for translation.
We would love it if you could eschew obfuscation.
WM
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Love it Fossil!
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Apparently, owls are not vegan!
White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field
Coming down out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us —
as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(House of Light)
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Majid_S
Mountain climber
Bay Area , California
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From Sohrab Sepehri , a Persian poet
Life is an apple, you bite it with skin
you must search for friend under rain
you found love under rain
You have to see all people under rain
I went to end of love.......saw things
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Cobfuscation.
Take a swan dive off the Diving Board and clarity comes quickly.
Take a look at the poor remains and you may feel sickly.
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Norwegian
Trad climber
Pollock Pines, California
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no one reads this shite,
only the author admires
the stroke of his own pen,
it's absurd,
and our ridiculous is
massive enough
to require a two to one
approach to move it thru,
two deaths for every eerie life.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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And no one smells this shite, either.
Pen-pushers, ink-daubers, & thought-mongers all smell alike when they are dead. Period.
Never/always question longevity.
Never/always believe in eternity.
Always/never tie your shoes.
Always/never wear slippers.
Always look at Lovers' Leap.
Never go by without a peep.
It's one of your many gifts.
It's one of your many curses.
Like your unconvincing scorn
for all these silly verses.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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First pages of Wanderings from the Line of Duty by Chester F. Mattson.
He was a naval officer in charge of a battalion, beginning with its training during WWII and ordered the poems in a narrative manner, from the earliest days of the group to the last ones.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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The Sickness Unto Death
God went out of me
as if the sea dried up like sandpaper,
as if the sun became a latrine.
God went out of my fingers.
They became stone.
My body became a side of mutton
and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
Someone brought me oranges in my despair
but I could not eat a one
for God was in that orange.
I could not touch what did not belong to me.
The priest came,
he said God was even in Hitler.
I did not believe him
for if God were in Hitler
then God would be in me.
I did not hear the bird sounds.
they had left.
I did not see the speechless clouds,
I saw only the little white dish of my faith
breaking in the crater.
I kept sayng:
I've got to have something to hold on to.
People gave me Bibles, crucifixes,
a yellow daisy,
but I could not touch them,
I who was a house full of bowel movement,
I who was a defaced altar,
I who wanted to crawl toward God
could not move nor eat bread.
So I ate myself,
bite by bite, and the tears washed me,
wave after cowardly wave,
swallowing canker after canker
and Jesus stood over me looking down
and He laughed to find me gone,
and put His mouth to mine
and gave me His air.
My kindred, my brother, I said
and gave the yellow daisy
to the crazy woman in the next bed.
--Anne Sexton/The Awful Rowing Toward God
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Feb 10, 2013 - 02:13am PT
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TTrQ58vHBkw
Working on the New Railroad
ROWING
A story, a story!
(Let it go. Let it come.)
I was stamped out like a Plymouth fender
into this world.
First came the crib
with its glacial bars.
Then dolls
and the devotion to their plastic mouths.
Then there was school,
the little straight rows of chairs,
blotting my name over and over,
but undersea all the time,
a stranger whose elbows wouldn’t work.
Then there was life
with its cruel houses
and people who seldom touched--
though touch is all--
but I grew,
like a pig in a trenchcoat I grew,
and then there were many strange apparitions,
the nagging rain, the sun turning into poison
and all of that, saws working through my heart, but I grew, I grew,
and God was there like an island I had not rowed to,
still ignorant of Him, my arms and my legs worked,
and I grew, I grew,
I wore rubies and bought tomatoes
and now, in my middle age,
about nineteen in the head I’d say,
I am rowing, I am rowing
though the oarlocks stick and are rusty
and the sea blinks and rolls
like a worried eyeball,
but I am rowing, I am rowing,
though the wind pushes me back
and I know that the island will not be perfect,
it will have the flaws of life,
the absurdities of the dinner table,
but there will be a door
and I will open it
and I will get rid of the rat inside of me,
the gnawing pestilential rat.
God will take it with his two hands
and embrace it.
As the African says:
This is my tale which I have told,
if it be sweet, if it be not sweet,
take somewhere else and let some return to me.
This story ends with me still rowing.
THE ROWING ENDETH
I’m mooring my rowboat
at the dock of the island called God.
This dock is made in the shape of a fish
and there are many boats moored
at many different docks.
“It’s okay,” I say to myself,
with blisters that broke and healed
and broke and healed--
saving themselves over and over.
And salt sticking to my face and arms like
a glue-skin pocked with grains of tapioca.
I empty myself from my wooden boat
and onto the flesh of The Island.
“On with it!” He says and thus
we squat on the rocks by the sea
and play—can it be true--
a game of poker.
He calls me.
I win because I hold a royal straight flush.
He wins because He holds five aces.
A wild card had been announced
but I had not heard it
being in such a state of awe
when He took out the cards and dealt.
As He plunks down His five aces
and I sit grinning at my royal flush,
He starts to laugh,
the laughter rolling like a hoop out of His mouth
and into mine,
and such laughter that He doubles right over me
laughing a Rejoice-Chorus at our two triumphs.
Then I laugh, the fishy dock laughs
the sea laughs. The Island laughs.
The Absurd laughs.
Dearest dealer,
I with my royal straight flush,
love you so for your wild card,
that untamable, eternal, gut-driven ha-ha
and lucky love.
--Anne Sexton
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Feb 10, 2013 - 02:39am PT
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weezy
this goes with the poem at the top o' this page
THE WALL
Nature is full of teeth
that come in one by one, then
decay, fall out.
In nature nothing is stable,
all is change, bears, dogs, peas, the willow,
all disappear. Only to be reborn.
rocks crumble, make new forms,
ocians move the continents,
mountains rise up and down like ghosts
yet all is natural, all is change.
As I write this sentence
about one hundred and four generations
since Christ, nothing has changed
except knowledge, the test tube.
Man still falls into the dirt
and is covered.
As I write this sentence one thousand are going
and one thousand are coming.
It is like the well that never dries up.
It is like the sea which is the ditchen of God.
We are all earthworms,
digging into our wrinkles.
We live beneath the ground a
and if Christ should come in the form of a plow
and dig a furrow and push us up into the day
we earthworms would be blinded by the sudden light
and writhe in our distress.
As I write this sentence I too writhe.
For all you who are going,
and there are many who are climbing their pain,
many who will be painted out with a black ink
suddenly and before it is time,
for those many I say,
awkwardly, clumsily,
take off your life like trousers,
your shoes, your underwear,
then take off your flesh,
unpick the lock of you bones.
In other workd,take off the wall
that separates you from God.
--Anne Sexton
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Feb 15, 2013 - 12:23am PT
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Heart of Stone
Jagger & richards
There've been so many girls that I've known,
I've made so many cry and still I wonder why
Here comes the little girl,
I see her walking down the street.
She's all by herself,
Trying so hard to please, but
She'll never break, nerver break, never break, never break
This heart of stone. Oh, no, no, this heart of stone.
What's different about her?
I don't really know. No matter how I try
I just can't maker her cry.
But she'll never break, never break, never break, never break
This heart of stone. Oh, no, no, no, this heart of stone.
Don't keep on looking that some old way.
If you try acting sad, you'll only make me glad.
Better listen little girl,
You go on walking down the street,
I ain't got no love, I ain't the kind to meet.
But you'll never break, never break, never break, never break
This heart of stone. Oh, no, no, this heart of stone,
You'll never break this heart of stone.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Feb 15, 2013 - 02:35am PT
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Girl from the North Country
By some guy named Dylan [Rosanne Cash's cover is particularly beautiful]
If you're traveling in the north country fair
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline
Remember me to one who lives there
For she was once a true love of mine.
Well, if you go when the snowflakes storm
When the rivers freeze and summer ends
Please see for me if she's wearing a coat so warm
To keep her from the howlin' winds.
Please see from me if her hair hanging down
If it curls and flows all down her breast
Please see from me if her hair hanging down
That's the way I remember her best.
Well, if you're traveling in the north country fair
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline
Please say hello to one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine.
If you're travelin' in the north country fair
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline
Remember me to one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Feb 15, 2013 - 02:35am PT
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Ann Sexton... Also the Aweful Rowing Towards God.
There goes my pal Odysseus again!
Eric
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Feb 15, 2013 - 04:52pm PT
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Jason: Here now! What's the row?
Odysseus: Oh wow! Then is now!
Jason: And how! Take a bow!
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weezy
climber
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Feb 15, 2013 - 05:08pm PT
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wow, mouse i've never read that anne sexton poem. wierd how the first stanza is so similar. i was reading a lot of cormac mcarthy when i wrote that purple prose at the top of the last page, hence the run on n on sentences.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Feb 15, 2013 - 09:21pm PT
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Weezy,--
How do you like my "Serrations," huh? It's a good rhyme for constellations.
I'm just trying to suggest that Wayne could be right, about rhyming and understanding the message. I'm not saying restructure. The ability to create is countered by the ability to control how and what you create. Daubs can't really paint. Poetasters can't rhyme and inspire at the same time. But it's easier to accomplish a poetic "do-over" than an artistic one.
It's a big challenge to use your noggin, sometimes. And noboby's got you on the clock.
Think of how Locker is challenged with that big head? He must have to go miles to get a memory, bring it back to central, and so on....
And the echoes in there must be horrbly distracting.
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weezy
climber
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Feb 16, 2013 - 01:55am PT
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i think i'm pickin up what yer settin down, mouse.
i like serrations, they make nice traverses.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Feb 16, 2013 - 02:12am PT
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In order to make a nice traverse
You should be able to climb.
In order to make a nice-sounding verse
Doesn't require sublime.
All it requires is time.
And recursions.
But first I should seek an incursion
It's not a real nasty perversion.
It's just something I'm immersed in.
And on and on an on an on an on like a long long Journey song
Or a hike down the Muir Trail.
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Anastasia
climber
Home
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Feb 16, 2013 - 02:38am PT
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I hear the creak of my bones
with my desire to touch my toes
and at the distance I'm reaching
it's turning into a bad idea
but I am here
I've joined a gym!
to wheeze away to the music
as another middle ager
lost in battle
yet still an anomaly
I am not fantasizing about another life
I'm remembering
and as I giggle from the memories
I touch my toes
feeling them wiggle
just a little sign
that this remains interesting
here we go
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Feb 22, 2013 - 08:30pm PT
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I forget the name of this work. It had "Poetry" in the title as well as in the image.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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The Beautiful Poem
by Richard Brautigan
I go to bed in Los Angeles thinking
about you.
Pissing a few monents ago
I looked down at my penis
affectionately.
Knowing it has been inside
you twice today makes me
feel beautiful.
3 A.M.
January 15, 1967
http://www.redhousebooks.com/galleries/freePoems/beautiful.htm
The Beautiful Poem 2018
by Jim Donini
I go to bed in Wawona thinking
about you.
Pissing for a half hour a few minutes ago
I looked down at my climbing rack
with great affection.
Knowing it has been inside
you twice today makes me
feel oh so beautiful.
Climb the gates of hell.
You fell. If yer gonna die
Do it in the sky.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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The Pill versus the Springhill Mine Disaster
When you take your pill
it´s like a mine disaster.
I think of all the people
lost inside you
French Free versus the Hateful Mime Disaster
When you pull on your pro
it's like the Springhill Mime Disaster.
Words cannot express how I feel
about my sense of shame-on-you.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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The Old Climbing Poet’s Shoes
Old guys In disguise
Ode guys In da skies
Eau de guys In dees guys
Oh, guys...
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Mar 13, 2013 - 10:57am PT
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Praying
It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don't try
to make them elaborate, this isn't
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(Thirst)
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Mar 14, 2013 - 12:26pm PT
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Har har, eKat!!! Love puns, the worse the better for some reason!
A string walks into a bar and asks for a drink. The bartender says, "You'll have to leave, we don't serve string here."
The string goes outside and twists himself around and gets all tangled and frayed. He goes back into the bar and asks for another drink.
The bartender says, "Aren't you the string I just kicked out of here?"
The string says, "I'm afraid not."
Eric
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Mar 14, 2013 - 12:27pm PT
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seeker of truth
follow no path
all paths lead where
truth is here
~ e. e. cummings ~
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 14, 2013 - 12:57pm PT
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You can lead that hen to water but just try to spread her eggs.
--one disgruntled c*#k to another, somewhere in the headwaters of a wild river, maybe in Alaska
Okay, it was f*#king George Carlin said it.
Okay, "...in the headwaters of a f*#king clean wild river, maybe in Arizona."
Okay, "male salmon."
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Norwegian
Trad climber
the tip of god's middle finger
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Mar 14, 2013 - 02:05pm PT
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words are ammunition
in the war on silence.
but like all wars,
this war is unwarranted.
silence is intimidating in it's ultimate stillness.
thus we have deemed it our enemy,
and with our diction,
we assault the passive squatter.
a blank sheet is intimidating in it's ultimate clarity.
thus we have deemed it our enemy,
and with our prose,
we assault the poetic void,
forcing ourselves upon it.
raping it until it unwillingly
bears our future.
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Anastasia
climber
Home
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Mar 14, 2013 - 02:25pm PT
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A white robe to set you free
with no one above but that of your faith
what is hidden in your mind
the jewels of love, or is it the dirt of pride
for humility can hide a man who feels superior
in this world...
how many wrongs do the righteous yield
here we the masses wait by the side of the road
with our beggar's cups
we wait for you...
Will you come to serve
or do you wait for us to serve you
that is my biggest question
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Mar 15, 2013 - 02:32pm PT
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Very good eKat, Norwegian, Anastasia, all in quite different ways, but ways necessary to our sustenance!
Eric
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Mar 15, 2013 - 02:33pm PT
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Dedicated to the Taconians emerging from deep hibernation and cabin fever:
What the Day Gives
Suddenly, sun. Over my shoulder
in the middle of gray November
what I hoped to do comes back,
asking.
Across the street the fiery trees
hold onto their leaves,
red and gold in the final months
of this unfinished year,
they offer blazing riddles..
In the frozen fields of my life
there are no shortcuts to spring,
but stories of great birds in migration
carrying small ones on their backs,
predators flying next to warblers
they would, in a different season, eat.
Stunned by the astonishing mix in this uneasy world
that plunges in a single day from despair
to hope and back again, I commend my life
to Ruskin's difficult duty of delight,
and to that most beautiful form of courage,
to be happy.
~ Jeanne Lohmann ~
(The Light of Invisible Bodies)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 15, 2013 - 04:33pm PT
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mighty n sight full, u b n i c e
Howl, dance, give, learn.
Dance, howl, learn to give.
To do all these you need to live.
Karma is the thing you earn.
-the bacwords poet
Irish Poets’ Society
Lord Tennyson
Couldn’t be one.
We’re sorry, mun,
You’re out. We’re done.
C B Low
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 16, 2013 - 02:44am PT
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CHICKEN WAFFLES
A small fold of skin
Hangs beneath my chin
Some folks call it a turkey wattle
My girl calls it a chicken waffle
Cuz when her daddy climbs
He climbs so awful!
Pee U!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 19, 2013 - 04:41pm PT
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Honoring Deaf, Dumb, and Dumber Than You Can Conceive (but try) people who find it difficult to communicate, and I don't mean Luke Jackson.
This mouth is GRAIN IJURY AWARENESS MONTH.
Thank you, neebee geebee!!!
So Messed Up Thou Cannot Speaketh
A degree of sensitivity
Result of brain activity
Words can’t tell me
What thee can see
The words won’t come out easily
And if they come out at all from thee
They’re garbled.
How it must feel to agree or disagree
Is an irrelevancy
Whether you agree or disagree is even mooter
But I’m by your side, I’m your rooter
No one could see this better than you
But we are deprived of your point of view
And it’s the world’s loss.
Thou could be Remembrandt in there for all they care.
Alas, sometimes time is not our own to use
To ourselves is left the course to choose.
Awareness is as awareness does
If in the future it is your cuz
Sitting helpless to convey
What it is he'd like to say
You may the better to prepare
By trying to become aware
And thus share
What silence means to those who suffer in it.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 19, 2013 - 07:00pm PT
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I Know Why the Dead Skulls Smile
I know why the dead skulls smile
though their humor's out of style.
I know why they bare their dentures,
Laughing at the living's ventures.
Is it odd the dead are laughing
at the world's choreographing?
Chicken-like we run our races,
never slowing breakneck paces.
We all die; it's life's common goal.
It's people's fate pole to pole.
I know that the skulls laugh at us
who can't accept death without fuss.
--Megin Bevis
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 20, 2013 - 09:19am PT
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It's a cold world
blinding light, ceaseless challenge
so saith RR
Once heard some joker
tell me the punch line of an old
Sherry Anderson
Sheridan's nature
was ineffably funny*
whatever that means
He didn't need one
If he just drew he'd manage
to get us the point
It's not that dang hard
to make people laugh when they
see themselves fly fish
or rock climb or ski
go surfing, juggle, slackline
or hop on one leg
We are simply boys
having fun with our new toys
Sometimes we make noise
On belay Berg heil
He's the man who all the while
sardonical with guile
made us laugh so hard
we forgot for the moment
we're all gonna die
*so saith Tami
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 22, 2013 - 04:13am PT
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The Great Phil Sentinel.The other day they waited
The sky was dark and faded
Solemnly they stated
He has to die
You know he has to die
And all the children learning
From books that they were burning
Every leaf was turning
To watch him die
You know he has to die
The summer sun looked down on him
His mother could but frown on him
And all the others sound on him
But it doesn't seem to matter
And when the day had ended
With rainbow colours blended
His mind remained unbended
He had to die
You know he had to die
You know he had to die
But they lost their arrows so he lived to climb another day. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ySRB_1Ls8hA
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 24, 2013 - 02:28pm PT
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He had to die, so post a reply.
Rick-ity tick-ity peel...
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Leggs
Sport climber
Home away from Home
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Mar 28, 2013 - 11:40pm PT
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A cherished friend shared this with me last night...
The Highwayman
By Alfred Noyes
PART ONE
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
PART TWO
He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
. . .
And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Heartbreaking and beautiful... all at the same time.
*thanks, CXR*
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Mar 31, 2013 - 08:16pm PT
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On Biological Terminology
Nomenclature, regardless of whether applied to organisms
vegetable, avian or mammalian,
Often involves Greek or Latin terms which are obscure,
arcane and sesquipedalian.
I find it possible to remember and even blithely to pronounce
The mellifluous and euphonious name of a bat called Myotis,
But I become dyslexic, dyspeptic and apoplectic
trying to recall and pronounce
The prickly polysyllabics of the sea urchin, Strongylocentrotus.
And as for biologic processes, why, the terminology borders on apocrypha!
For example, the strobilation of the scyphistoma
of the Cestoda and Coelenterata,
Which, by division of the larvae into segments,
produces multiple sons and daughta.
There must easier terms to use – or anyhow, there oughta.
WM
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.
~ Mary Oliver ~
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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I'll call your Mary Oliver with one Anne Sexton
THE FISH THAT WALKED
Up from oysters
and the confused weeds,
out from the tears of God,
the wounding tides, he came.
He became a hunter of roots
and breathed like a man.
He ruffled through the grasses
and became known to the sky.
I stood close and watched it all.
Beg pardon, he said
but you have skin divers,
you have hooks and nets,
so why shouldn’t I
enter your element for a moment?
Though it is curious here,
unusually awkward to walk.
It is without grace.
There is no rhythm
in this country of dirt.
And I said to him:
From some country
that I have misplaced
I can recall a few things...
but the light of the kitchen
gets in the way.
Yet there was a dance
when I kneaded the bread
there was a song my mother
used to sing...
And the salt of God’s belly
where I floated in a cup of darkness.
I long for your country, fish.
The fish replied:
You must be a poet,
a lady of evil luck
desiring to be what you are not,
longing to be
what you can only visit.
--Anne Sexton
and raise you one more Anne Sexton, Fletcher.
It's not a macho contest, just a speechy figure.
RIDING THE ELEVATOR INTO THE SKY
As the fireman said:
Don’t book a room over the fifth floor
in any hotel in New York.
They have ladders that will reach further
but no one will climb them.
As the New York Times said:
The elevator always seeks out
the floor of the fire
and automatically opens
and won’t shut.
These are the warnings
that you must forget
if you’re climbing out of yourself.
If you’re going to smash into the sky.
Many times I’ve gone past
the fifth floor,
cranking upward,
but only once have I gone all the way up.
Sixtieth floor: small plants and swans bending
into their grave.
Floor two hundred:
mountains with the patience of a cat,
silence wearing its sneakers.
Floor five hundred:
messages and letters centuries old,
birds to drink,
a kitchen of clouds.
Floor six thousand: the stars,
skeletons on fire,
their arms singing.
And a key,
a very large key,
that opens something--
some useful door--
somewhere--
up there.
--Anne Sexton
Leggs' selection is one of my all-time favorites from Childcraft volume #2.
I found the old illustrations, but there's not a direct link.
Yahoo search:
The Highwayman in childcraft encyclopedia
Click on the item:
The Highwayman - Plasma Dynamics Lab
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Not the Ultimate Haikus
Vision was a climb ascending the entire slab: inexpensive.
Toes experienced pressure that turns coal into gems. It hurt plenty.
Five, seven, and five.
Please, you should take it from here.
I can't count that high.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 10, 2013 - 10:07am PT
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In the Wild Rice
In the wild rice fields two rivers meet:
one from the north bears soil so fertile that the dead
grow
in their graves;
the other carries the cleaned bones
and empty skins
of animals that once lived
inside the mountain snows. When the sun goes,
these old friends stay outside
and exchange
stories of the past and the silent days
when being a river
was something to be proud of.
For warmth, they drink up their own gifts.
Now because they are drunk and tired
of the journey,
they lie down in their beds.
Friendship falls through the heavy water of sleep
like a stone.
--Gary Thompson
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 12, 2013 - 01:29am PT
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An Astonished Listener Hears the Radio Announcer Bat Out the Long Balls of Verbs, Nouns and Adjectives.
Swing on the cripple and hit the dying quail.
The roundhouse curve, the swell wrinkle, and the
Big dead fish all fail if the slugger
Rammycackles a liner over the advertising sign.
At the break of seven spasms take some of that
Good beer, for the Little Professor’s* at bat.
The sprayhitters are breaking out with
five o’clock lightning and the Old Casey the Cagey
Calls in a new repair man. It’s Cautious Joe!**
He’s deep down in the barrel and has to
Swim out of it, but boy he’s swimming!
Watch those fielders put on the chain,
Skid, gobble and throw. They know it’s
Hang tough and root hog or die and they want the
Poke ball hit in the well.
You never know in baseball
In the last gasp or never inning the veterans can
Wield the willow and play some beautiful tunes
On ancient fiddles.
Then the cripple and the
Dying quail and the big dead fish are all
Stashed in the deep freeze.
--James Schevill, old school poet, formerly a ‘Modern Poet”
*Dom Dimaggio
**Maybe, Joe Page, “The Gay Reliever.”
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 13, 2013 - 09:38am PT
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I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes
I see a line of cars and they're all painted black
With flowers and my love, both never to come back
I see people turn their heads and quickly look away
Like a newborn baby it just happens ev'ryday
I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door and it has been painted black
Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts
It's not easy facing up when your whole world is black
No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue
I could not forsee this thing happening to you
If I look hard enough into the setting sun
My love will laugh with me before the morning comes
I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes
Hmm, hmm, hmm...
Maybe I'll go up and see Ray.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 13, 2013 - 09:53am PT
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Colloquy in Black Rock
by Robert Lowell
Here the jack-hammer jabs into the ocean;
My heart, you race and stagger and demand
More blood-gangs for your nigger-brass percussions,
Till I, the stunned machine of your devotion,
Clanging upon this cymbal of a hand,
Am rattled screw and footloose. All discussions
End in the mud-flat detritus of death.
My heart, beat faster, faster. In Black Mud
Hungarian workmen give their blood
For the martyrs Stephen who was stoned to death.
Black Myd, a name to conjure with: O mud
For watermelons gutted to the crust,
Mud for the mole-tide harbor, mud for mouse,
Mud for teh armored Diesel fishing tubs that thud
A year and a day to wind and tide; the dust
Is on this skipping heart that shakes my house,
House of our Savior who was hanged till death.
My heart, beat faster, faster. In Black Mud
Stephen the martyre was broken down to blood:
Our ransom is the rubble of his death.
Christ walks on the black water. In Black Mud
Darts the kingfisher. On Corpus Christi, heart,
Over the drum-beat of St. Stephen's choir
I hear him, Stupor Mundi, and the mud
Flies from his hunching wings and beak--my heart,
he blue kingfisher dives on you in fire.
1946
I wonder what the heck Gary's up to today?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 13, 2013 - 10:04am PT
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Mercury
by Josephine Miles
Then have mercy upon me.
Let one who has no care,
Sees not me there,
Likes not if he sees
And would not had he care,
Have mercy upon me.
He is my black mercury
Against the world's glass
By which all figures come and pass
Fair as the are in their own loving sight.
He is the black night
That brings myself to the face of the glass.
In my indelibiity
Have mercy upon me, quick neutral who does me forget.
Stand not
Fast at the sheer glass of my life
To make my life myself.
B'lieve I'll go back home and find Stevie and call Ray, have him come over, too.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 19, 2013 - 12:46am PT
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Way Above Camp 4
In the talus forest
The oaks repeat the wind’s words
Over and over
Across the valley
Sentinel’s water falls down
In deep recesses
Sentinel itself
Is screened by whispering oaks
Who speak of Half Dome
It’s icy up there
Now no trees grow on its head
They’ve mostly been burned
It wasn’t lightning
Sheltering man has done this
Please take a lesson
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 20, 2013 - 10:37am PT
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EXPLODING MYTHS
Myth busters,
Cam busters,
Dam busters:
It’s all Grey Poupon.
To me.
Filibuster,
Attitude adjuster,
Blues by Duster:
Just sing The Beat Goes On.
For me.
La di dah di di,
Lad died dealing meth,
He asked for early death:
Inhaled from his dying breath, it's gone
In me.
Blonde climbers have more fun;
Only pansies climb five one;
It’s five seven now we’re done:
Let’s find a coffee shop.
On me.
--A. Crumbinallo
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Apr 20, 2013 - 11:48am PT
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Benny Andersen in translation. Mouse from Merced will not like the poem The Time at 04:05 or Spirit at 24:50.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Apr 20, 2013 - 11:55am PT
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Sailing To Byzantium
I
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
---Those dying generations---at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.
II
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
III
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
IV
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
W B Yeats
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 21, 2013 - 09:38pm PT
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BROKEN RADIO SIGNAL
I loved that little Sony-mine
and the sounds it had on offer.
It nearly died one day at T.I. in May 1968:
A near-fatal discharge under dishonorable conditions following a ground-fall.
Twelve feet to the ground left no doubt—that was all, it was gonna die.
I hope it didn’t suffer.
We were listening to some Zappa
when it got zapped.
It hung around, a one-antenna amputee,
mostly mute and seldom heard,
that later got lost in Yosemite.
Eventually.
If a radio signal dies in the forest and no one hears it, how does this affect the universe?
Heck of a question.
edit a Marlow: As a psa, the time is now officially gone. It was just a baby, too. This was reported in The Times. The time was when an obituary had more people who had time to read it. There is dead air on radio, which is the same as dead time.
I got no dime but I got some time to hear his story.--The Dead, one more time
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Apr 24, 2013 - 11:50am PT
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Well, it's that time of the year:
Sumer is icumen in,
Lhude sing cuccu!
Groweþ sed and bloweþ med
And springþ þe wde nu,
Sing cuccu!
Awe bleteþ after lomb,
Lhouþ after calue cu.
Bulluc sterteþ, bucke uerteþ,
Murie sing cuccu!
Cuccu, cuccu, wel singes þu cuccu;
Ne swik þu nauer nu.
Sing cuccu nu. Sing cuccu.
Sing cuccu. Sing cuccu nu!
And for those of you not fluent in Middle English (where's a Hobbit when you need one?):
Summer has come in,
Loudly sing, Cuckoo!
The seed grows and the meadow
blooms
And the wood springs anew,
Sing, Cuckoo!
The ewe bleats after the lamb
The cow lows after the calf.
The bullock stirs, the stag farts,
Merrily sing, Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo, well you sing,
cuckoo;
Don't ever you stop now,
Sing cuckoo now. Sing, Cuckoo.
Sing Cuckoo. Sing cuckoo now!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 25, 2013 - 08:15pm PT
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IT'S MORE THAN HAIKU
TO SAY HOW MUCH I LIKE YOU
i feel i o u
ALL u people
THANK u people
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Gary
Social climber
Desolation Basin, Calif.
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Apr 25, 2013 - 08:50pm PT
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More Brautigan for Mouse:
Death is a beautiful car parked only
to be stolen on a street lined with trees
whose branches are like the intestines
of an emerald.
You hotwire death, get in, and drive away
like a flag made from a thousand burning
funeral parlors.
You have stolen death because you're bored.
There's nothing good playing at the movies
in San Francisco.
You joyride around for a while listening
to the radio, and then abandon death, walk
away, and leave death for the police
to find.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Apr 25, 2013 - 11:58pm PT
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The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(Dream Work)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 26, 2013 - 03:09am PT
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a tattoo haiku
tells you dot dot's the dotter
your daughter has wed
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 26, 2013 - 03:31am PT
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Dead Car Found on Park Place
On a bench in Park Place
It sat
It radiated love
It had been joy-ridden
Obviously
The trunk was full of old comedy reels
Laurel and Hardwood
The Tree Stooges
The Light Comedy in the Forest
and so on through Hollywood
The cops stood around
Was there a moving violation
Or was it a parking violation
They felt it was moving
So they took out their tools
And they fixed that crate good
It never ever moved again
They hauled it away with a logging chain
It was put to rest in a pine box
Norwegian-crafted
And inlaid with emeralds
In oddly hexcentric shapes
And Bob Dylan sang
The car song
By Woody
Would he approve
The hearse was a woodie
Why certainly
Cried the baldest cypress stooge
The king of braut again has died
Long live the king
Auto the Magnificent
[Click to View YouTube Video] Thanks, Gary!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 26, 2013 - 03:48am PT
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He Wants to Tap a Keg at the Leap
I mean, He Wants to Leap on a Keg and Tap Dance on Dikes
why not go all the way
why not take all of me
why not a bunch of mes
why not hike your pants up
why not you satisfied
why not utter sweet nothings
why not fool around with me no more
why not u like me no more
I'm sorry if this offends.
I just up-chucked it.
The mouse-muse is full of moonshine tonight of all nights.
Chuck's twice the man
i am
after all
i am
just a mouse
hangin' nine
surfin' the rhyme
next time
i am
buyin'
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 26, 2013 - 07:06am PT
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Nose In A Day Dream
Donini’s nostril
gospel
hostel
hospital
lost bell
liberty bell
go to hell
goat boy smell
Lafayette Bunnel
admiral
clam shell
wishing well
oh, do tell
William tell
no tell motel
‘ink well’
show ‘n tell
holding cell
farmer in the dell
and he finally fell
and on cloud nine they dwell
Little Nell
je m’apelle
set a spell
have a nail
eat a snail
cut up the handrail
belay them last three, varmint!
they all smell
just as well
couldn’t tell
better sell
Colgate gel
Cornell yell
more cowbell
Samuel Zell
all is well
sing Noel
Maroon Bell
run pell-mell
kiss n’ tell
Disney cel
“Life in the Salton Sea!?”
This here ain’t no Disney nature flick, ya varmint!!
Git back ta bizness, blast ya!
KA-BLOOEY!!!!!!
No more to tell, etc.
Dette er ikke en Disney film om natur, kjeltring, irriterende person eller dyr, forsomme.--Benny Anders Marlofsen
I may have butchered that, py yiminey.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 26, 2013 - 03:59pm PT
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Hard Core Spondee
Dusting away on the dark side they hung
Not a hair out of place, nor even a tongue, among
White founts falling in the courts of the sun
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Apr 30, 2013 - 03:38am PT
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"Poetry meets deep, essential, unremembered hungers. It is food and drink for the soul - memory of the soul."—Krista Tippett
Now I remember for whence here I came...
For lunch, natch!
Eric
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 30, 2013 - 11:00am PT
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Nachos for lunch...
Sure It Could Always Be Verse
They say things should rhyme
But I haven’t the time
To babysit pronouns all day
If they want it so
I want them to know
We consider myself to be they
So f. them and the lamas
(And especially them commas)
They all rode in on today
Beck to verk, Fledger! Vite!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Brilliant, rr!
And historically accurate, too!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Insert photo RR,pensive pose back cover shot from My Life.
Me-did-tations Midst Rubble
Before I worked in Yosemite as a houseman I fried hamburgers and made chicken for a franchise in the Bay Area. The hamburger we sold was "The Big Barney." Fred Flintstone, Barney Rubble, OK?
I yearned for the mountains, back then, though I knew not what could possibly happen up there.
I found that in the mountains, Time passes slowly, hand-to-hand, until it is no longer legible.
It's then used for TP.
What I am resting on is the detritus of monoliths.
They are like the piles of dead skin cells which accumulated underneath my mattress.
If Sentinel sheds skin, this is it, and they have been laying here for, like, quien sabe?
It is a poor conceit for what has happened here in the side-hill oak forest.
I never notice skin flakes falling off me or the noise they must make if they do.
Let’s set that myth on its heels.
Everything makes noise but we all are not equipped or NEED to hear
the crash and boom (or their tiny-world equivalents--maybe whiff and poof?)
of dandruff or hairs hitting the deck.
Maybe the dust mites can detect the sound.
You’ll hear an oak leaf as it falls among its brothers.
You’ll hear the pine cones run away from their mothers.
You cannot hear the acorn when it is sprouting.
You sure can hear the mountain when it is shouting!
Why am I formalizing this rambling mental dialog?
Why ever not?
Have I not
spent many hours wishing that I were
here and not
somewhere that is more stressful
and far less enjoyable
like down there?
I am in danger from having too much fun, thinking about what possibly could go wrong on this...what...quest? OK. It sounds New Agey and corny but it is rather descriptive.
I am trying to find Sentinel Creek so tha I might have a unique view of a seldom-seen scene, Sentinel Falls.
It is a legitimate quest. Call me Sir Beansalot. And If I am not satisfied that I have completed the quest, I can always return, at least I can always want that.
Face it. It is what I want, to die up there.
I could back off a boulder trying to increase the depth or width of a shot.
I could put out another freaking eye if I do not wear glasses.
I could put out another freaking eye if I do wear glasses.
The fact is I have better coordination when I wear nothing on my nose.
This also eliminates sweat problems, not that I am moving so fast that I acutally break a sweat.
St. Galen sweated plenty for our sins--patron saint of talus runners andphotgraphers, y'know.
I have been comfortable all day in a T-shirt and a light sweat top.
My feet have room and it is because I removed the inner soles and left them at home. The peds tend to swell now, quien sabe? Take yer peds-meds and hush.
There is a huge difference in sound between the forest and the creekside.
Notorious as a waterless trail, the four mile only crossed one that I recall from my only other passage (downhill), but I have a whole half-gallon in my pack, a precautionary measure should I be so stupid as to get hurt in the Raucous.
my attentive audience
I also have a headlamp.
I recall lessons learned last fall near Dewey Point, a low point.
I believe I have redeemed myself in my eyes, which are the only ones which need to see this and the only ones really fit to judge, according to some.
But I'm generous, they tell me. It is nice of them to say.
Let them who refuse to ask for help get on their knees and pray.
I pray when I walk.
I worship when I shoot.
I listen to its talk.
It has shown me how to walk.
How could I not be a seeker?
How could I not be on a quest?
I have seen myself become meeker.
I think it seeks for me the best.
"Sun-lit meadows"
"forested slopes"
"cataracts plunging"
"topographical sculpture"
"another hit of fresh air"
All seem canned phrases describing my wish-life.
[Insert inane crudity about tuna and spouse if you dare...I don't care.]
5.1! Siesta time.
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Gary
Social climber
Desolation Basin, Calif.
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my sweet old etcetera
aunt lucy during the recent
war could and what
is more did tell you just
what everybody was fighting
for,
my sister
isabel created hundreds
(and
hundreds) of socks not to
mention shirts fleaproof earwarmers
etcetera wristers etcetera, my
mother hoped that
i would die etcetera
bravely of course my father used
to become hoarse talking about how it was
a privilege and if only he
could meanwhile my
self etcetera lay quietly
in the deep mud et
cetera
(dreaming,
et
cetera, of
Your smile
eyes knees and of your Etcetera)
e.e. cummings
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dirt claud
Social climber
san diego,ca
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By: Rose Milligan
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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To Ogmian Hercules
Your labours are performed, your bye-work, too.
Your perfect ashes float on Oeta’s peak;
Here is escape then, Hercules, from empire.
Little Hebe, youngest of all Goddesses,
Who circles, leaping, on the Moon’s broad floor
Harbours no jealousy for Megara,
Auge, Hippolyte, Deineira
But sighs for their distress: you broke all hearts,
Burning too Sun-like for a mortal bride.
Rest your proud shaggy head on Hebe’s lap;
What wars you started let your sons conclude;
Meditate the new Alphabet, heal wounds,
Draw poets to you with long golden chains--
But still go armed with club and lion’s pelt.
--Robert Graves
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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http://www.jessieevans-dongray.com/essays/poem055.html
Excerpted from The Grave Robber by Don Gray
"Life, its way, the way God made it, can't help but be
morally shabby. Consider grim nature's law...
hardship, mental anguish, fatigue of body, dirt;
cruelty, disease, duress; necessity, pain, death;
equivalents of man's lust for money, evil,
expedient deceit, scoundrel hypocrisy.
Religion, man's wholesome, feeble, corrupt attempt,
to seek, reach out for, counter, God's reality,
desirous, rejected, ambivalent, still-born
in futility, contradiction, helplessness....
Ruled by hubris, enshrined in feral transience,
we cavil and splutter through life, believe we are gods,
omniscient, with blinkered wisdom from the playpen
of our petty thrones."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Somewhere In My Palm He Lies
A lack of wit and charm and grace and style
Is all I have to overcome: With guile
And lies, misdirection, innuendo,
Factoid, pretense, I make some sense though
To those who choose not to hear but to show
Agreement with my utterance.
So.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Life as it is is just not good enough for us anymore without electricity.
“Better living through electricity.”--old timey G.E. commercial slogan, and it's true (the LSD part)
Kindle Kitty
Google Glasses on her head
Tiny ear buds in her ears
Small green vibe between her thighs
Just confirmed my worst fears:
She’d be just as happy being a robot.
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Anastasia
climber
Home
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deep is the heart
and yet what blooms
needs strong hands to reach
to share, to pick the fruit
what is given freely
don't hesitate to grasp
for if you let the fruit fall and hits the ground
it is spoiled and is lost to us both
and as I watched you
so strong and quick
not lifting a finger as I fell
I hit the ground hard
...and this is what's left
words sound hollow now
all the meaning lost in the wind
that sweeps between us
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Out from Under
Greatly gifted
She's uplifted
From under piles of dust
They have drifted
Her tone has shifted
To one of pure disgust
And old dirt clods
By any odds
Are simply hardened dust
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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BITD/Now/Then
Old school:
Prophecy.
Event.
Myth.
Modern version:
Forecast.
Broadcast.
File footage.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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BIOGRAPHY
First he was born.
And then he was warned.
And then he was taught to swim.
And then he was married.
And the he was buried.
And that's all that happened to him.
--Shel Silverstein
--Shelver Silstein, bookseller extraordinaire
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Norwegian
Trad climber
the tip of god's middle finger
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when im beneath a foreign fluid,
i execute an explosion of heart
gesture that writes my mis-alignment
with your universe.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Poetry: Acts of the raven
“Blood has leaked and darkened the cheeks and masked the little lamb, which now stands calling and helpless in Ianto’s face, its senses in this world of plunged pain and darkness leading it towards the nearest large living thing. Nothing it can see and nothing it can feel but for the sky-brought fire in its face…..
“……The lamb cries and cries again, the dark and bubbling holes in its face expanding into howling voids which begin to draw little Ianto in and he reaches out young fingered and desperate to fill those awful weeping gaps with his plaything pebbles. To put something where there is nothing, to bring substance upon emptiness. The stones sink softly into place and for a moment the lamb stands stone-eyed, ……..”
Science: Sheep and sight
"Sheep depend heavily upon their vision. Behavior scientists speculate that the placement and structure of the sheep's eyes are due to nature's designation of sheep as a prey animal. Sheep have a very large pupil that is somewhat rectangular in shape. The eyeball is placed more to the side of the head, which gives sheep a much wider field of vision. With only slight head movement, sheep are able to scan their surroundings. Their field of vision ranges from 191 to 306 degrees, depending upon the amount of wool on their face.
On the other hand, sheep have poor depth perception (three dimensional vision), especially if they are moving with their heads up. This is why they will often stop to examine something more closely. Sheep have difficulty picking out small details, such as an open space created by a partially opened gate. They tend to avoid shadows and sharp contrasts between light and dark. They are reluctant to go where they can't see.
For many years, it was believed that sheep and other livestock could not perceive color. But, it has since been proven that livestock possess the cones necessary for color vision. Research has shown that livestock can differentiate between colors, though their color perception is not equal to humans."
Names: Ianto
"Ianto (pronounced Yan-toh) is the pet form of the name Ifan, one of the Welsh forms of John. Therefore, Ianto shares John's meaning of "Yahweh is gracious". Ianto is usually a masculine name."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dear Puck, A Duck:
My five chicks have green tails. Does this mean they will be roosters, not hens?
It’s what my auntie tells me. So is she just screwy? I guess that all depends
--nursemeh
Dear Pluck, A Duck
argh... My two black EE chicks both have green tail feathers coming in.
Dad is black and tailed Arcauna. Mom is black EE with white undertones, not gold.
One acts and looks so roo-ish with a high tail, the other is muffed and has a low hen-like tail and is more submissive.
But they both have those green tail feathers!
--They'reHISchickens
Dear Puck, A Duck
thanks for the replies. I didnt need to post a pic after all- it started crowing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
--nursemeh
Dear Pluck, A Duck
Well, you know it's a rooster now, but see this RIR hen I used to have? Green sheening all over her black tailfeathers.--Speckledhen
And CarpeDeHen weighs in:
Green tail feathers is not always a sign of roo, as Speckledhen has shown.
Dark hens tend to get green feathers too, like some others I have owned.
Also crowing is not a definitive sign of a roo.
Hens can crow too. Vagina doodle-doo!
Behold the duck
It does not cluck.
A cluck it lacks.
It quacks.
It is specially fond.
Of a puddle or pond.
When it dines or sups,
It bottoms ups.
--Dogden Dash
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Marlow, "this other thought" he was exhausted but the mouth gave it some appeal. Haven't figured the meaning out and don't intend to, frankly.
It wasn't his voice, Beckett's. But it was his work and words. And that wa'n't her normal speakin' voice, naoh, it weren't, och aye. And where d'ye git 'appy 'round 'ere, I'd like ta knaow.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Mouse: Hehe... I'll do my best to jump over the fence this time.. after all... isn't this the poetry thread... as you like it... should this be the appy thread... appy inside Happy Days?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Hey, do your thing:
It is a thread to which EVERY POET AND LIKER OF RHYME might 'appily apply.
The talented head
May see this thread
And feel invited to try.
--Moe Cowbell.
OVER THE FENCE
Over the fence—
Strawberries—grow—
Over the fence—
I could climb—if I tried, I know—
Berries are nice!
But—if I stained my Apron—
God would certainly scold!
Oh, dear,—I guess if He were a Boy—
He'd—climb—if He could!
--Emily D.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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The word tumulus is Latin for 'mound' or 'small hill', from the PIE root *teuh2- with extended zero grade *tum-, 'to bulge, swell' also found in tumor, thumb, thigh and thousand.
TUMULUS
The sun comes up and the birds clear the air
Signaling me that the weather is fair.
But the fact is this: I’m going nowhere.
Do you see that mound? I’m buried in there.
I was covered by stones the size of a house.
I was shooting one day, for I was the Mouse.
I went out alone, no friends nor a spouse
Knew where I was headed when I saw a grouse!
It flew in my face and I tumbled back
Down the way I had come, detached from my pack.
I came to in a daze with a stupid wisecrack,
If I had any brains things would not look so black.
I died and my soul flew away in the sky
And the time since has passed in the blink of an eye.
Don’t do what I did for you surely could die
In the rocks if you fall and break your damned thigh!
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Leggs
Sport climber
Is this a trick question?
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Off the Cuff ...
It's breezy here
so cool and light
wind chimes singing in the night
I put on your shirt
Climb More
Epic Less
Which I do often
when you're not looking.
~lmr
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10b4me
Ice climber
Soon 2B Arizona
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I know the darkness of the roads
endless into the glowy path before me
lit by the moon high above and the heat rising from my truck’s engine.
The humming from tires whisper mile after mile
endless alongside roadside of fields shadowy from glow.
I know the darkness of the roads
It swims through my veins
dark like my skin
and silenced like a battered wife.
I know the darkness of the roads
It floods my liver
pollutes my breath
yet I still witness the white dawning.
-Esther Belin
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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May 10, 2013 - 01:10pm PT
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Likelikelikelikelike!
JL'll appreciate grapeness when he sees this
Ever-lovin' shot of a squishy Fresno miss.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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May 14, 2013 - 02:49am PT
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The Rocks Are
In a time of glitz and glitter
Giants have become merely litter.
That shouldn't make one very bitter:
It's just Ma Nature, there's nothing fitter.
Smaller This Year
Small rocks from big rocks,
Small stalks and big stalks,
Small mind always knocks:
Guess some folks have mental blocks.
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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May 14, 2013 - 03:40am PT
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Seaweed
All along the bent and angling coast
seaweed strands in sunken coves
groping with long bleached arms
from wave to wave
I always chase after them
their darkened strewn and floating forms
rolling like dead bodies
from wave to wave
What seaweed does not hide
its own sorties in unknown depths
submarine worlds where time itself
conceals its broken piece
Under every rubbery leaf
striped in running and ribbed bands
like veins on my father's arm
long long ago
A strand marks the sea's closing line
where I now stand
feet in the blue blackness
hand against the sandy bulb
A strand marks the seaweed
in roped and stringed fragments
at the place their soft crests fall
sharp against the stone
W.T.
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Leggs
Sport climber
Is this a trick question?
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May 14, 2013 - 03:49am PT
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^^ sweet. ^^
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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May 15, 2013 - 01:43pm PT
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Q & Q & No A
Why is it not "spice" for spouses
if we must say mice not "mouses"?
Why is it the blues not "the blue"
And why is it not "yous" but you?
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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May 18, 2013 - 02:54am PT
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A Little Ways North of Mill Creek
A little ways north of Mill Creek
the beach runs round
in a single wide arcing swath
There the tide stems in segments
fast against the open mouth
of sea and sand and barnacle
There is also a cliff near the stone rising
above the under-base of a million waves
throttling a darkened face
Somewhere out of sight
from prying eyes
the salt water still churns
And churns for a million years
oblivious to the carnage
inflicted on the crumbling mass
It's as if the big bass drum
of agonies from time immemorial
plays its one note dirge
And summons the shelving mist
to curtail the pitiful death
from the eyes of a dumbfounded poet
Who loiters in the wet hiss
like a reporter in search of tragedy
and finding none, returns to home
WT
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Anastasia
climber
Home
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May 18, 2013 - 03:25am PT
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learning to walk
you need to risk standing up
you need to struggle to move
and take that fall
you must get up and lift that clumsy leg
fall again
until you figure it out
let go
and ungracefully move
it's your first step to the greatest freedom
and everyday each of us must do this in all it's forms
we must dare ourselves
be willing to get up
and ungracefully go beyond our greatest limits
to be successful
one must dare to stand up
into the truest form of freedom
one must always know first how to fall
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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May 18, 2013 - 12:34pm PT
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Well done, Anastasia!
Eric
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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May 20, 2013 - 03:09am PT
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The Mountains of My Dreams
The highland Santa Lucia
breaches the bench of earth and sky
with ancient crests framed in
scrub outlines
and open slopes.
It was from that world above
atop the grand and open vistas
where once dreams were fetched
from dark profiles
and deep slumbers
I must have dreamt the unmoving
mist as it gathered near
an unnamed summit
drawing to itself the lighter fragments
of motion and light
It was a mist concealing
a spirit once speaking not in words
but in unfathomable contours ,giving way
to even deeper contours downslope
beyond the oaken ridge.
Was this a language of my
childhood mind as I sought to
wrangle a meaning from this alien
landscape ,so as to make it
my own?
If so, where did I sleep?
how did I enter that magical terrain
how did I know its depth
like I know the
flat of my open hand?
These are the mountains of my dreams
rising in one solitary tone
in consort with a thousand unheard voices
voices that out - sing
even the sea.
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Donny... the OHHH!- Riginal
Sport climber
C:porn
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May 20, 2013 - 12:38pm PT
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Oh stone Arch o' mine
...how you were raped by Potter
...though Dean, not Colonel.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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May 21, 2013 - 04:08am PT
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Elephant Wreck/1970
I thought I saw an elephent
I could tell you where he went
I'k like to tell you where he died
But then you'd tell me I have lied
That's the truth and I should know
Look for him beneath the flow
Merced River hides his tail
His trunk's still there and that's my tale
--L.E. Naibisco-Phanto
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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May 21, 2013 - 04:21am PT
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When You Can't Stand the Eyes
Have you ever looked at yurself?
Then you have eyes, I'm assuming, and recognize humanity.
How much bible have you tried on?
If normal, then you ought to be able to hear my little voice booming.
When God said "Thou Shalt Not Kill," how do you take Him to mean that?
Did some educational teacher inform you that it is right not to kill animals, like the kid and the lamb?
That isn't what God meant, you know, about not killing for meat.
Eating meat is no sin where I come from, nor where I am going. It tastes better dead and won't run away.
I was not born in a desert seeing wolves and lions slinking away with my charges in their mouths: my flock, my family's sustenance being taxed by others for their own use. A few, inevitable, and a way of giving back to the Creator, OK, it would be my thanks for continued being; but if I were so foolish as to ignore the food the Creator has given us, I have always wondered, "What would He say?" .
"Fool, so I made thee.
Fool, I shall not smite thee,
For thou art my own foolish pride."
Possible.
I'm no vegetarian; there is a lot else which I am not.
A fool into the bargain with God is one of them.
He lettuce eat meat.
TACO!
--L. Zapitan
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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May 21, 2013 - 04:39am PT
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Faux Jewel
The moon is a huge baroque pearl
Dripping nacreous swirl
It's really rococo
In fact many say so
Selene, you make my hair curl
For tonight you are no ghostly galleon
But for my delight you are sallying
Forth over a third
Of what you once were
Back when you were full and were dallying
Many a mule packer has watched you
And this old climber on old Bugaboo
You gave us all a fair share
Of your beauty so rare
And I thank you tonight, yes, I do!
If Selene and Mousie got married
Their life would be oh so harried
I'd be out looking for oats
You'd be shining on boats
All our days and our nights till I'm buried
--Mouse
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Anastasia
climber
Home
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May 21, 2013 - 04:39am PT
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The wind blew and took my hat away
I could live without my hat
and without a care or a thought
I stepped into my house
then the silence came and it broke like a lie
and the wind blew and blew
as the windows broke
the wind howling like a train
beating and breaking down walls
I found myself crawling through a collapsing world
reaching the door to get beneath the ground
as if I was already dead
curling up in fear at the bottom of my cellar
and when the silence came again
when I stepped out into the world
my car was gone
my house was gone
I didn't know how to feel
and then I thought of the school
where was my child?
I couldn't live without my child
and in the wind I called her name
my voice howling
and there was a deafening silence
as the wind died
clasping against me
not even the slightest breeze stirred
and there sat my hat
a few feet away
tear streaming down my face
I cared
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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May 21, 2013 - 05:47am PT
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SPECIAL, ANASTASIA!
Here's the best advice for fights and being in a windstorm, too.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Free the poor homeless OK cowboys & cowgirls from their awful disaster, out there where the living is "easier."
I prefer San Jose-type disasters, like the quakes.
Cuz they give me the shakes.
Open artificial lakes.
Chase out all the snakes.
Wake up all the flakes.
All the cars put on their brakes.
End to end to end to end on the bridge intakes.
It's a temporary end to what man "makes."
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Anastasia
climber
Home
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May 25, 2013 - 02:59am PT
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Now that's poetry!
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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May 26, 2013 - 05:47pm PT
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Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night (Dylan Thomas)
read by Philip Madoc
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Nothing Twice
Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.
Even if there is no one dumber,
if you're the planet's biggest dunce,
you can't repeat the class in summer:
this course is only offered once.
No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with precisely the same kisses.
One day, perhaps some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
into the room, all hue and scent.
The next day, though you're here with me,
I can't help looking at the clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is that a flower of a rock?
Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to say
Today is always gone tomorrow
With smiles and kisses, we prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we're different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.
~ Wislawa Szymborska ~
(Poems New and Collected 1957-1997
Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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After Vacation
By George Sterling
Below her now the storming city rolls
The tireless thunder of a sadder sea
Than that between the planet's frozen poles
And she is captive who awhile was free.
Far out across the dusty roofs her gaze
Beholds the turbid vapors jetting forth,
And tow'r and spire unhidden by the haze
Tell where the hungered city reaches north.
So little time ago it was she stood
Where the unhurried sea-wind offered her
The clean, wild fragrance of the cedar wood,
And made the little grasses dip and stir.
But here the sea-wind tells not of the wave,
Smearing the smoke-plumes on the tainted sky;
And lost the blossoms that the summer gave—
The nameless meadow-flowers, aloof and shy.
It is another fairness she must seek,
Here where the cold and stately dungeons soar—
Some hint of what the chiseled granites speak,
Some iron beauty at the world's deep core.
But grant her time a little longer. She
Has yet of memory a vanished day;
Her dreams are of the spaces of the sea,
And snowlike sands about a turquoise bay.
George STerling was a friend of Jack London's and Northern California native. One of our state's best poets, too.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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For Royal and Liz.
Who are approaching a fiftieth anniversary on November 17th, the same date as mine and my own lovely Lizzie's.
Hard Men and Hard Rain
Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
And where have you been my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.--Bob Dylan
Oh, where are you going, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where will you be, my daring young one?
I’m going to Fin Dome to climb with the Rainbows
I’m looking for something that will satisfy a hunger
I’m seeking a power within me that will blow me away
I may not find it till I have been proven worthy
But find it I must and find it I will
If I have to climb every forested hill
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard man’s a coming home.
Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
And where have you been my darling young one?
I’ve been out to Tahquitz where the snow still resides
I’ve been out to the desert where there’s no shade to find
I’ve been to the Valley where glory is waiting
I’ve been to Fort Bliss and done my military duty
I’ve seen the old elephant now I want to climb one
I’ve been skiing and racing and winning some trophies
But it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard way for to live.
Oh, who have you seen, my blue-eyed gun?
Who have you met, my darling old one?
There are Fitschen and Pratt and Frost and Chouinard
There are Royal, Don, Roy, Ray, and good old Frank Hoover
There are Mendenhalls, Sherricks, Wiltses, and Gallwases
There was Mark Powell, Warren Harding, and sweet Liz Burkner
There are countless others which I can’t now remember
And it’s a joy, it’s a joy, it’s a joy,
And it’s a joy, to have led a life and climbs like my own.
--MFM
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Anastasia
climber
Home
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the days are long
the nights are longer
to be away from one's love
one yearns
restlessly turning
then there is bliss
a sweet perfect moment
and the sun rises so slowly
as a little hand touches my face
to set time flying as they grow
oh child that rules me
have mercy on my soul
for now all my love
is forever you
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Heading to Redding
The hub city where I was born in
Lies way north of Corning
Where the olives grow
And there's sometimes snow
And lots of heat
And an ice plant across the street
With a perfect cone of ice chips
That resembles Mount Shasta
It doesn't hafta be Shasta
My sly sister said
It's passin' for Mount Lassen
But it will just melt away to a Mount Tonuthin.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 15, 2013 - 10:38am PT
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Our lives are cobbles
creating eddies in which
our souls effervesce;
metaphoric rocks
amid streaming dreams of our
future as sand grains.
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old craghag
Sport climber
Bishop
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Jun 16, 2013 - 04:14pm PT
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I used to be hot but, now I'm not
I used to be bold but, now I'm old
I used to climb hard but now, I work in the yard
I'm glad I had fun when I was still young
A lot of my friends are already dead
Wish it was me instead
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Anastasia
climber
Home
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Jun 16, 2013 - 04:29pm PT
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I yearn and mourn
for the laughter and the tears
all the times you stood near
how you didn't ask but demanded
all the best in me
in my twenties I was a fully grown gal
yet you still could lift me up one handed
when I finished college
you still outsmarted me
and even though I didn't always agree
I always respected
the man that made me
Daddy
I miss you
AFS
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Jun 16, 2013 - 04:47pm PT
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The sepulturero said that it was "the nature of his profession that his experience with death should be greater than for most and he said that while it was true that time heals bereavement it does so only at the cost of the slow extinction of those loved ones from the heart’s memory which is the sole place of their abode then and now. Faces fade, voices dim. Seize them back, whispered the sepulturero. Speak with them. Call their names. Do this and do not let sorrow die for it is the sweetening of every gift."
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Jun 21, 2013 - 04:02pm PT
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Wonderful, Anastasia.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Jun 21, 2013 - 04:03pm PT
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For the solstice, our anniversary, and for my father-in-law who always celebrated and noted it with my wife:
One Hundred White-sided Dolphins on a Summer Day
1.
Fat,
black, slick,
galloping in the pitch
of the waves, in the pearly
fields of the sea,
they leap toward us,
they rise, sparkling, and vanish, and rise sparkling,
they breathe little clouds of mist, they lift perpetual smile,
they slap their tails on the waves, grandmothers and grandfathers
enjoying the old jokes,
they circle around us,
they swim with us -
2.
a hundred white-sided dolphins
on a summer day,
each one, as God himself
could not appear more acceptable
a hundred times,
in a body blue and black threading through
the sea foam,
and lifting himself up from the opened
tents of the waves on his fishtail,
to look
with the moon of his eye
into my heart,
3.
and find there
pure, sudden, steep, sharp, painful
gratitude
that falls -
I don't know - either
unbearable tons
or the pale, bearable hand
of salvation
on my neck,
lifting me
from the boat's plain plank seat
into the world's
4.
unspeakable kindness.
It is my sixty-third summer on earth
and, for a moment, I have almost vanished
into the body of the dolphin,
into the moon-eye of God,
into the white fan that lies at the bottom of the sea
with everything
that ever was, or ever will be,
supple, wild, rising on flank or fishtail -
singing or whistling or breathing damply through blowhole
at top of head. Then, in our little boat, the dolphins suddenly gone,
we sailed on through the brisk, cheerful day.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(What Do We Know?)
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Jun 21, 2013 - 04:32pm PT
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"Going to Sleep"
Now that I am wearied of the day,
I will let the friendly, starry night
greet all my ardent desires
like a sleepy child.
Hands, stop all your work.
Brow, forget all your thinking.
All my senses now
yearn to sink into slumber.
And my unfettered soul
wishes to soar up freely
into night's magic sphere
to live there deeply and thousandfold.
Elisabeth Schwarzkopf - Vier Letzte Lieder - Beim Schlafengehen (Richard Strauss)
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 25, 2013 - 03:01am PT
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A SERVICEABLE FIRE
Why pretend?
My heart is no longer on fire.
My passion, which once provided a serviceable fire to heat your cockles, has dwindled to embers.
A pressing cold now squeezes me.
I feel condensed, like ice gone awry.
I am at times a peninsula, surrounded by warm seas and watered by the monsoon of your concern, if not love.
Other times I am a glacier, connected to nothing, emanating from nothing, a gravitational freak.
I am oh-so-heavy, slick-as-snot, ultimately connected to nothing at all, just lying here, pressing my coldness against you.
I am rain and snow and ultimately, again, sublimely myself.
And next time the fire.
And again with more cold.
And temper me with more flame.
Then freeze my thoughts.
Then warm my passion.
Then make lemonade with the bits of my soul.
A non-stop cycle of fire and water.
Weight and watch.
Un-weight and feel.
So it’s not emotion I’m trying to describe, but cold hard facts in reaction to your stimulus.
Or is this all to scientific?
Then I’ll just say, “I don’t love you now.”
It’s not a theory, dearie.
It’s just the facts and I’m weary.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 28, 2013 - 12:42pm PT
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I'm thinking of Fletcher and his gang. I can't help myself.
Pancakes for Breakfast Redux
We had pancakes yesterday
We have pancakes every day
Dad just don’t care what I say
I gotta have it his way
Sourdough this and buckwheat that
I just feed mine to the cat
I just fear something awful
Will he try to make a waffle?
Don’t think I’m little dope
I’d just like some cantaloupe
PLEASE?
(apologies to Tommy DePaola)
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Jun 28, 2013 - 12:56pm PT
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Sofia Karlsson & Odd Nordstoga - Jag väntar... (I'm waiting...). Music/poetry from 1:51.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
The poet: Dan Andersson from Finnskogen.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Jun 28, 2013 - 02:25pm PT
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Strange Fruit
[Click to View YouTube Video]
[Click to View YouTube Video]
"I had always assumed that Billie Holiday composed the music and lyrics to "Strange Fruit". She did not. The song began life as a poem written by Abel Meeropol, a schoolteacher who was living in the Bronx and teaching English at the De Witt Clinton High School. Meeropol was motivated to write the poem after seeing a photograph of two black teenagers, Thomas Shipp and Abram Smith, who had been lynched in Marion, Indiana on August 7 1930. Their bodies were hanging limply from a tree. The image greatly disturbed him, and his poem opens with the following lines:
Southern trees bear a strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black body swinging in the Southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
Hoping to reach a wider audience, Meeropol set his poem to music, and the song "Strange Fruit" was first performed at a New York City Teachers Union meeting. It created an immediate stir.
According to figures kept by Alabama's Tuskegee Institute, between 1889 and 1940, 3,833 people were lynched in the US - the overwhelming majority of the victims being in the southern states, and black. The brutality of this mob "justice" invariably went unpunished, and when Meeropol was asked, in 1971, why he wrote the song, he replied: "Because I hate lynching and I hate injustice and I hate the people who perpetuate it." Those who heard "Strange Fruit" in the late 30s were shocked, for the true barbarity of southern violence was generally only discussed in black newspapers. To be introduced to such realities by a song was unprecedented, and was considered by many, including leftwing supporters of Meeropol, to be in poor taste.
At this time, 24-year-old Billie Holiday was headlining at a recently opened Greenwich Village nightclub called Cafe Society. It was the only integrated nightclub in New York City, and a place that advertised itself as "the wrong place for the Right people". The manager of the club, Barney Josephson, introduced Billie Holiday to Meeropol and his new song, which had an immediate impact on her. She decided to sing it at Cafe Society, where it was received with perfect, haunting silence. Soon she was closing her shows with the song. It was understood that only when the waiters had stopped serving, and the lights dimmed to a single spotlight, would she begin singing, with her eyes closed. Once she had finished, she would walk off stage and never return to take a bow.
The song was revolutionary - not only because of the explicit nature of the lyrics, but because it effectively reversed the black singer's relationship with a white audience. Traditionally, singers such as Billie Holiday were expected to entertain and to "serve" their audiences. With this song, however, Holiday found a means by which she could demand that the audience stop and listen to her, and she was able to force them to take on board something with which they were not comfortable. She often used the song as a hammer with which to beat what she perceived to be ignorant audiences, and her insistence on singing the song with such gravitas meant that she was not always safe while performing "Strange Fruit". Some members of her audience did not fully appreciate her treating them to this particular song when they had stepped out for the evening to hear "Fine and Mellow" and other cocktail-lounge ditties.
Holiday was keen to record "Strange Fruit" on her label, Columbia, but her producer, John Hammond, was concerned that the song was too political and he refused to allow her to go into the studio with it. But the singer would not back down. In April 1939, she recorded "Strange Fruit" for a specialty label, Commodore Records."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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I look out my window watch her as she passes by
I say to myself I'm such a lucky guy
To have a girl like her is a dream come true
And of all the girls in New York she loves me true
It was just my imagination, once again
Running away with me
It was just my imagination
Running away with me
Soon we'll be married and raise a family
Two boys for you, what about two girls for me
I tell you I am just a fellow with a one track mind
Whatever it is I want baby I seek and I shall find
I'll tell ya
It was just my imagination, once again
Running away with me
It was just my imagination
Running away with me
Every night I hope and pray
"Dear lord, hear my plea
Don't ever let another take her love from me
Or I will surely die"
Her love is ecstasy
When her arms enfold me
I hear her tender rhapsody
But in reality, she doesn't even know... me
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 10, 2013 - 04:39pm PT
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Old Friend
What he did for me I’ll never forget
What I did for him was simply a debt
His words rang true way back in the day
His guidance and care helped clear my way
That hard-to-tie knot that he taught me so well
Has saved me and others from going to hell
When I stepped on his rope he chewed me real good
Then he taught me to coil it just like I should
On rappel he looked up cuz he barely looked down
Nor on anyone---ranger, misfit or clown
Our friends were so cool and I was sorry to flee
The Camp 4 I knew back in seventy-three
His mellowness hardened and he soon grew so stern
Finished with climbing, it was carpentry’s turn
He lives in the hills not very far away
I’d stay up there gladly if he said OK
But the days we had then are different by far
We can’t have them back by wishing a star
So I’m happy to have the memories I do
For soon there’ll be one where there used to be two
It's better to pay tribute to a live person anyday! We think too much of death. It doesn't think about us at all. Death has few friends, but it's not MY enemy. Fear is my friend, too.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 10, 2013 - 09:04pm PT
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http://www.supertopo.com/climbers-forum/2178789/If-My-Vagina-Was-A-Gun
If poems were written subjunctively...
IF A CLOWN
If a clown came out of the woods,
a standard-looking clown with oversized
polka-dot clothes, floppy shoes,
a red, bulbous nose, and you saw him
on the edge of your property,
there’d be nothing funny about that,
would there? A bear might be preferable,
especially if black and berry-driven.
And if this clown began waving his hands
with those big white gloves
that clowns wear, and you realized
he wanted your attention, had something
apparently urgent to tell you,
would you pivot and run from him,
or stay put, as my friend did, who seemed
to understand here was a clown
who didn’t know where he was,
a clown without a context?
What could be sadder, my friend thought,
than a clown in need of a context?
If then the clown said to you
that he was on his way to a kid’s
birthday party, his car had broken down,
and he needed a ride, would you give
him one? Or would the connection
between the comic and the appalling,
as it pertained to clowns, be suddenly so clear
that you’d be paralyzed by it?
And if you were the clown, and my friend
hesitated, as he did, would you make
a sad face, and with an enormous finger
wipe away an imaginary tear? How far
would you trust your art? I can tell you
it worked. Most of the guests had gone
when my friend and the clown drove up,
and the family was angry. But the clown
twisted a balloon into the shape of a bird
and gave it to the kid, who smiled,
let it rise to the ceiling. If you were the kid,
the birthday boy, what from then on
would be your relationship with disappointment?
With joy? Whom would you blame or extoll?
--Stephen A. Dunn in New Yorker
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 14, 2013 - 07:55am PT
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DESIDERATA
Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be critical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy.
© Max Ehrmann 1927
Have a fine week, seekers!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 22, 2013 - 01:05am PT
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Little rock.
Big rock.
Both Earthbound,
their many parts been underground.
Now is the time
for each to shine.
They only live so long.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Let us sink then, you and I, when evening is spread out against the sky.--Jim Donini
Posted in March, 2010, by OUR LEADER.
Take me to your leader please
I'm kneeling on my kneeling knees
I need to have his blessing for
This little project, it's 5.4
May I place a big-ass bolt
No long fall, no sudden jolt
Just raise your hand, I'll do my best
Once I have been Donini blessed
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Aug 27, 2013 - 03:48am PT
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SIERRA NEVADA FOOTHILLS
Old yip-yipping coyote is saying to me how happy he is to be here
The smelly old tar weed sends me a message telling me I am home
The cobble-rocks rolling under my feet are each surprised by my tread
They will cover my body, perfume my grave, and serenade me later
Much later, I hope
I’ve not done with these up and down cone-shaped wonders
They are unique to themselves in their shapes
While sharing the same angle of repose
I shall repose among them myself when the time comes
Pushing up tumbleweed
Queen Selene will be in the sky half the time
I won’t be able to see her nor delight in her light
But the coyote will let me know she is passing in review
And greeting her cousin cobble-rocks with her silvery kiss
As they cover my worm chamber
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The Lisa
Trad climber
Da Bronx, NY
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Aug 30, 2013 - 10:48am PT
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It is a sad loss for Ireland, and the world of poetry.
I love his translation of Beowulf.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Aug 30, 2013 - 01:08pm PT
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A glass to an old friend
"Everyone wants a piece of Ireland's first Nobel-winning poet since Yeats. When we arrive at our destination, an oyster bar overlooking St Stephen's Green, the ebb and flow of Irish pride in Seamus, as he is universally known, surges up in a succession of spontaneous greetings. Everyone recognises Heaney's professorial spectacles and silvery mop.
A frisson passes through the restaurant. This woman wants to tell him about her daughter, recovering from leukaemia, and to ask for an autograph. Two punters, checking the starting prices on a laptop, volunteer a tip about the 2.30 at Leopardstown. Another old chap wants to be remembered. And the maître d' is beside himself with getting the best table ready.
I wonder how Heaney can stand it.
No need to worry. The object of this attention seems to move in a serene bubble of modesty and unconcern: he likes the attention, and it does not really trouble him. He's had it, in different ways, all his life, and he knows that, for an Irish poet, it comes with the territory.
There are many ways to be a famous writer in Dublin. You can be mad and grand, like Yeats; or mysterious, like Beckett; or drunk, like Flann O'Brien; or absent, like Joyce; or what? A long time ago, Clive James nailed Heaney with "Seamus Famous", but that's a gag, at best half true, spun off Heaney's brilliant self-presentation. There is rather more to the poet than his fame, dazzling though that can be.
For someone who has been so remorselessly scrutinised, Heaney is still something of an enigma. He works hard to make "famous" seem normal. Unfailingly courteous and attentive, he can also be grave, remote and occasionally stern, always watching himself, like the king of a vulnerable monarchy.
In keeping with that vigilance, and a well-defended uncertainty, Heaney is always asking himself the essential questions articulated in Preoccupations, his collected essays. "How should a poet properly live and write? What is his relationship to be to his own voice, his own place, his literary heritage and his contemporary world?"
I've known Seamus Heaney for about half of his writing life. The key to our friendship was always a third party: the mischievous, antic figure of the folk-singer, broadcaster and lord of misrule, David Hammond, from Belfast. Last summer, after a long illness, Hammond died. I was in America at the time, and unable to go to the funeral.
As part of my farewell to "Davey", I knew I had to see Seamus, pay my respects to the dead, and share the recollection of old times. Quite apart from my deep affection for Hammond, I'm conscious that Heaney is keen on the proper obsequies (he loves funerals) and will be only too glad to raise a glass to our old friend."
A glass to Seamus Heaney!
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Seamus Heaney: my travels with the great poet
Seamus Heaney was a great poet and friend, says Andrew O'Hagan, as he relives their travels in Scotland, Ireland and Wales – tucking into chowder and contemplating the afterlife"
"Memory was everything to Seamus. The memory of his father digging in the yard. The memory of peeling potatoes with his mother, or once noticing the glad eye of the coalman. He had a mind to Ireland's memory, the seasonal return of faith and possibility, the falling away and the coming back of things. He cared for this the way other people care about politics. He wanted to offer value to a notion of existence beyond the bounds of sense, and that is where his language led him, to the power of wonder and miracles in daily life. Great is the friend whose one small shove can put you on the upswing. Being with him, I always felt able to give everything its due. His was a steadiness that befriended the person you wanted to be."
http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/sep/02/seamus-heaney-my-travels-with-poet
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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http://www.quale.com/MyUncle_GL.html
The above link addresses non-poetic prose and what to do with the bastard child, as I have in the past here-2/4.
As in
Sergeant Carter, I think ya oughter give us a cadence count. On account of three of four of us ain't up to speed yet.
Private Pyle, you better smile when you tell me that next time.
And try and make it rhyme!
Gimme twenny-nine! Hut!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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http://carmensminiaturepainting.blogspot.com/2012/12/mouse-goes-to-work-couple-more-pages.html
Mice ‘n’ I
by eek-eek hummings-strollski
four years it’s been just me
now it’s me and mouse
mimicking mice
and playing the ice house blues
it is frozen in memory
the clear blue of the water flowing underground is not visible
underground there is no light
ask a blind mouse
there are three in this house
me mice and I
two of them and one of me
it’s not Mycenae
that’s history
but mice ‘n’ I
we will get by
all four one
and not one of them there
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Spinoza
"Here in the twilight the translucent hands
Of the Jew polishing the crystal glass.
The dying afternoon is cold with bands
Of fear. Each day the afternoons pass
The same. The hands and space of hyacinth
Paling in the confines of the ghetto walls
barely exists for the quiet man who stalls
There, dreaming up a brilliant labyrinth.
Fame doesn't trouble him (that reflection of
Dreams in the dream of another mirror), nor love,
The timid love women. Gone the bars,
He's free, from metaphor and myth, to sit
Polishing a stubborn lens: the infinite
Map of the One who now is all His stars."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Sep 10, 2013 - 10:08am PT
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I predict the sun will rise today
In a spectacular blaze of glory.
It will pop up in the age old way
That’s all. It’s the end of this story.
--M.F. "It wouldn't be any better even if you paid me" Merced
"But he knows so little of Spinozan th-theory, nor th-those of Leibnitz, neither..."--the C-//County Watchdog N-News, 10/14/13 (another prediction)
Spinoza's Joke about the bell-ringer of Notre Dame goes into the books as one of the most brilliant of his funniest jokes. He and Leibnitz invented "patter" and zBown and myself are merely followers of their routine. That should be under "Obvious" in Funk and Wagnall's.
In that bell-ringer joke, the brother? When he comes to apply for the job in the second half of the joke? Now THAT'S just the cat's meow!
"He's a dead ringer for his brother!" Cheese! Yer slayin' me!
I'm just a simple Gemini, searching for a twin.
I might just find me one, if I looked within.
If I only had a brain.--song
Meanwhile, in the other (which one was I on just now?) side of my brain, I might like to go to Spain: It's the place from where they broadcast the game show, Sephardy! hosted by Miguel "the Cat" Gato y Gato.
Who is Benito? Is he a Flame, a county, or a fictional mission near an actual town?
Just ask the Baptist John. He'll set ya straight, won't put you on.
Then, "San Juan Bautista is sure to become one of your most favored excursions."--the San Benito Blurb-Blog
Drivel, dravel, druzzle, Drone. Time for Whitey to come home.
You are expecting a real poem.
THE CAVE o La Cava
This cave smells of earthy shepherds and animal-breath
and there is a lingering scent of meadow-flowers
from the hay where a baby is laid.
Large and low, an unusually bright star peers down
from an angle of the cave-mouth
where the camel-hair drape hangs loose and Listen!
There is inexplicable singing from the hilltops!
Time, the scientist tells us, is a device
confined within a certain cosmological radius
upon which to hang our brief lives tick by tick.
The mind can tilt time back to sketch in
the inconsequential details of Luke's account.-
Shepherds in their sheepskins,
animals snuffling the newness of the baby.
Joseph pitting his glimmering oil lamp against the liquid starlight
and Mary bending over the child
who opens briefly the pansy-dark eyes
of the newly-born to search her amazed young face.
And still down the dusky centuries you and I and half the world
savour the raw simplicity of this makeshift ménage
like salt on the morning tongue.
It is all here within the finger's touch,
and the small circle of the eye's reflection.
Yet it's significance lies well beyond the Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh
which will be received with exquisite courtesy,
far, far beyond the inexorable tick of our lives
and the immeasurable span of space.
This is a place to rest before we step once more into the time-held night.
--Patricia Bolton rsm
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Sep 10, 2013 - 10:51am PT
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Stalking Poetry by Brad Yoder
Written June 2009
saw a girl on a train in a country I was leaving,
and she may have smiled at me, or that might be wishful thinking,
anyway, I won’t see her again,
and you can’t call a stranger a friend
on a street, in a town where I speak the language well enough to know
that I’m not home, and laugh at half the jokes, so I can tell
that I’ve lived here before,
but that country’s not here anymore..
I was trying to be free, trying to be kind,
I’m just trying to be me, so I hope that you don’t mind
if I sing here on your street, in a language you don’t speak,
I’m stalking poetry again, again..
and every gray apartment building’s just a giant concrete filing cabinet
for childhoods and family stories of people I don’t know at all,
and at any given moment surely someone must be feeling
every kind of human feeling somewhere in between those walls..
there’s a church on the square that they finally rebuilt
after the war, using stones that they sorted from the rubble,
now the old stone is black from the smoke,
while the new stone is yellow as gold,
underneath they’re both the same, pieced together, old and new,
in a town after the war everyone can see your wounds,
so I sing here on your street, in a language you don’t speak,
I’m stalking poetry again, again.. (repeat CH:1)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Sep 10, 2013 - 11:08am PT
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The Himalayan legend says there are beautiful white birds that live completely in flight.
They are born in the air, must learn to fly before falling and die also in their flying.
Maybe you have been born into such a life with the bottom dropping out.
from "In Flight" by Jennifer K. Sweeney
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
from "Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats
Let us fly in the Cathedral of the Air, Mr. Lindy.--Mrs. Lindy
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Sep 17, 2013 - 04:12pm PT
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The Early Purges
"I was six when I first saw kittens drown.
Dan Taggart pitched them, 'the scraggy wee shits',
Into a bucket; a frail metal sound,
Soft paws scraping like mad. But their tiny din
Was soon soused. They were slung on the snout
Of the pump and the water pumped in.
'Sure, isn't it better for them now?' Dan said.
Like wet gloves they bobbed and shone till he sluiced
Them out on the dunghill, glossy and dead.
Suddenly frightened, for days I sadly hung
Round the yard, watching the three sogged remains
Turn mealy and crisp as old summer dung
Until I forgot them. But the fear came back
When Dan trapped big rats, snared rabbits, shot crows
Or, with a sickening tug, pulled old hens' necks.
Still, living displaces false sentiments
And now, when shrill pups are prodded to drown
I just shrug, 'Bloody pups'. It makes sense:
'Prevention of cruelty' talk cuts ice in town
Where they consider death unnatural
But on well-run farms pests have to be kept down."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Sep 17, 2013 - 04:29pm PT
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Fastidious Drivel
You say no one's gonna like me
‘Cause I don't act like you
But I'm good at being myself
So what about you?
I got a fist full of dreams
And a pocket full of fists
Not gonna put up with your
Silly immature bull-sh*t
[Chorus]
I get dropped off face first
In front of the bus
While you fake your way
To the Top of the Pops
I would rather be alone
Than be your friend
Make your move but I'll stay true
To the bitter end
I get shot down ‘cause
I have my own opinion
Guess there's no room for difference
In this wireless nation
Told what I think is wrong
Well even if I end up last
I'll be wrong my whole life
While you have fun kissing a**
[Chorus]
Just because I don't hear
Doesn't mean I can't feel
And just because you have a voice
Doesn't mean you're real
You got far too much lash
And not enough eye
Hey!
--Christopher's Dead
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Sep 17, 2013 - 04:37pm PT
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"In the inky forest,
In its maziest,
Murkiest scribble
Of words
And wordless cries,
I went for a glimpse
Of the blossomlike
White erasure
Over a huge,
Furiously crossed-out something."
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Sep 17, 2013 - 04:38pm PT
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"Roads not yet glistening, rain slight,
Broken clouds darken after thinning away.
Where they drift, purple cliffs blacken.
And beyond -- white birds blaze in flight.
Sounds of cold-river rain grown familiar,
Autumn sun casts moist shadows. Below
Our brushwood gate, out to dry at the village
Mill: hulled rice, half-wet and fragrant"
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Anastasia
climber
Home
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Sep 17, 2013 - 05:56pm PT
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The wind blew
The water pulled
claiming the earth, the rocks and you
as I poured your ashes into the sea
in the deafening roar of restless waves
this is where you use to fish as a kid
a place of memory
now forever in my mind
a part of me always with you
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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Sep 17, 2013 - 06:20pm PT
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All along the bent and angling coast
seaweed strands in sunken coves
groping beached shadows
from wave to wave
I always chase after them
their darkened strewn and floating forms
rolling like dead bodies
from wave to wave
What seaweed does not hide
its own short story of unknown depths
submarine worlds where time itself
folds its broken shell
Under each rubbery leaf
striped in faint running bands
like the blue veins on my father's arm
long long ago
A strand marks the sea's closing line
in underwater straits where I now stand
feet in the shallow blackness
hand against the sandy bulb
A frothing strand marks all the seaweed
in roped and stringed patterns
their soft crests fall soundless
sharp against the gathering stone
w.t.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Sep 20, 2013 - 07:16am PT
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The Crescent Arch March
--for Pat Ament
In a Dream of White Courage
I tried my best to discourage
A new trend that I saw.
Now I lay my chalk away
And to the Lord Belay I say:
Take this now and for all days.
This is what old Mousie says:
If with chalk you must play,
Just use plain old white or gray.
In a whirlwind of white dust
We climb the climbs we must.
Don't forget your quick-draw.
Mouse from Merced is a tard climber from Merced.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Sep 23, 2013 - 07:29pm PT
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Lament for a Dead Cow
Beautiful was Wetu as a blue shadow
That nests on the grey rocks
About a sunbaked hilltop;Her coat was black and shiny
Like an isipingo-berry;
Her horns were as sharp as the horns of the new moon
That tosses aloft the evening star;Her round eyes were as clear and soft
As a mountain pool,
Where shadows dive from the high rocks.
--Francis Carey Slater
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Sep 24, 2013 - 02:15pm PT
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Not a poem, but prose about storytelling and poetry is often (if not always?) about telling some kind of story:
“When you are in the middle of a story it isn’t a story at all, but only a confusion; a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood; like a house in a whirlwind, or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, and all aboard powerless to stop it. It’s only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all. When you are telling it, to yourself or to someone else.”
― Margaret Atwood, Alias Grace
Apropos with this crowd, because she is basically describing the genesis of any good climbing story.
Eric
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Sep 24, 2013 - 02:20pm PT
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"You told me once you believed in God.
The old man waved his hand. Maybe, he said...Oh I'd like to see him if I could.
What would you say to him?
Well,...And then I'm goin to ast him: What did you have me in that crapgame down there for anyway? I couldn't put any part of it together.
Suttree smiled. What do you think he'll say?
The ragpicker spat and wiped his mouth. I don't believe he can answer it, he said. I don't believe there is an answer."
CMC
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Sep 24, 2013 - 02:22pm PT
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"We were the leopards, the lions.
Those who replace us will be the jackals, the hyenas.
And all of us, leopards, lions, jackals and sheep will continue to think we're the salt of the earth."
Il Gattopardo
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Sep 24, 2013 - 04:45pm PT
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Well Grounded
Every time I turn around
Another climber’s in the ground.
If I fall and die today
Please don’t let them hear you say:
“He died doing what he loved.”
Because I hate falling!
MFM
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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An Ode to Nighthawks
I blindly and bravely accept
my inglorious, heroic fate
forcibly tethered to this marine layer morning
of American flapjacks
and ancient retirees
discussing doctor visits
in the leathery booth next door.
I can hear that uncertain future
speechless as the grey undertow
of low running fog
and listless pancakes
staring back at me
with the eyes
of two over-easy eggs
I am still that American breakfast
embodied in my own corner diner
set against the shivering winds of change
wrapped within uncertain renewals
cast beneath Hooper's long-recalled shadow
the shape of an eternally hungry nighthawk
who once chanced never to sleep
W.T.
"Nighthawks"
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Hah! "never to sleep"
...
Thanks, Chongo, for the update, at speed of light or any rate.
See, I met him in the dinner line. He and I, we got along fine.
Diagnostic--Atheistic
= Egotistic
So polite, nothing caustic
Just a cosmic joke
And a rolled-up smoke
Between new playmates
There's no ending to the universe
Just a vast stanza of a poem to be completed
Whenever
Infinity happens
Alone &/or Together
Who cares who or what created it besides Chongo and you others?
"Never say whenever never again."
That's what they may say that they told him to tell you.
Don't let them sell you on that, my friend.
So he shut up and he didn't shut down
And Mum's the WordStill
And Bob's Your Uncle
And he's a garage mechanic
Which makes him a grease monkey.
This is getting slippery...
As if I'm trapping myself on scree
I'll be your mimimonkey's uncle for you
If you'll just wake me the hell up and
Am I even on belay?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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MUTHA OF COUNTIES: A RAP FOR MARIPOSA
The mutha of counties
Sent a battalion of mounties
To arrest a outlaw MiWok
Who just refused to work
For the evil man of the age
(No friend of ‘the savage’)
Known as Ten Hiya
Who thought to himself, as he climbed higher
Good-byeah
See ya hiya
In the skyeah
Over to Mono
I got ta go now
See ya ‘roun’
Ya whitey clown
Takin’ a day’s rest
Peaceably avoidin’ arrest
When up pops whitey
From behind this big pine tree
“Hands in the air!”
I tried not to stare
His hands were so shakin’
I thought, “Cook my bacon”
So I carefully arose
Along came mo’ white hoes
Just howlin’ with glee
And all yellin’ at me.
I just smiled and grinned
They had me strung and skinned.
Hmph...what pork and beef does for a body
Illusions of mastery
With no visions of mystery
Can’t keep it up but it won’t go down
Why does he think I think he’s a whitey clown?
The jokes on him, I must predict
See, he believes he’s got us licked
Let him think his thoughts ‘n’ show how wrong’s his creed
In time his kids will curse him for his nasty greed.
Then the mighty circle will close up and sing
And we will dance nightly in it, just my thing.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Sullly.
It must have been a hard life, but loved by the poets:
"The islands have had an influence on world literature and arts disproportionate to their size. The unusual cultural and physical history of the islands has made them the object of visits by a variety of writers and travellers who recorded their experiences. Beginning around the late 19th Century, many Irish writers travelled to the Aran Islands; Lady Gregory, for example, came to Aran in the late nineteenth century to learn Irish. At the start of the 20th century and throughout his life one of Ireland's leading artists, Seán Keating, spent time every year on the islands translating on to canvas all the qualities that make the inhabitants of these Atlantic Islands so unusual and in many respects remarkable.
Many wrote of their experiences in a personal vein, alternately casting them as narratives about finding, or failing to find, some essential aspect of Irish culture that had been lost to the more urban regions of Ireland. A second, related kind of visitor were those who attempted to collect and catalog the stories and folklore of the island, treating it as a kind of societal "time capsule" of an earlier stage of Irish culture. Visitors of this kind differed in their desires to integrate with the island culture, and most were content to be considered observers. The culmination of this mode of interacting with the island might well be Robert J. Flaherty's 1934 classic documentary Man of Aran.
One might consider John Millington Synge's The Aran Islands as a work that straddles these first two modes, it being both a personal account and also an attempt at preserving information about the pre- (or a-) literate Aran culture in literary form. The motivations of these visitors are best exemplified by W. B. Yeats' advice to Synge: "Go to the Aran Islands, and find a life that has never been expressed in literature.""
OT: There's climbing there too (a great link): http://wiki.climbing.ie/index.php/Aran_Islands
About Inishmore:
"The island is in essence one huge limestone crag, with almost 20kms of coastline offering a wide variety of climbing styles covering all grades. The Northeast side of the island is quite low lying but does contain a number of extremely high quality crags up to 10m high nestled in between the numerous beaches and coves. The nature of these outcrops ideally suits them to bouldering, with good level landings, a predominantly overhanging style of climbing and solid top-outs.
At the other end of the spectrum is the Southwest length of the isle, which rises to heights of over 80m in sheer cliff faces and runs continuously from north to south. Until recently the majority of the climbing development on the island was undertaken by visitors from England and Wales due to the intimidating nature of the crags, with only very few routes being established by Irish climbers. 35 or so of these early, pioneering routes were included in the Burren Guidebook published in 1997 by the MCI. The grades of these routes centres mainly around the mid “E” grades with an upper limit at present of E6. These grades were not however a true reflection of the range of climbing on the island, rather more a display of the strength and ability of the climbers who took the time to pursue these new and quite bold lines rather than the more obvious and attainable lower-grade climbs. Since those early explorations of the island, development has been slow and sporadic with handfuls of lines being done in different areas, giving dense pockets of routes dispersed along the coastline. The tendency seems to be to find a previously unclimbed area that suits a personal climbing style and blitz it of it’s obvious classic lines and then move on.
The climbing itself ranges from long exposed multi pitch lines to short, sharp single pitch routes all on good limestone. Stepped Overhangs and impressive sheer walls abound, with most of the established routes taking devious lines of weakness through this improbable terrain. Protection is solid where found, although quite often sparse due to the compacted nature of the limestone. All current routes have been climbed in the traditional Adventure climbing style and only very few routes contain pegs (sometimes placed on lead and by this stage untrustworthy). Another feature of the island is a number of huge and seriously overhanging amphitheatres, which at first seem reminiscent of Muckros head, Donegal until you notice the lack of natural protection available. These will absorb a lot of time and effort (and maybe even bolts!) before they start to release lines, all of which look spectacular and at or above the upper limit of the climbing currently established in Ireland to date (but possible none the less…. What can I say, I’m an optimist!)."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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The poetry itself ranges from long, boring passages to short, stacatto giggles, done by a soloist off-stage, which is difficulty defined since it’s a theater in the round. Two-part harmony and impressive arias abound, with most of the wingnuts assigned to the asylum’s private caged boxes. Protection from slander is sold at the ticket office, and needed. The compacted nature of the projectiles commands you wear a helmet and a thick sweater or even two.
All current routines have been unrehearsed for as long as time is old. The redpoint is honored and sacred, but topropes are cool, if you have a good anchor and don’t mind if we use it, too, while you’re rigged? Okay?
What can’t I say? I’m not just another optimist half-full of doubt.
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L
climber
California dreamin' on the farside of the world..
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If I must be wrung through the paradox,
—broken into wholeness,
wring me around the moon;
pelt me with particles from the dark side.
Fling me into space;
hide me in a black hole.
Let me dance with devils on dead stars.
Let my scars leave brilliant traces,
for my highborn soul seeks its hell—
in high places.
Individuation by Avah Pevlor Johnson
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2013 - 03:45pm PT
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"I'll have a Philip Glass of iced tea, please.
Lots of ice, too, thanks."
Water You and I?
We all spring from the same well-head
We all have water in us.
It’s the stuff of life, if not the staff.
I suppose God holds the key.
He’s the conductor of this water music.
O, the water,
O, the water,
It’s given to us for free.
Except for Evian, Perrier, Glacier, and the other glass- and plastic-sellers.
They can’t really sell the H20, so they have to charge for the containers.
It's not like they can just whizz the product right to you out of the air.
Not yet, anyway.
Someday, Jack and Jill won't have to climb the hill.
The water will be right there!
O gee,
Golly gee,
No more broken crowns, Jack!
I have some water inside me right now that was born in Yosemite.
That is, it came down and landed there from its airborne journey.
And it may have run off the South Face of Half Dome.
It may have made the cruise down the Merced to the Nevada and Vernal Falls.
Then it may have been drunk by a deer or by a deer mouse.
Then, who knows? Have I acted rashly in drinking wildlife pee?
O, deer,
O, deer,
What can the water be?
Decades ago, my great-grandfather may have peed that same water.
It may have landed up on the ballast of the Southern Pacific up by Dunsmuir.
From there it may have run into the Sacramento River.
And into the body of a big trout which spawned.
And its babies may have produced roe which produced trout in the Merced.
Cycle, recycle.
Recycled water is all I am.
You may have me in you.
I hope I have you in me.
It’s a warm feeling.
Now I gotta go.
Pee ya later.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2013 - 05:02pm PT
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The Moldau. My favorite in the whole wide world.
Takk.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 13, 2013 - 06:41am PT
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When I last worked, it was for Jim Barnett at the used book store on Main.
He has a son named James Patrick who spent a lot of time in Prague.
He's fluent in Praguian and can spik a lil Russion.
He's married to a beautiful medical student from Beylorus.
He told me of the Infant Jesus of Prague.
I'd heard of this as a Papal Catholic for years, but never learned anything about the Infant.
I looked it up on Wiki.
And so can thee, thou.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Infant_Jesus_of_Prague
When Jesus was a baby
He was a stinking Jew.
They put Him on his cross
For He was Catholic, too.
You see, it's all about the orbis cruciger.
You can look that up on your own.
In which bishop's see do the Vlatava fish swim?
If you can answer that, I'll tell little Jim.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Oct 13, 2013 - 04:01pm PT
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"And on the far shore a creature that raised its dripping mouth from the rimstone pool and stared into the light with eyes dead white and sightless as the eggs of spiders. It swung its head low over the water as if to take the scent of what it could not see. Crouching there pale and naked and translucent, its alabaster bones cast up in shadow on the rocks behind it. Its bowel, its beating heart. The brain that pulsed in a dull glass bell. It swung its head from side to side and then gave out a low moan and turned and lurched away and loped soundlessly into the dark."
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Anastasia
climber
Home
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Oct 13, 2013 - 04:10pm PT
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let your breath stir the air
under a butterfly's wing
it's not much
and it is everything
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Oct 13, 2013 - 04:10pm PT
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"And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have, but in their stead
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath
Which the poor heart would fain deny and dare not."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 13, 2013 - 06:30pm PT
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Lyrics to Ballad Of Jack Frost :
Jack Frost came to town
Jack Frost took my girl away
He laid her in the ground
Tipped his hat and he was on his way
He's sure to take your loved one away
He roams from town to town
He wears a smile upon his face
Although his belly is fat
He's well respected for his charm and grace
He'll only lead your loved one away
He'll only take your pleasure away
Don't let him take your loved one away
--The Triffids
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Ah, the breath of life!
Move that air, baby!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 16, 2013 - 01:08pm PT
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That vintage reel is taken on Market Street in San Francisco, just a few days prior to the big 1906 Earthquake and Fire.
Born Under Punches
Lyrics by David Byrne
"Take a look at these hands.
Take a look at these hands.
The hand speaks. The hand of a government man.
Well I'm a tumbler. Born under punches.
I'm so thin.
All I want is to breathe. I'm too thin.
Won't you breath with me?
Find a little space, so we move in-between. In-between it.
And keep one step ahead, of yourself.
Don't you miss it, don't you miss it.
Some 'a you people just about missed it! Last time to make plans!
Well I'm a tumbler...
I'm a Government Man."
I'm a temblor. Born thru no fault of my own.
I have cracks in my skin.
Won't you shake with me?--O. Tay
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Ksolem
Trad climber
Monrovia, California
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Oct 16, 2013 - 02:48pm PT
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Marlow, what a contrast between the two performances of The Moldau. The City of Prague orchestra is beautiful, with rhythm and tempo while the second, European Chamber Orchestra is dreadful, slow without continuity between the instrumental lines and with a sleeping conductor. A very good example for those who wonder what is the role of a conductor in such performance...
On the topic of poetry, I read this poem night before last at a memorial for Michael Ybarra, a friend, a climber and writer whose works you may have seen from time to time about climbing and extreme sports in the wall street journal. For me this is a touching poem.
Knife
by Mary Oliver
Something
just now
moved through my heart
like the thinnest of blades
as that red-tail pumped
once with its great wings
and flew above the gray, cracked
rock wall.
It wasn't
about the bird, it was
something about the way
stone stays
mute and put, whatever
goes flashing by.
Sometimes,
when I sit like this, quiet,
all the dreams of my blood
and all outrageous divisions of time
seem ready to leave,
to slide out of me.
Then, I imagine, I would never move.
By now
the hawk has flown five miles
at least,
dazzling whoever else has happened
to look up.
I was dazzled. But that
wasn't the knife.
It was the sheer, dense wall
of blind stone
without a pinch of hope
or a single unfulfilled desire
sponging up and reflecting,
so brilliantly,
as it has for centuries,
the sun's fire.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 21, 2013 - 12:42am PT
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I SAID, "I really like colorful sound."
THE DREAM
I dream an inescapable dream
in which I take away from the country
the bridges and roads, the fences, the strung wires,
ourselves, all we have built and dug and hollowed out,
our flocks and herds, our droves of machines.
I restore then the wide-branching trees.
I see growing over the land and shading it
the great trunks and crowns of the first forest.
I am aware of the rattling of their branches,
the lichened channels of their bark, the saps
of the ground flowing upward to their darkness.
Like the afterimage of a light that only by not
looking can be seen. I glimpse the country as it was.
All its beings belong wholly to it. They flourish
in dying as in being born. It is the life of its deaths.
I must end, always, by replacing
our beginning there, ourselves and our blades,
the flowing in of history, putting back what I took away,
trying always with the same pain of foreknowledge
to build all that we have built, but destroy nothing.
My hands weakening, I feel on all sides blindness
growing in the land on its peering bulbous stalks.
I see that my mind is not good enough.
I see that I am eager to own the earth and to own men.
I find in my mouth a bitter taste of money,
a gaping syllable I can neither swallow nor spit out.
I see all that we have ruined in order to have, all
that was owned for a lifetime to be destroyed forever.
Where are the sleeps that escape such dreams?
--Wendell Berry
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NutAgain!
Trad climber
South Pasadena, CA
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Oct 21, 2013 - 01:14am PT
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Please oh please sweet lord, save me.
Get me off this rock, and then you'll see!
Never will I climb so high, a ropeless length to touch the sky
Never on this rock will you find me.
Now I'm on the ground, I hope dear lord
You understand that when it's flat I'm bored!
I see the steep, can't help myself, and climb that ledge to another shelf,
And then I pray again to you my lord.
-NutAgain! before bedtime on 10/20/2013
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Oct 22, 2013 - 02:42pm PT
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"It grew colder and the night lay long before him. He kept moving, following in the darkness the naked chimes of rock blown bare of snow. The stars burned with a lidless fixity and they drew nearer in the night until toward dawn he was stumbling among the whinstones of the uttermost ridge to heaven, a barren range of rock so enfolded in that gaudy house that stars lay awash at his feet and migratory spalls of burning matter crossed constantly about him on their chartless reckonings. In the predawn light he made his way out upon the premontory and there received first of any creature in that country the warmth of the sun's ascending."
That's rigth, Mouse. Cormac McCarthy's BM.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 22, 2013 - 06:31pm PT
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Pink and Black--Wine Lovers
par Doh! BeLayer
Today!
Today!
Today space is magnificent!
Without bridle or bit or spurs
Let us ride away on wine
To a divine, fairy-like heaven!
Today!
Today!
Like two angels who are tortured
By a relentless delirium,
Through the crystal blue of the morning!
Let us follow the far mirage
Today!
Today!
Gently balanced upon the wings
Of the intelligent whirlwind,
In a similar ecstasy,
My sister, floating side by side,
We'll flee without ever stopping
To the paradise of my dreams!
"Ahhhh, Goooo-mez!"--Morticia, in ecstasy
Marlow, that last post of yours is reminiscent of Blood Meridian by Cormac M, somehow---just trusting to memory.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Oct 24, 2013 - 05:24pm PT
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"He got his blankets and spread them in the hay and he was sitting eating sardines out of a tin and watching the rain when a yellow dog rounded the side of the building and entered through the open door and stopped. It looked first at the horse. Then it swung its head and looked at him. It was an old dog gone gray about the muzzle and it was horribly crippled in its hindquarters and its head was askew someway on its body and it moved grotesquely. An arthritic and illjoined thing that crabbed sideways and sniffed at the floor to pick up the man’s scent and then raised its head and nudged the air with its nose and tried to sort him from the shadows with its milky half blind eyes.
Billy set the sardines carefully beside him. He could smell the thing in the damp. It stood there inside the door with the rain falling in the weeds and gravel behind it and it was wet and wretched and so scarred and broken that it might have been patched up out of parts of dogs by demented vivisectionists. It stood and then it shook itself in its grotesque fashion and hobbled moaning to the far corner of the room where it looked back and then turned three times and lay down.
He wiped the blade of the knife on his breeches leg and laid the knife across the tin and looked about. He pried a loose clod of mud from the wall and threw it. The dog made a strange moaning sound but it did not move.
Git, he shouted.
The dog moaned, it lay as before.
He swore softly and rose to his feet and cast about for a weapon. The horse looked at him and it looked at the dog. He crossed the room and went out in the rain and walked around the side of the building. When he came back he had in his fist a threefoot length of waterpipe and with it he advanced upon the dog. Go on, he shouted. Git.
The dog rose moaning and slouched away down the wall and limped out into the yard. When he turned to go back to his blankets it slank past him into the building again. He turned and ran at it with the pipe and it scrabbled away.
He followed it. Outside it had stopped at the edge of the road and it stood in the rain looking back. It had perhaps once been a hunting dog, perhaps left for dead in the mountains or by some highwayside. Repository of ten thousand indignities and the harbringer of God knew what. He bent and clawed up a handful of smallrocks from the gravel apron and slung them. The dog raised its misshapen head and howled weirdly. He advanced upon it and it set off up the road. He ran after it and threw more rocks and shouted at it and he slung the length of pipe. It went clanging and skittering up the road behind the dog and the dog howled again and began to run, hobbling brokenly on its twisted legs with the strange head agoggle on its neck. As it went it raised its mouth sideways and howled again with a terrible sound. Something not of this earth. As if some awful composite of grief had broke through from the preterite world. It tottered away up the road in the rain on its stricken legs and as it went it howled again and again in its heart’s despair until it was gone from sight and all sound in the night’s onset.
He woke in the white light of the desert noon and sat up in the ranksmelling blankets. The shadow of the bare wood windowsash stenciled onto the opposite wall began to pale and fade as he watched. As if a cloud were passing over the sun. He kicked out of the blankets and pulled on his boots and his hat and rose and walked out. The road was a pale gray in the light and the light was drawing away along the edges of the world. Small birds had wakened in the roadside desert bracken and begun to chitter and to flit about and out on the blacktop bands of tarantulas that had been crossing the road in the dark like landcrabs stood frozen at their articulations, arch as marionettes, testing with their measured octave tread the sudden jointed shadows of themselves beneath them.
He looked out down the road and he looked toward the fading light. Darkening shapes of cloud all along the northern rim. It had ceased raining in the night and a broken rainbow or watergall stood out on the desert in a dim neon bow and he looked again at the road which lay as before yet more dark and darkening still where it ran on to the east and where there was no sun and there was no dawn and when he looked again toward the north the light was drawing away faster and that noon in which he’d woke was now become an alien dusk and now an alien dark and the birds that flew had lighted and all had hushed once again in the bracken by the road.
He walked out. A cold wind was coming down off the mountains. It was shearing off the western slopes of the continent where the summer snow lay above the timberline and it was crossing through the high fir forests and among the poles of the aspens and it was sweeping over the desert plain below. It had ceased raining in the night and he walked out on the road and called for the dog. He called and called. Standing in that inexplicable darkness. Where there was no sound anywhere save only the wind. After a while he sat in the road. He took off his hat and placed it on the tarmac before him and he bowed his head and held his face in his hands and wept. He sat there for a long time and after a while the east did gray and after a while the right and godmade sun did rise, once again, for all and without distinction."
CMC, TC, p. 423-425
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 25, 2013 - 02:51am PT
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http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Counselor
Meanwhile, back at the crossing...
Our Father, who art in heaven, hollow be thy log and thy dog, in the Sierra Madre as it is in heaven. Give us this day our ration of meat and forget how we have to screw one another to get it. It's all on YOU, dude.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Oct 25, 2013 - 12:43pm PT
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"No, said Tobin. The gifts of the Almighty are weighed and parceled out in a scale peculiar to himself. It’s no fair accountin and I dont doubt but what he’d be the first to admit it and you put the query to him boldface.
Who?
The Almighty, the Almighty. The expriest shook his head. He glanced across the fire toward the judge. That great hairless thing. You wouldnt think to look at him that he could outdance the devil himself now would ye? God the man is a dancer, you’ll not take that away from him. And fiddle. He’s the greatest fiddler I ever heard and that’s an end on it. The greatest. He can cut a trail, shoot a rifle, ride a horse, track a deer. He’s been all over the world. Him and the governor they sat up till breakfast and it was Paris this and London that in five languages, you’d have give something to of heard them. The governor’s a learned man himself he is, but the judge . . .
The expriest shook his head. Oh it may be the Lord’s way of showin how little store he sets by the learned. Whatever could it mean to one who knows all? He’s an uncommon love for the common man and godly wisdom resides in the least of things so that it may well be that the voice of the Almighty speaks most profoundly in such beings as lives in silence themselves.
He watched the kid.
For let it go how it will, he said, God speaks in the least of creatures.
The kid thought him to mean birds or things that crawl but the expriest, watching, his head slightly cocked, said: No man is give leave of that voice.
The kid spat into the fire and bent to his work.
I aint heard no voice, he said.
When it stops, said Tobin, you’ll know you’ve heard it all your life.
Is that right?
Aye.
The kid turned the leather in his lap. The expriest watched him.
At night, said Tobin, when the horses are grazing and the company is asleep, who hears them grazing?
Dont nobody hear them if they’re asleep.
Aye. And if they cease their grazing who is it that wakes?
Every man.
Aye, said the expriest. Every man.
The kid looked up. And the judge? Does the voice speak to him?
The judge, said Tobin. He didn’t answer.
..........
In the afternoon he sat in the compound breaking ore samples with a hammer, the feldspar rich in red oxide of copper and native nuggets in whose organic lobations he purported to read news of the earth's origins, holding an extemporary lecture in geology to a small gathering who nodded and spat. A few would quote him scripture to confound his ordering up of eons out of the ancient chaos and other apostate supposings, the judge smiled.
Books lie, he said.
God dont lie.
No, said the judge. He does not. And these are his words.
He held up a chunk of rock.
He speaks in stones and trees, the bones of things.
The squatters in their rags nodded among themselves and were soon reckoning him correct, this man of learning, in all his speculations, and this the judge encoraged until they were right proselytes of the new order whereupon he laughed at them for fools.
...........
Whatever exists, he said. Whatever in creation exists without my knowledge exists without my consent.
He looked about at the dark forest in which they were bivouacked. He nodded toward the specimens he’d collected. These anonymous creatures, he said, may seem little or nothing in the world. Yet the smallest crumb can devour us. Any smallest thing beneath yon rock out of men’s knowing. Only nature can enslave man and only when the existence of each last entity is routed out and made to stand naked before him will be properly suzerain of the earth.
What’s a suzerain?
A keeper. A keeper or overlord.
Why not say keeper then?
Because he is a special kind of keeper. A suzerain rules even where there are other rulers. His authority countermands local judgements.
Toadvine spat.
The judge placed his hands on the ground. He looked at his inquisitor. This is my claim, he said. And yet everywhere upon it are pockets of autonomous life. Autonomous. In order for it to be mine nothing must be permitted to occur upon it save by my dispensation."
CMC, BM
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Oct 25, 2013 - 07:17pm PT
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Hadrian's Tomb, Roma
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Oct 26, 2013 - 03:33am PT
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Seamus Heaney's last poem In a Field
In a Field
And there I was in the middle of a field,
The furrows once called "scores' still with their gloss,
The tractor with its hoisted plough just gone
Snarling at an unexpected speed
Out on the road. Last of the jobs,
The windings had been ploughed, furrows turned
Three ply or four round each of the four sides
Of the breathing land, to mark it off
And out. Within that boundary now
Step the fleshy earth and follow
The long healed footprints of one who arrived
From nowhere, unfamiliar and de-mobbed,
In buttoned khaki and buffed army boots,
Bruising the turned-up acres of our back field
To stumble from the windings' magic ring
And take me by a hand to lead me back
Through the same old gate into the yard
Where everyone has suddenly appeared,
All standing waiting.
As the Team's Head Brass, by Edward Thomas
As the team's head-brass flashed out on the turn
The lovers disappeared into the wood.
I sat among the boughs of the fallen elm
That strewed an angle of the fallow, and
Watched the plough narrowing a yellow square
Of charlock. Every time the horses turned
Instead of treading me down, the ploughman leaned
Upon the handles to say or ask a word,
About the weather, next about the war.
Scraping the share he faced towards the wood,
And screwed along the furrow till the brass flashed
Once more.
The blizzard felled the elm whose crest
I sat in, by a woodpecker's round hole,
The ploughman said. 'When will they take it away?'
'When the war's over.' So the talk began –
One minute and an interval of ten,
A minute more and the same interval.
'Have you been out?' 'No.' 'And don't want to, perhaps?'
'If I could only come back again, I should.
I could spare an arm. I shouldn't want to lose
A leg. If I should lose my head, why, so,
I should want nothing more. . . . Have many gone
From here?' 'Yes.' 'Many lost?' 'Yes: a good few.
Only two teams work on the farm this year.
One of my mates is dead. The second day
In France they killed him. It was back in March,
The very night of the blizzard, too. Now if
He had stayed here we should have moved the tree.'
'And I should not have sat here. Everything
Would have been different. For it would have been
Another world.' 'Ay, and a better, though
If we could see all all might seem good.' Then
The lovers came out of the wood again:
The horses started and for the last time
I watched the clods crumble and topple over
After the ploughshare and the stumbling team.
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Largo
Sport climber
The Big Wide Open Face
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Oct 26, 2013 - 01:29pm PT
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I climb the route to Cold Mountain,
The route to Cold Mountain that never ends.
The Valley is long and strewn with stones;
The stream is broad and filled with thick grass.
The slabs are slippery though no rain has fallen;
Piñons sigh but it isn't the wind.
Who can break from the snares of the world
And stand with me among the white clouds?
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Oct 31, 2013 - 04:56pm PT
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"Remember when you were young,
You shone like the sun.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Now there's a look in your eyes,
Like black holes in the sky.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
You were caught on the crossfire
Of childhood and stardom,
Blown on the steel breeze.
Come on you target for faraway laughter,
Come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine!
You reached for the secret too soon,
You cried for the moon.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Threatened by shadows at night,
And exposed in the light.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Well you wore out your welcome
With random precision,
Rode on the steel breeze.
Come on you raver, you seer of visions,
Come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!"
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survival
Big Wall climber
Terrapin Station
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Oct 31, 2013 - 05:03pm PT
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When I was just a young boy, I played with swords and guns, and I dreamed of the day I`d become a soldier.
I'd kill all of the enemy, my country`tis of thee, I sing this anthem sadly,won`t you hear me.
I watched the cannons blazing, on the giant silver screen, The swastikas were burning and the hero was me.
The general gave the order, gladly I obeyed.But the movie faded quickly all at once today.
And now I stand alone with the charges made, no where to run, not a place to hide.
We`re sad little children playing grown-up games.
Guess the time has come, the damage has been done.
Stray dogs that live on the highway, walk on three legs. Cause they learn too slow to get the message.
Just like the Indians in the early days, battles lost and won, yet it still goes on. It`s just another ballad for soldier.
I had no understanding `till I saw my mother cry, when they told how many babies I had killed that night.
A dozen color photographs inside of a magazine, told the morbid story like a movie screen.
But I was not the hero I thought myself to be, movies are much different than reality.
The general was convicted to get off of the hook, but the President might free me for the chance I took.
And we all stand alone when the charge is made, sad way to live, what a way to die.
We`re all little children playing grown-up games, can we burn the gun before the next time comes.
Stray dogs that live on the highway walk on three legs, they move to slow to get the message.
Give up and win, that`s all I have to say, we haven't really won till all the fightin's done, and there are no more ballads for the soldiers.
Leon Russell
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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The Bog Queen - Seamus Heaney
I lay waiting
between turf-face and demesne wall,
between heathery levels
and glass-toothed stone.
My body was braille
for the creeping influences:
dawn suns groped over my head
and cooled at my feet,
through my fabrics and skins
the seeps of winter
digested me,
the illiterate roots
pondered and died
in the cavings
of stomach and socket.
I lay waiting
on the gravel bottom,
my brain darkening.
a jar of spawn
fermenting underground
dreams of Baltic amber.
Bruised berries under my nails,
the vital hoard reducing
in the crock of the pelvis.
My diadem grew carious,
gemstones dropped
in the peat floe
like the bearings of history.
My sash was a black glacier
wrinkling, dyed weaves
and Phoenician stitchwork
retted on my breasts'
soft moraines.
I knew winter cold
like the nuzzle of fjords
at my thighs––
the soaked fledge, the heavy
swaddle of hides.
My skull hibernated
in the wet nest of my hair.
Which they robbed.
I was barbered
and stripped
by a turfcutter's spade
who veiled me again
and packed coomb softly
between the stone jambs
at my head and my feet.
Till a peer's wife bribed him.
The plait of my hair
a slimy birth-cord
of bog, had been cut
and I rose from the dark,
hacked bone, skull-ware,
frayed stitches, tufts,
small gleams on the bank.
http://www.theguardian.com/politics/2013/nov/03/gerry-adams-jean-mcconville
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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SNAP PHOTO
Were you are a poetic soul
And had a roll
Or two
Or three
Of Kodak imagination,
You’ll understand
When I wave my hand:
That feeling of power
As you shot that flower
Was purely Instamatic gratification
That f-stopped way short of digitization.
Snap!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Song of the Generator, You Son of A Peach
We Flames were on top of the world:
We looked to have our hair curled.
Generator Crack demanded no rack,
So I said, “Hey, there, slack,” and I began my attack.
My nine-mil Eddy kept going up steady.
I knew I’d been ready ever since good old Freddy
Said we must try to learn to rely
On a belayer’s sharp eye:
It could help bye and bye.
There’s no reason why
You ever have to have died
Before you're ready for wide.
Except for this, that and some other things.
Tra-la.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 17, 2013 - 02:14pm PT
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SELF-KNOWLEDGE
I look out on the upper
branches
of a knowing old tree
and realize that I could step
out this window
and walk on top of the
universe
but I prefer flat farmland
and the dry and tedious
for my brief stay
Wilma Elizabeth McDaniel
This one is for Amyjo, a fan of Wilma Elizabeth.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 18, 2013 - 07:26pm PT
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TAKING WING IN NOVEMBER AIR
(THEY SAY POETRY IS BEST READ BETWEEN THE LINES)
In the quiet morning twilight
(next to highway 99)
Before dawn and after night
(I tried to shoot the sunrise)
A wing of birds is taking flight
(and the moon set just then, too)
A mundane but extraordinary sight
(I forgot to reset the manual focus again)
Mine eyes beheld the skies
(on the way home on frontage road)
A-flood with Lady Dark’s goodbyes
(a long line of birds appeared)
And here this avian marvel flies
(they were heading southerly)
A balm unto my sleep-filled eyes
(it meant shooting into the sun)
And so I snapped the flying birds
(thinking I had struck gold)
I saw no use supplying words
(when the truth was revealed)
Then I thought those stupid turds
(I had indeed taken gold from the sky)
Might think we’re sitting ducks ?!?!
(I can’t rhyme “turds” in other words)
This poor poetry, if it please, is for the Merry Fossil, Wayne, the naturalest guy I know, the Fossil Climber of ST.
Just paying you back for the inspiration, ya coot.
You're not seeing double, either.
What kinda birds are these, folks?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 19, 2013 - 02:56am PT
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A FEW CHORDS OF ALMOND WOOD
--FOR THE CAMPFIRE
based on a cold winter spent working alone in the orchards
Often the quiet distance
tells me come
check me out
Often while piling wood
I tell myself
listen to nature
Often as not
I can’t hear a thing
except logs neatly piled
And the blues on the radio
in the car
or PHC on NPR
Like those crows on wires
the wood produces
visual notes
I can’t hear
any of these sights
except in my mind’s ear
My own work song
has become light blue
as the sun sets
The truck is full
and the moon
is full, too
A minor musty poet
Says “Good night, all,”
To you and you and you
But not to the owl
on that branch over there
beyond the flames.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 26, 2013 - 01:45pm PT
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Happy Holidaze, boys, girls, rocks and trees.
Here's an exciting tale, with golf balls and tees.
Hannukah, the Festival of Lights, begins on Thursday, the 28th.
Let the shopping commence, let's go crash the fence
At Target, at Costco, Walmart if you have sense.
A Golfer's Nigh Before Christmas
‘Twas the nigh before Christmas,
with things running fine.
Old Santa decided t
 play a quick nine.
He packed up his sleigh,
His clubs well within reach;
then flew to a good public course
near the beach.
On the back nine, a threesome
called out, “Come and play.
there’s no one behind us.
We’re last here today.”
Santa smile, then teed up,
set his shoulder blades square,
and took a deep breath
from the grass-scented air.
But he swung much too hard
and in spite of himself,
the took up a divot
the size of an elf.
If that pitiful drive
wasn’t lousy enough,
his fairway shot found
a deep spot in the rough.
Muttered he, “Oh, perhaps,
it’s the wrong eve to play.
I’ve more meanigful deeds
to accomplish today.”
“Oh, no!” they protested.
“That isn’t the thing.
You just, ever so slightly,
must alter your swing.”
The first man stepped up.
“Change your grip. Look alive.
Swing fast but softer.
Now drive, old man, drive!”
Santa swung at the ball
with an air-splitting THWACK!
But it popped up and gave him
a smack on the back.
The woman said, “Santa,
now here’s what you do—
stand this way, squint hard,
then scream and swing through.”
Spoke the first guy, ”That tactic
went out with the Edsels.
You’ve got him all twisted
like soft, salted pretzels.”
Santa swung, noetheless;
then he cried out in pain.
“My back,” he lamented,
“has gone out again!”
Then a grizzled, old gent
who’d a wisdon like Snead did
gave Santa, too late,
the advice he had needed.
“You’re out here for fun,
and as you grow calmer,
“you’ll find yourself hitting
like young Arnold Palmer.”
But I can’t even move now.”
The thought made him shiver.
“I have all these presents
I have to deliver.”
“Please help me save Christmas.
Please give out these toys.”
Soon the fousome took off
to the good girls and boys.
It was Santa who now
gave out tips to his crew,
as up in the air
past the rooftops they flew.
At each home, the golfers
found just the right packs
and with magic Yule dust
scooted down chimney stacks.
They twisted and stretched
and got scorched by Yule logs,
ate cookies and milk
and got nipped by some dogs.
But they said as they passed
the last fireplace screen,
“This is almost as rousing
as playing eighteen!”
Santa said, “You’ve done well,
and reward you, I shall.
We’ll start at St. Andrews,
Augusta, Doral...
We’ll do lunch in Scottsdale,
try Pebble Beach, then,
Riviera, Sawgrass.
You just tell me when.”
“Then eleven more holes--
what a dream round we’ll play!”
Then he took the three home,
and he soon flew away.
Soon they heard him exclaim
from a sky dark as slate,
“Merry Christmas to all!
May your drives all fly straight!”
--Jody Feldman
FORE!!!!!!
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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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a poetry story in the land of non-fiction:
i was recently in Santa Cruz, downtown.
there, lots of street art occurs at the inspiration of
homeless folks and professional fools alike.
i was enjoying a stroll with my family,
and one fella is sitting, while driving
a typewriter. his sign says:
"poetry. donations accepted."
so i step and greet.
he asks me if i'd like a poem.
i say that i've got no money,
which is the absolute truth,
and then ask if he'd trade a poem for a poem.
"sure," he gleams.
so he writes me one, not knowing me from
the deepest man-man hole in the world (a gold mine in africa.)
to be honest i don't remember the specifics of his poem,
and shamefully i utilized it to start our
hobo-beach-fire that evening, but it read
something to the affect of:
.."he who shines brightest
is blinded by his own inflections..."
or something like that.
so i improvise a return:
"since i'll never be a new direction on the compass,
i wanna be the sharp end of cupid's arrow.
or perhaps a new color in the rainbow."
we both conclude that
poetry is stupid and a waste of intellect.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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sez he
who spits on his gift
and pisses on his mind
and cries lame unto others
in readiculous ways
which unconform like synchlines
on the topo's graphy goodness
don't read my lines
read behind them
and in the end
he's his only friend
a door of missed perception
mist-placed angst
but nothing is ever missed
because it is nothing
so nothing is amiss
it's none of my business
i know
but it's a hobby
and this is mutteruttiness
utter musiness
(were i truly christian
--if sixes were 9 times infinity--
Fletcher might forgive me for that one)
mutinous mice
making not nice
in norwegian
with the man himself
in the mirror
he's never died
and he never will admit it if he does
he has no words for that
so he celebrates his shitty life
and sharpens his ego-paring knife
and cuts the roots of his soul
away from his corporeal being
and becomes less than nothing
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Who are we?
She says drama.
I say drama.
She calls her gramma.
I call her momma.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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WHOA! CAPTAIN, OUR CAPTAIN!
O CAPTAIN! Our Captain! your Citrus Trip is mean;
We two have carried heavy racks, the prize we sought went clean.
The brow is near, the crows we hear, no peeps are likely hanging
To welcome us with bong and stash and porters there next morning?...
O Captain! Our Captain! we climbed you in such style
You'd think there'd be a crowd of dudes stretched out a country mile:
This means no cans and ciggy butts--for you both sh#t and glitter--
I'm glad that it's just you and us cuz Smokey wants no litter...
Our Captain does not dye his hair; his rocks are potent still;
Her wide cracks eat my biggest cams, like Lover's never will.
The pig is anchor'd safe and sound, its contents used and spent.
And this old rock, it's mighty good, but, by God, we've sent...
Ellipses by Victor Shipp
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Dec 15, 2013 - 11:41am PT
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Ulysses
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy’d
Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dec 15, 2013 - 11:51am PT
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WHOW!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dec 21, 2013 - 11:51am PT
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Recipe for Success in the Ditch
Add a heaping tablespoon of tears
To a bottomless cup of dreams of Hall of Mirrors
Stir in the hopes and fears of all the years
And don’t regret drinking all those beers
Take it to The Outer Limits but there ain’t any
Slow down and die in In the Fast Lane
Keeping your eyes on the Walk of Life is lame
Follow the orders of your wife your dame
Do this do that don’t throw the the softball bat
Or they’ll bench you
Don’t make a big long Soutwest Face
You are a member of the human race
But walk don’t run to First Base
Or you may find yourself in disgrace
With the Valley Christians
--A.F.Terbob
"It is aight, Ma, for I'm on belay."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dec 24, 2013 - 06:37am PT
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NOT A CREATURE WAS STIRRING!:
A Late Christmas Eve Phone Call
Well it's a hard night to go to sleep
I was in slumber, fast and deep
Eh, what's that, the phone says beep
And it's my little sister
Being a big pest
On the phone
Late at night
Like she did
As a kid
It's Christmas Eve
And by your leave
I'll sit right here
And try to cheer
This midnight drear
And make it clear
The woman's dear
I chewed her out
I was a lout
I let it get out
Of hand, no doubt
Hung up a with a shout
You don't want to hear about
She had to know
If I would show
Be there or no
Way up in the snow
Her melt is slow
My car can't go
Vern's going to Fresno
She'd invited me
I couldn't see?
No RSVP
Well, ex-CUUUUUUUUUse me
MY F-G MEMORY!
Forgive, my plea
Amy's coming
I'm not
Adam's here
Sorry
Tim, too
Can't, thanks
Why not?
I'm a-told you
I'm a tumbler
I'm a docent Wednesday and Thursday
The Courthouse Museum
All Christmas tree-um
Kids should come here not there
Visit me not watch TV
Nor play in mucky melt
Much better you
Come down too
Too late to plan for next year?
That is what I should have said
I'm so bad my face is red
Like Santa's
Now back to bed
Enough's been said
Poor Lenna
I'll have to call her this morning
At five thirty no prior warning
It's not that I am scorning
Vern and Dawn want me adorning
Their Yule table Tuesday morning
I have no real problems this Christmas
I'll have to remember that next Thanksgiving
At Lenna's
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Dec 28, 2013 - 02:01pm PT
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"A Tennessean named Webster had been watching him and he asked the judge what he aimed to do with those notes and sketches and the judge smiled and said that it was his intention to expunge them from the memory of man. .....
Webster: Well you've been a draftsman somewhere and them pictures is like enough the things themselves. But no man can put all the world in a book. No more than everthing drawed in a book is so.
Well said, Marcus, spoke the judge.
But don't draw me, said Webster. For I don't want in your book.
My book or some other book said the judge. What is to be deviates no jot from the book wherein it's writ. How could it? It would be a false book and a false book is no book at all.
You're a formidable riddler and I'll not match words with ye. Only save my crusted mug from out your ledger there for I'd not have it shown about perhaps to strangers."
BM, p. 140-141
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Leggs
Sport climber
Tucson, AZ
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Jan 16, 2014 - 02:17am PT
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"Poetry" by Pablo Neruda ....
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10152019123094673&l=8164732249065183966
"Poetry
And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind."
~Pablo Neruda
EDIT: Sullly... love what you shared. ~xx
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 22, 2014 - 08:35am PT
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I really only wanted to see how my home haircut turned out.I know how the Kalavela turns out.Poesis doctrinae tam quam somnium--poetry is like a dream of
philosophic love, says the deep-minded Francis Bacon. The
mythical imaginings of savages, those children of nature,
concerning the origins of existence often contain the seeds of a wisdom
which will find expression in the logical forms of a later age.
Philology and comparative religion are taking pains to penetrate
more and more deeply into the mythical origins of faith. Ancient
civilization is now being understood anew in the light of this
fundamental unity of poetry, esoteric doctrine, wisdom and
ritual.
The first thing we have to do to gain such an understanding is
to discard the idea that poetry has only an aesthetic function or
can only be explained in terms of aesthetics. In any flourishing,
living civilization, above all in archaic cultures, poetry has a
vital function that is both social and liturgical. All antique
poetry is at one and the same time ritual, entertainment, artistry,
riddle-making, doctrine, persuasion, sorcery, soothsaying,
prophecy, and competition. Practically all the motifs proper to
archaic ritual and poetry combined are to be found in the Third
Canto of the Finnish epic, the Kalevala. The old and wise
Vainam6inen enchants the young braggart who dares to challenge
him to a sorcery-contest. First they contend in the knowledge of
natural things, then in esoteric knowledge concerning the origins.
At this point young Oukahainen pretends that part of the
Creation was due to him; whereupon the old sorcerer sings him
into the earth, into the bog, into the water, and the water rises
to his waist, his armpits, then over his mouth until finally the
young man promises hiln his sister Aino. Only then does
Vainam6inen, sitting on the "stone of song", sing for another
three hours to withdraw his strong magic and disenchant the
reckless challenger. All the forms of contest we have mentioned
earlier are united in this exploit: the bragging-match, the
boasting-match, the "comparing of men", the competition in
cosmo gonic knowledge, the contest for the bride, the endurance
test, the ordeal-in one wild flight of poetic fancy.
from HOMO LUDENS by Huizinga
http://art.yale.edu/file_columns/0000/1474/homo_ludens_johan_huizinga_routledge_1949_.pdf
and thanks to Sierra Ledge Rat
Nawmean?Of course U NO.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 22, 2014 - 12:39pm PT
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"Playing the Poet"
The ritual of sharpening the pen and the wit.
The entertainment of watching a grown man act like a child and say stupid-sounding wise things.
The artistry of knowing when to pause for breath and how to create tension, causing listeners to squirm and their jaws to drop and older brows to wrinkle and then smile.
The making of riddles is questionable but then the answers are already true or partly so.
The inducktrination of stupid listeners is a form of mass persuasion, especially during the sermons to which we must listen on Sundays or Saturdays; some sermonizers speak to the heart with magical words.
It seems like it's sorcery but poetry is simply a constant way of thinking., consciously or not.
If it's soothsaying, time will tell. If it was not soothsaying, U would NO by now.
In prophecy lies profit, ultimately.
And don't let any competitions end in a draw, a form of art which is discussed in another thread (but with "real" images).
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Jan 23, 2014 - 03:54pm PT
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Great posts Mouse
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 23, 2014 - 09:07pm PT
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HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
FUNNY COUPLETS that i devised yesterday on the way to the forum
by versegood, last man alive on the planet
Shakespeare!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Bacon!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
EE CUMMINGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 30, 2014 - 08:45am PT
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lip gloss
by chucky choss
shave a lip
half a lip
half a lippa
upward
did he move sideward then up then side ward then up
have steppes all the way in winter, bud
bud, the breakfast of diedways champeens
hammered clean climbing
sets the bells to rhyming
but not no make that never
to the colors of the sound of ssssibilant sssstrewberry silentsss
black and white
slowly colorizes
chill thickens
on with ur millars
out the ur doors
out of that six-pack in ur pack
take another
it’s so frosty
now ur all toasty
let’s go play go & see
maybe wee can see mousee
on the travelling butteresssses
there he is
he looks up right
but it’s a fake
he’s going up and now left
he’s running baack baaack baaaack
and catches it fully stretched that hold nobody else seeessss
except in the snow in jersey
it's a bootball game not the leap
did u catch that
no u threw it
how did u do it
norwegians vs the larsons
our sons were tagged by a freeze safety
as they lay with the ball perfectly poised
on their left frickin’ palm
on a dike at the summit
peace and out mouse
game over
we still win because we were already ahead
by being dead
we had the moves from chuck
who threw that ball
we’re not really on the same team
the norskis and the idahoans
it’s just that it makes for a nicer dream
and in colors that shine like lip gloss
there is only wind
and never loss
when u play with chucky choss
to let him throw u let him go
he'll make the call
throw the ball
catch it too
a friendly dream
i got to wear his piss-yellow jersey
it made the hi-lites in their neon reel
to norwegian i kneel
u r my tebow
no i mean it
next time i will check down and throw u a crossing pattern left
no left then...
wait
u know
don't have to say more
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dry Goods
Dry Wells
Adjective tells
Adverb sells
Mouse's nose tells
Foot odor smells
Photo of socks drying in the bath after having had one, in cold water, not hot and no soap, just the hands.
Socks drying
Stars dying
Water loss
Who’s boss?
Mali crying
Dali sighing
First world buying
Third world trying
Never enough
Life’s just tough
And then you die
With your socks on
one hopes
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Yeah, we got it tough in Cliffornia with a drought, a shut down, a huge-ass fire, and high-speed rail a-comin'.
We ain't just a-hummin, Dixie.
We ain't the rest of the world, only a dinky (but wealthy as hell) state in a large country, with friendly neighbors, for now.
Eisenstadt Awards for best photojournalism, from the nineties, Life Magazine special.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Fiction, poetry, the lines often blur. I know. I'm a born-blind mouse, learning to see by saying, learning to be me by not straying too far from the bounds of...what is that thing? What the heck is that dang deal there?
Poetry. Lack of. Live love leave word when you get work as a writer. Then get a real job.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Feb 24, 2014 - 01:13pm PT
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Chalk one up to Rudyard Kipling, talking about what became known as the "stiff upper lip." [Click to View YouTube Video]
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MisterE
climber
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What true climber
can even find that single moment
that defines
the divine
when every moment
every movement
is the refiner's fire
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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A Redneck Love Poem
Susie Lee done fell in love,
She planned to marry Joe.
She was so happy 'bout it all
She told her Pappy so.
Pappy told her, "Susie gal,
You'll have to find another.
I'd just as soon your ma don't know,
But Joe is yo' half-brother."
So Susie put aside her Joe
And planned to marry Will.
But after telling Pappy this,
He said, "There's trouble still.
"You can't marry Will, my gal,
And please, don't tell your mother,
But Will and Joe and several mo'
I know are yo' half-brother."
But Mama knew and said, "My child,
Just do what makes you happy.
So marry Will or marry Joe:
You ain't no kin to Pappy."
*snicker*
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 18, 2014 - 11:21pm PT
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The heavy brigades were designed as shock troops to break through enemy lines through force of momentum and terror, they tended to wear body armour of some description and scare the bejeezus out of the enemy.
The Light Brigade were designed for reconnaissance, communications, skirmishing and smaller scale actions.
{See Classical Music thread for the old favorite by Von Suppe.]
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Opposing Mars among the stars
Cantos, not cannon, are ours.
Algihieri aligns with love...
The planet Venus (the Morning and Evening Star) is traditionally associated with the Goddess of Love,
and so Dante makes this the planet of the lovers,
who were deficient in the virtue of temperance (Canto VIII):
"The world, when still in peril, thought that, wheeling,
in the third epicycle, Cyprian
the fair sent down her rays of frenzied love,
.. and gave the name of her
with whom I have begun this canto, to
the planet that is courted by the sun,
at times behind her and at times in front."[13]
Folquet de Marseilles [Falchetto] bemoans the corruption of the Church,
with the clergy receiving money from Satan (miniature by Giovanni di Paolo), Canto 9.
Dante meets Charles Martel of Anjou, who was known to him,[14]
and who points out that a properly functioning society requires people of many different kinds.
Such differences are illustrated by Cunizza da Romano (lover of Sordello), who is here in Heaven,
while her brother Ezzelino III da Romano is in Hell, among the violent of the seventh circle.[15]
The troubadour Folquet de Marseilles speaks of the temptations of love,
and points out that (as was believed at the time) the cone of the Earth's shadow just touches the sphere of Venus.
He condemns the city of Florence (planted, he says, by Satan) for producing that "damned flower" (the florin)
which is responsible for the corruption of the Church,
and he criticises the clergy for their focus on money,
rather than on Scripture and the writings of the Church Fathers (Canto IX):
"Your city, which was planted by that one
who was the first to turn against his Maker,
the one whose envy cost us many tears
produces and distributes the damned flower
that turns both sheep and lambs from the true course,
for of the shepherd it has made a wolf.
For this the Gospel and the great Church Fathers
are set aside and only the Decretals
are studied as their margins clearly show.
On these the pope and cardinals are intent.
Their thoughts are never bent on Nazareth,
where Gabriel's open wings were reverent."[16]
All Wiki, all the time.
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MisterE
climber
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Apr 20, 2014 - 01:05am PT
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Just wrote this one. It probably sucks, but sums up a lot of sh1t:
In my mind
I am already gone - once again.
How many times I have found Shangri La -
chased the dream, found and loved and languished in it
then lost it.
Fleeting though it is at times, once the heart is set
The resolution is only
a matter of time.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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"The Speech of the High One" from the Elder Saga
"I know I hung on that windy tree,
Swung there for nine long nights,
Wounded by my own blade,
Bloodied for Odin,
Myself an offering to myself:
Bound to the tree
That no man knows
Whither the roots of it run.
None gave me bread,
None gave me drink.
Down to the deepest depths I peered
Until I spied the Runes.
With a roaring cry I seized them up,
Then dizzy and fainting, I fell.
Well-being I won
And wisdom too.
I grew and took joy in my growth:
From word to a word
I was led to a word,
From a deed to another deed."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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SisterE,
"It probably sucks, but" are STupid Words.
"It's probably harder than I can climb, but" are not the words to use to begin a TR, either.
Scary things in the head only come out alone, in bunches, alive or dead,
If you chase them out with words, which is work, let's face it.
You are your father's daughter or you are nought.
I think you have a lot to offer poeti-Cali, mysti-Cali, climbacti-Cali. Just intuition.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Look Here
Look here, what you think you gon' be doin' next year
No lie, how you know you not gon' up and die
No doubt, soon enough your friends will find you out
Take care you know you might not have much time to spare
I say, how long have you acted up this way
What know, when you gonna get your own floor show
I'm hip, you could use a button on your lip
Look here, what you think you gon' be doin' next year?
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jgill
Boulder climber
Colorado
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An Ode to Meditation . . .
When seen through Zen
the world we know
from quantum flux
doth seem to flow
Just as the sun
sets on the seas
we watch in vain
as reason flees
The sleepers dream
and sit so still
while Earth succumbs
to those with will
Jake the Corgi ("I arf, therefor I am!")
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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[Click to View YouTube Video]
Dylan Thomas — Lament
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale tit,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.
When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of bitches),
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling beds of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.
When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood creeps cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!
When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.
Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Fickle fate at work.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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May 13, 2014 - 11:01am PT
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The CLOD & the PEBBLE
by William Blake
from Songs of Experience
"Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
but for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."
So sang a little Clod of Clay
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet.
"Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heavean's despite."
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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May 16, 2014 - 03:15pm PT
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In dawn there is a man progressing over the plain by means of holes which he is making in the ground. He uses an implement with two handles and he chucks it into the hole and he enkindles the stone in the hole with his steel hole by hole striking the fire out of the rock which God has put there. On the plain behind him are the wanderers in search of bones and those who do not search and they move haltingly in the light like mechanisms whose movements are monitored with escapement and pallet so that they appear restrained by a prudence or reflectiveness which has no inner reality and they cross in their progress one by one that track of holes that runs to the rim of the visible ground and which seems less the pursuit of some continuance than the verification of a principle, a validation of sequence and causality as if each round and perfect hole owed its existence to the one before it there on the prairie upon which are the bones and the gatherers of bones and those who do not gather. He strikes fire in the hole and draws out his steel. Then they all move on again.
Epilogue, BM, CMC.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 16, 2014 - 09:35am PT
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SECOND SON
by Robert Rorabeck
God touched the
Charismatic youth on
His subtle shoulder and spoke,
“I like this one.”
And his light came down
And inhabited flesh
So very swiftly the young
Man ripened into a
Gifted artist
Whom the world adored
And remembered his name
In the vociferous gardens of
His art,
For centuries onward to
This day,
God's fond love still lingers for him
Passed from female vessel
Through womanly chalice….
That is the one I both
Admire and despise
As my hours anguish onward,
The futile trajectory of my
Words
Spend toiling the dry and
Brittle pages of the earth,
My back bent and aching from
False labors,
Beseeching God wordlessly
To reach down and bless me
As a father remembering he had
A second, less gifted son.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 16, 2014 - 10:45am PT
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Have some fun this midsummer, I say!
Play the sprite,
Enjoy the night.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act II, Scene I [Over hill, over dale]
William Shakespeare, 1564 - 1616
A wood near Athens. A Fairy speaks.
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander every where,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green:
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dew-drops here
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits: I’ll be gone;
Our queen and all her elves come here anon.
And drink Seven Up, not Sprite, because it likes you best.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 16, 2014 - 09:43pm PT
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"Thy drivel smacks not of bards but of dogberries, fool."--A. Bardini
WALKING ON SUNSHINE
Out walking to nowhere at a much slower pace
Than to be trying, in fact, to win any race,
I was ambling, like normal, admiring the place
When a technical marvel showed up in my face.
My neck had been bent
From scoping cement
It seemed all sparkly--
What pure amazement!
What caused this? I wondered as I walked along
Who thought up this one was not very wrong
It was because of the sun—the angle was long
And because of this late light my heart filled with song.
The crystals align
In the bright day’s sunshine
But just after three
And just before nine.
Winter hours are different, of course.
It still feels good, though.[Click to View YouTube Video]Oh, yeah!
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Jun 22, 2014 - 11:31am PT
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In every Now Being starts
Around every Here the globe of There is rolling
The Middle is everywhere
Bowed is the path of eternity
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, CA
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'The Sea of Dogs'
They lie around upon my floor,
They fart and burp and start to snore,
And bolt upright to greet the door,
With every noise I can't keep score,
They roil around and tumble forth,
Like angry waves from south to north,
And scrambling for all they're worth,
To settle once again to earth,
They spread out into every space,
With bait like breath to lick your face,
You might consider in this case,
My love of canines no disgrace,
They flow in dreams until I wake,
The sea of dogs a living lake,
Of friends I've known and friends I'll make,
This wolfy kith and kin I'll take.
-bushman
10/20/2013
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, CA
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‘Mother Earth’
How wowed the people are all now with matters spiritual and small,
The pope, the royals, movie stars, all wealthy go before the fall,
The wars unjust and lost enthrall and rally those who hear the call,
To pile before the alter all who sacrificed and stood up tall,
Let not the silenced voices wane,
Nor wash away the vanquished stain,
Of blood and flesh and splattered brain,
Of those who fell, and those in pain,
What once was purpose sure and true,
Now hardly counts, cannot undue,
Those wasteful habits doth imbue,
The emigrant who must eschew,
To take the banner dashing down,
The false, untruth, and symbol found,
In every circle all around,
T'wards sanctity and hallowed ground,
For what I speak it can't be told,
In proclamation, loud or bold,
For whom I represent is old,
And orbiting through path so cold,
The home and namesake of my birth,
For whom I know it's all been worth,
Cast no aspersions nor unearth,
My own true mother, Mother Earth.
-bushman
03-19-2013
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, CA
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'The Murdering Old Whore'
Up and down from ditch to ditch,
And to and fro the wobbly witch,
Would deign to thrash the field much slower,
With her rusty little rider mower,
The land was pocked and overgrown,
With brambly thistles full of thorn,
She presided o'er the crude demesne,
As dusk surrendered to the rain.
Engendered by the dragon's eggs,
At night she oiled her scaly legs,
And slathered thickly with a trowel,
Her makeup framed the ugly scowl,
With every victim she beguiled,
And everyone that she defiled,
Within her castle full of cats,
The infinitude of flies and gnats,
There feeding off the foul remains,
And dried the proximal blood stains.
The gentlemen and drunken louts,
Arrived with prose and angry shouts,
To find the mistress in repose,
Their preservation at dispose,
And adding to their own confusion,
The wretched hag cast the illusion,
Of comeliness with such profusion,
They stalked her with a rapt delusion.
Now of this warning I must stress,
And with immodesty confess,
So never mind the awful mess,
Of such details you need not worry,
It happened in a sudden flurry,
You see the murdering old Whore,
Took no time to keep the score,
For as she snuffed out every life,
And wiped her long stiletto knife,
There crept a specter to the floor.
She took no heed the ugly whore,
Not noticing the open door,
Or who crept so softly on her floor,
This thing in shadow to abhor,
For as she drained another fool,
The temperature began to cool,
She noticed not the stench of drool,
And rancid breath of undead Ghoul.
Her house was living not for those,
Who walked upright or on ten toes,
Or paid attention every night,
With baited breath and knuckles white,
This house had witnessed every crime,
Though all would meet their end in time,
The house with all its history,
And long string of calamity,
Had left a stench in every room,
Of young lives wasted in their bloom,
By this whore who practiced treachery,
And preyed on their infidelity.
The whore was prone and languid when,
The specter struck his fangs went in,
And drained her life and every word,
Her cries unheeded and unheard,
And so it was with no surprise,
With no sunset and no sunrise,
The murdering whore met her demise,
With final breath and cold dead eyes.
-bushman
06-13-2013
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, CA
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'The Monument'
I came home from work today,
A day like others I must say,
Where nothing functioned as it should,
No matter how I tried it would,
Not start or run or operate,
Or stay together in a state,
That served a purpose or a fate,
As everything left me irate,
I looked for comfort from my dogs,
But they just laid there like two logs,
Eyeing me with apathy,
And no apparent sympathy,
My work load it would not desist,
More duties waited like the law,
Both legally and morally,
All business as I set my jaw,
And clenched it most spasmodically,
And breathing periodically,
I set to work to right my mess,
With dreadful silence I confess,
And noticed then the monument,
Of all the hours I had spent,
Accumulating merchandise,
And gadgets of every devise,
Of furniture and habiliments,
And fixtures and impediments,
With cookware and in my defense,
Some hygienic accouterments,
Assorted native crockery,
Created with no mockery,
The clothing hanging here and there,
My hats were hanging on a chair,
The dingamabobs and doohickeys,
The watchamacallits and thingamajigs,
The rubber ball that's way too big,
To store someplace or give a fig,
All the doodads and the gizmos,
And 40 feet of firehose,
The contraptions and collections,
Of a lifetime of affections,
Left me feeling most fatigued,
Whereupon it was agreed,
That I had way too much crap,
Most of which I didn't need,
This monument to shopping,
And a proclivity to hoard,
Was a monument to detriment,
The best of which was most abhorred,
So if you care to visit me,
This warning you must heed,
Please bring with you nothing else,
More stuff to store we do not need,
What's edible is forfeit,
For of that you would surmise,
But adding clutter to my junk,
Might earn you a surprise,
And if one more dreaded salesman,
Sells me something I detest,
They'll leave implanted in their ass,
Perhaps my Christmas best.
-bushman
12/05/2013
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, CA
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'Self examination of a would be peasant revolutionary'
The Contract signed upon our birth,
The paper's price and all it's worth,
‘Twas wrote in blood from dying hand,
That drenched the beach and stained the sand,
On foreign shores across the sea,
So bound by ideology,
The soldier's hearts did skip a beat,
So sounding drums would spell defeat,
For despots that would subjugate,
The people's right to congregate,
And choose where they would come or go,
Or speak so freely what they know,
Rights we might think so little of,
Bequeathed through pain with mother's love,
Were balancing our liberty,
And flight from aristocracy,
Those boundaries that we tread upon,
As treacherous the Rubicon,
Our political affinities,
And worn out tired theologies,
Won't save us when the people rise,
When they all finally realize,
Disparity for rich and poor,
Was not what we were fighting for,
So hold your freedom close to heart,
And know that from us it should part,
If charity and clarity,
Too give with love and eyes to see,
Are blocked by those who'd obfuscate,
Who fear that we might integrate,
Casting off all humanity,
For profit and insanity,
The lawyers and the bookkeepers,
Have only numbers in their eyes,
For every buck earned someone dies,
It's time that we all understood,
Bricks or straw or made of wood,
And houses made of glass or stone,
Would render from us flesh and bone,
Should we forsake all that was earned,
In battlefield and those in-firmed,
With ears unturned towards their plight,
And swept under the rug at night,
The citizen and soldier both,
Have seen the statesmen break their oath,
Not caring for or unaware,
What troubled waters they tread there,
Where revolution rears its head,
Democracies ideas are dead,
Where chaos reigns over the land,
And burning crosses lead the band,
Of angry mobs so discontent,
Forgotten was their purpose sent,
For retribution and revenge,
Like drunken sailors on a binge,
So guard your freedom with respect,
For sacrifice and don't neglect,
That freedom's never truly free,
Unless for all there's liberty,
From 'cross the street to foreign lands,
Our freedom rides on joining hands,
And wiping out inequity,
In every place where it may be.
-bushman
02/10/2014
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, CA
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'A Climber's Heart'
I climbed a cliff all by myself,
And there I found upon a shelf,
The beating heart of someone dear,
I thought I knew it was not clear,
I placed it in my little pack,
And stopped to have a little snack,
I looked around and tried to find,
More pieces of the friend of mine,
I scrambled up and down the route,
I found his head it wore a pout,
I found more pieces there about,
His arms and legs and trunk no doubt,
And tied a bundle with a knot,
The jumble of the friend I got,
I climbed with him down from that spot,
And took him home to save from rot,
He fit the freezer in my shop,
Displacing food and other slop,
I told my wife about the friend,
Of how he lived and of his end,
She told me what I knew was true,
In any case what I must do,
I went into my little lab,
And laid my friend out on the slab,
I started with a simple plan,
To reassemble my good man,
To sew him up with every part,
And reattach his beating heart,
The final stitch was in his nose,
A painful murmur then arose,
A mournful cry and then a shout,
His body trembled all about,
And then he lurched and sat upright,
I shuddered with a dreadful fright,
He stared and looked me in the eye,
And slowly he let out a sigh,
"Why did you take me from that place?
From where I slipped and fell from grace,
Where I found peace and knew that I,
Would meet my fate and I would die,
"While doing what I loved the best,
Climbing was the purest test,
Of all I was and all I'll be,
From here until eternity,"
And then he stopped and said no more,
He crumpled up upon the floor,
I tried to wake him from his rest,
Then left him for I thought it best,
And went to sleep and dreamt of stones,
And whipper falls and broken bones,
Of those I've loved and those I've lost,
No matter how they paid the cost,
And woke at dawn all wet with sweat,
And knew my task with no regret,
I bundled up my broken friend,
And took off hiking 'round the bend,
I muscled him up to that spot,
To where his beating heart had got,
I laid him out upon that shelf,
And said a prayer not for myself,
"I don't believe in God and such,”
I spoke to him and said as much,
“Please take my friend here if you dare,
But of this caveat beware,
"A climber's heart could never be,
At rest or in captivity,
The heart and mind and all the hope,
Are something tested by the rope,
"To part with mediocrity,
A salient verticality,
The climber's heart will never rest,
Even when they're at their best,
"A climber's heart will always be,
On mountain top and apogee,
Or scrambling across the scree,
Bound to earth but always free,
"So take and keep him if you would,
You see I've done all that I could,
To honor him and wish him well,
I've said all that there is to tell,"
And in that place I climbed a bit,
And climbed some more in others yet,
But found myself returning to,
That place I saw the world undo,
My dearest friend and rend askew,
All he would be or ever do,
His beating heart a testament,
Of what the climbers heart had meant.
-bushman
06/07/2013
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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356. Auguries of Innocence
William Blake (1757–1827)
TO see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.
A robin redbreast in a cage 5
Puts all heaven in a rage.
A dove-house fill’d with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro’ all its regions.
A dog starv’d at his master’s gate
Predicts the ruin of the state. 10
A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.
A skylark wounded in the wing, 15
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm’d for fight
Does the rising sun affright.
Every wolf’s and lion’s howl
Raises from hell a human soul. 20
The wild deer, wand’ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus’d breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher’s knife.
The bat that flits at close of eve 25
Has left the brain that won’t believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever’s fright.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov’d by men. 30
He who the ox to wrath has mov’d
Shall never be by woman lov’d.
The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider’s enmity.
He who torments the chafer’s sprite 35
Weaves a bower in endless night.
The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother’s grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgment draweth nigh. 40
He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar’s dog and widow’s cat,
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.
The gnat that sings his summer’s song 45
Poison gets from slander’s tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy’s foot.
The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist’s jealousy. 50
The prince’s robes and beggar’s rags
Are toadstools on the miser’s bags.
A truth that’s told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so; 55
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro’ the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine. 60
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The babe is more than swaddling bands;
Throughout all these human lands
Tools were made, and born were hands, 65
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;
This is caught by females bright,
And return’d to its own delight. 70
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,
Are waves that beat on heaven’s shore.
The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes revenge in realms of death.
The beggar’s rags, fluttering in air, 75
Does to rags the heavens tear.
The soldier, arm’d with sword and gun,
Palsied strikes the summer’s sun.
The poor man’s farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric’s shore. 80
One mite wrung from the lab’rer’s hands
Shall buy and sell the miser’s lands;
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.
He who mocks the infant’s faith 85
Shall be mock’d in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne’er get out.
He who respects the infant’s faith
Triumphs over hell and death. 90
The child’s toys and the old man’s reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.
The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt 95
Doth put the light of knowledge out.
The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar’s laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour’s iron brace. 100
When gold and gems adorn the plow,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle, or the cricket’s cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.
The emmet’s inch and eagle’s mile 105
Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne’er believe, do what you please.
If the sun and moon should doubt,
They’d immediately go out. 110
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.
The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation’s fate.
The harlot’s cry from street to street 115
Shall weave old England’s winding-sheet.
The winner’s shout, the loser’s curse,
Dance before dead England’s hearse.
Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born, 120
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.
We are led to believe a lie 125
When we see not thro’ the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.
God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night; 130
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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TO MAKE THE PORTRAIT OF A BIRD
Jacques Prevert
First paint a cage
with an open door
paint then
something pretty
something simple
something beautiful
something useful...
for the bird
then place the canvas against a tree
in a garden
in a wood
or in a forest
hide yourself behind the tree
without saying anything
without moving...
Sometimes the bird comes quickly
but he can also just as well wait long years
before deciding
Don’t be discouraged
wait
wait if necessary years
The rapidity or slowness of the arrival
of the bird having nothing to do
with the success of the picture
When the bird arrives
if the bird arrives
observe a profound silence
wait till the bird enters the cage
and when he’s entered
close the door gently with the paintbrush
then
remove one by one all the bars
taking care not to touch a feather of the bird
Then do a portrait of a tree
choosing the most beautiful of its branches
for the bird
Paint also green foliage and the freshness of the breeze
the sun-dust
and the noises of the beasts of the field in the heat of summer
and then wait till the bird decides to sing
If the bird doesn’t sing
it’s a bad sign
a sign that the picture is bad
but if he sings it’s a good sign
a sign that you can sign
Then you pull out very gently
one of the bird’s feathers
and sign your name with it in the corner of the picture
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drljefe
climber
El Presidio San Augustin del Tucson
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Jul 13, 2014 - 09:47pm PT
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we straighten our bookshelves
organize drawers
we dust discard donate
a protocol of distraction
we walk miles alone
work the puzzle alone
not wanting to finish the puzzle
hoping it gets harder
that suddenly there are more books
more dust less holds
that nanometers get smaller
that our bended knees
our hands in prayer our songs
somehow work
that our tears were for nothing
but a salty kiss for Rose
7.13.14
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 13, 2014 - 10:31pm PT
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^^^^^^^
BOOKSHELF HOLDS
A look between my knees
Is pretty durn revealing
A book between my knees
Is looking more appealing
A quick look between my knees
I am fooking peeling!
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Leggs
Sport climber
Made in California
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Jul 14, 2014 - 07:34am PT
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drljefe... nice writing.
I wish so very much I could take away the worry from your heart and mind as you navigate this road of uncertainty and natural fear. Please know you’ve got an amazing support system, are well loved and that your heart is handled with the gentle and understanding care it needs and deserves.
"I have passed a mountain peak and my soul is soaring in the
Firmament of complete and unbound freedom;
I am far, far away, my companions, and the clouds are
Hiding the hills from my eyes.
The valleys are becoming flooded with an ocean of silence, and the
Hands of oblivion are engulfing the roads and the houses;
The prairies and fields are disappearing behind a white specter
That looks like the spring cloud, yellow as the candlelight
And red as the twilight.
The songs of the waves and the hymns of the streams
Are scattered, and the voices of the throngs reduced to silence;
And I can hear naught but the music of Eternity
In exact harmony with the spirit's desires.
I am cloaked in full whiteness;
I am in comfort; I am in peace."
~Kahil Gibran
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 15, 2014 - 07:37am PT
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EL VIAJE
Carlos Pellicer
Y moví mis enérgicas piernas de caminante
y al monte azul tendí.
Cargué la noche entera en mi dorso de Atlante.
Cantaron los luceros para mí.
Amaneció en el río y lo crucé desnudo
y chorreando la aurora en todo el monte hendí.
Y era el sabor sombrío que da el cacao crudo
cuando al mascar lo muelen los dientes del tapir.
Pidió la luz en hueco para saldar su cuenta
(yo llevaba un puñado de amanecer en mí).
Apretaron los cedros su distancia, y violenta
reunió la sombra el rayo de luz que yo partí.
Sobre las hojas muertas de cien siglos, acampo.
Vengo de la montaña y el azul retoñé.
Arqueo en claro círculo la horizontal del campo.
Sube, sobre mis piernas, todo el cuerpo que alcé.
Rodea el valle. Hablo,
y alrededor, la vida, sabe lo que yo sé.
I am not at all "fluent" in Espanol.
This poem is not translated. I could not find a translation. The images which come when using the Google Translator tool are strange and make me think more and guess more, which is entertaining, if you like that sort of thing...
Y era el sabor sombrío que da el cacao crudo
cuando al mascar lo muelen los dientes del tapir.
This comes out as
And it was dark flavor that gives raw cacao
as the chewing teeth grind tapir.
The average Mercedian (American) doesn't know a tapir from a taper and spells cacao wrong ninety percent of the time.
Nor does he read more than greeting card poetry.
Why do we even bother?
WHERE IN LEBANON?
Joe Philistine
Was feeling mean
Yes, he felt far from fine.
I asked him why
He gave a sigh,
"They say I'm a PhilisTYNE!"
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Jul 15, 2014 - 10:00am PT
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"He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth, Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it."
As an act of balance...
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 23, 2014 - 11:11am PT
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Thank you, Marlow.
I have one I wrote in response by an American genius (me) about felinity.
It's a world of predators out there.
Raining Cats & Frogs
The cat comes with little frog feet.
The more he has, the more he’ll eat,
With such big lunches
He sleeps bunches.
Mr. Sandbag LIKES!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 29, 2014 - 07:34am PT
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You like theatree?
You want to danes with me?
THE YOUNG DANCER
by Black Francis/Josh Frank
(a capella, but clap your hands and sing along)
She’s prepared now for the dancing
But he isn’t even glancing
She requests a little music
But he says, Please, no excuses
That’s how you get your chance, sonny
Working for Mr. Milk & Honey
So why do I go on?
A girl has got to eat.
Some folk have brains or brawn
I’ve got curves and feet
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 29, 2014 - 02:55pm PT
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pb
Sport climber
Sonora Ca
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Jul 29, 2014 - 04:35pm PT
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there once was a man from Ningbo
who longed for a summit or two
he intrigued ST readers
with his struggling meters
or he may have just played us for fools
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 31, 2014 - 11:43pm PT
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ON MONSIEUR'S DEPARTURE
by Queen Elizabeth I
I grieve and dare not show my discontent;
I love, and yet am forced to seem to hate;
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant;
I seem stark mute, but inwardly do prate.
I am, and not; I freeze and yet am burned,
Since from myself another self I turned.
My care is like my shadow in the sun --
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands, and lies by me, doth what I have done;
His too familiar care doth make me rue it.
No means I find to rid him from my breast,
Till by the end of things it be suppressed.
Some gentler passion slide into my mind,
For I am soft and made of melting snow;
Or be more cruel, Love, and so be kind.
Let me or float or sink, be high or low;
Or let me live with some more sweet content,
Or die, and so forget what love e’er meant.
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susu
Trad climber
East Bay, CA
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"First Song" by Galway Kinnell
Then it was dusk in Illinois, the small boy
After an afternoon of carting dung
Hung on the rail fence, a sapped thing
Weary to crying. Dark was growing tall
And he began to hear the pond frogs all
Calling on his ear with what seemed their joy.
Soon their sound was pleasant for a boy
Listening in the smoky dusk and the nightfall
Of Illinois, and from the fields two small
Boys came bearing cornstalk violins
And they rubbed the cornstalk bows with resins
And the three sat there scraping of their joy.
It was now fine music the frogs and the boys
Did in the towering Illinois twilight make
And into dark in spite of a shoulder's ache
A boy's hunched body loved out of a stalk
The first song of his happiness, and the song woke
His heart to the darkness and into the sadness of joy.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Two Songs from Nora, A Short Story by Ring Lardner
“Somewhere in the old world
You and I belong.
It will be a gold world,
Full of light and song.
Why not let’s divide our time
Between your native land and mine?
Move from Italy to Spain,
Then back to Italy again?
“In sunny Italy,
My Spanish queen,
You’ll fit so prettily
In that glorious scene.
You will sing me ‘La Paloma’;
I will sing you ‘Cara Roma’;
We will build a little home, a
Bungalow seren.
Then in the Pryenees,
Somewhere in Spain,
We’ll rest our weary knees
Down in Lovers’ Lane,
And when the breakers roll a-
Cross the azure sea,
Espanola, Gorgonzola;
Spain and Italy.”
….Morris played another introduction, strains that Hazlett was sure he had heard a hundred times before, and Moon was off again:
“I want to go to Alabam’.
That’s where my lovin’ sweetheart am,
And won’t she shout and dance for joy
To see once more her lovin’ boy!
I’ve got enough saved up, I guess,
To buy her shoes and a bran’-new dress.
She’s black as coal, and yet I think
When I walk in, she’ll be tickled pink.
“Take me to Montgomery
Where it’s always summery.
New York’s just a mummery.
Give me life that’s real.
New York fields are rotten fields;
I mean those there cotton fields,
Selma and Mobile.
I done been away so long;
Never thought I’d stay so long.
Train, you’d better race along
To my honey lamb.
Train, you make it snappy till
(‘Cause I won’t be happy till)
I am in the capital,
Montgomery, Alabam’.”
....'Harry,' he said, "what kind of whiskey have you got?"
"Well, Mr. Hazlett, I can sell you some good Scotch, but I ain't so sure of the rye. In fact, I'm kind of scared of it."
"How soon can you bring me a case?"
"Right off quick. It's the Scotch you want, ain't it?"
"No," said Hazlett. "I want the rye."
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susu
Trad climber
East Bay, CA
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"Three Moves"
By John Logan, 1923 - 1987
Three moves in sixth months and I remain
the same.
Two homes made two friends.
The third leaves me with myself again.
(We hardly speak.)
Here I am with tame ducks
and my neighbors’ boats,
only this electric heat
against the April damp.
I have a friend named Frank—
the only one who ever dares to call
and ask me, “How’s your soul?”
I hadn’t thought about it for a while,
and was ashamed to say I didn’t know.
I have no priest for now.
Who
will forgive me then. Will you
Tame birds and my neighbors’ boats.
The ducks honk about the floats . . .
They walk dead drunk onto the land and grounds,
iridescent blue and black and green and brown.
They live on swill
our aged houseboats spill.
But still they are beautiful.
Look! The duck with its unlikely beak
has stopped to pick
and pull
at the potted daffodil.
Then again they sway home
to dream
bright gardens of fish in the early night.
Oh these ducks are all right.
They will survive.
But I am sorry I do not often see them climb.
Poor sons-a-bitching ducks.
You’re all f*#ked up.
What do you do that for?
Why don’t you hover near the sun anymore?
Afraid you’ll melt?
These foolish ducks lack a sense of guilt,
and so all their multi-thousand-mile range
is too short for the hope of change.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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A GOOSE AND A DUCK
(DEDICATED to Papa Duck, Dated June 05)
Jade Elizabeth Trainor received a poetry.com award for this poem
A goose and a duck walked through a farm,
Holding each others wings like arms,
The farmer froze and watched them cross the yard,
His wife stock still and staring hard.
A dog started to bark loudly at the two,
It startled them so into the air they flew,
Past the farm and into the town,
It never occurred to them to look down.
Past the town and into the city,
The air smelled stale and slightly gritty,
They landed in a large flock of birds,
But neither could understand a single word.
Into the sunrise they set off the next day,
They didn’t have time for the slightest delay,
Side by side the flew through the air,
The city folk all stopped at once to stare.
Upon their return home to the farm,
The cold night air still and calm,
They flew into the barn to sleep,
Wings around each other not a peep.
© Jade Elizabeth Trainor
Visit Jade at her website: http://www.jades-world.com
After all, it's WERNER'S BIRD DAY...
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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REQUIEM
by Hope Meek (MHope)
Jim Baldwin from Washington Column 1964
Mating calls hung from frosted stars:
the Valley’s granite walls held them in tension.
Bucks in spring bugled renewal.
Unzipping our sleeping bag you left me
in a crackling blue midnight shivering.
You pissed your name in the snow
and then returning you warmed me
‘til, like the river, warmer than the air
we spread above us misted sweet breath.
Like angels going home we climbed Middle Cathedral that day.
Bridal Veil Falls put pearls in your beard.
You laughed as I licked them away.
I was gone from the valley the day you went wheeling,
caroming off granite falling,
raining beeners and pitons in your dead face.
RIP, Hope.
RIP, Jim.
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susu
Trad climber
East Bay, CA
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Wow that's exquisite. Tfpu Mouse.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Aug 13, 2014 - 03:43am PT
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For my/our "Busted Valentine."
A salacious smooch frozen in time.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Yep: Swing and a Miss.
RIP, Bacall.
See ya 'round, Ruby.
Marlow, that was lovely, but I'm still in a panic!
Am I really Gunnar Dye? so
[Click to View YouTube Video]If I gotta die from impact, I would like to be the one who initiates that "unique fall," rather than some other...
"kid."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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JUST DEAD NOT GONE
There’s no one who’d go visit my grave,
No reason then my corpse to save.
Please spread my cremains o’er Mt. Clark’s flanks.
For this I give undying thanks.
As it’s been in life, it’ll be in death:
One long fight to draw a breath.
In “the end” of course I’ll lose that fight
But glory in what’s in my sight.
There’s Half Dome there and Cloud’s rest, too.
O! What a place. O! What a view.
If visit you must then take a walk
Up on the flanks of old Mt. Clark.
I’ll still be there when once more
Glaciers claim the valley floor;
And move around that holy ground
Where Galen’s slept so very sound.
Parts of me may reach the sea;
It might could happen eventually.
Who’s to know or who’s to say?
I might could only reach the bay.
-MFM
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Leggs
Sport climber
Made in California
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Bare
In the breeze
Under muted moonlight...
Music
My constant companion
As mosquitos
Dance on my knee...
Wednesday.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Bare Leggs?
Boo Dawg?
ONCE I WAS MY BROTHER
Once I was “My Brother!”
Now I’m just your “Dawg!”
It confused my dear sweet mother
And she’s still all agog.
Language changes very fast;
It doesn’t take much time.
It often happened in the past
Through the medium of rhyme
Good old Geoffrey Chaucer,
Made much merry melody.
Though he had no bloody saucer
Nor had he ary tea.
He knew no “modern day”
Back in those days of yore.
Lingos change and seldom stay
The way they were before.
Speaking “cool” is not that hard,
Like falling off a log.
But be a friend, my dear Old Pard,
And please don’t call me “Dawg!”
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Sep 10, 2014 - 01:46pm PT
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^^^^Very nice, Sri Locker. Namaste today, ain't it?
[quote]http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Art-of-Blues/665837473465817[/quote]
[the original copy of this poem is herewith translated into norwegian]
blues and other colors
is this some of them blues?
is it what the bluest blue eyes can't see
because of the blue in them?
or is this some of them other colors?
is it what the reddest face can't admit
because of the shame of failure?
the greenest jealousy?
the purplest passion?
the yellowest cowardice?
the blackest hate?
or am i blind?
paint a picture of ur sour sorrow
emboss it with ur bitter tears
and caress it with ur soft fingers
and seal it with ur dry kisses
and just hang it on the wall of ur warped memory
i don't need ur reminding me of all that
u may be more fond of ur blues than anything, i'm thinking
--mfm
And
Red House Painters--Song for a Blue Guitar
When everything we felt failed
And some music soft in distant sails
But it don't sound like it did before
Then i know i'm left with nothing more
Than my own soul
When pretty pictues face back
But your coats aren't hanging on the rack
And blue water turns to
A place that i can't get to
A place that i can't
In a room all i feel
Is the cold that you left
Through the air all i see
Is your face full of blame
What's left to see
What's there to see
In the room all i feel
Is the cold that you left
Through the air all i see
Is your face full of blame
What's left to see
What's there to see
What's left to see
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Sep 11, 2014 - 12:02pm PT
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Morning Edition host Renee Montagne wonders how Keith Richards came up with these lines from "Happy":
//Well, I never kept a dollar past sunset / It always burned a hole in my pants / Never made a school mama happy / Never blew a second chance.//
"You can start off with one line, and you've got maybe two seconds to come up with another one. You're bypassing the thought process and you're just seeing what comes out," Richards says. "If it doesn't work, then you just rewrite. Other times, you wanna do these things on the knife edge — you really don't know what you're going to say next. It saves a lot of paper."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Sep 14, 2014 - 12:15am PT
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"You can start off with one line, and you've got maybe two seconds to come up with another one. You're bypassing the thought process and you're just seeing what comes out," Richards says. "If it doesn't work, then you just rewrite. Other times, you wanna do these things on the knife edge — you really don't know what you're going to say next. It saves a lot of paper."
what the wee dwarf miner said about his profession is very similar to what young master richards describes:
"you can start off in one vein and it takes forever to find a good one.
you're bypassing all the choss and you're looking for paydirt.
if yer engineering doesn't work, the crew don't eat.
then i'm not Happy anymore.
i turn into Grouchy.
other times, you want to let Dopey do the digging.
you don't know what's gonna happen when you open a vein.
then it's a good thing i'm a Doc, a lot of times.
it saves a lot of time and kleenexes in a cave-in, when you are breathing all that dust.
it always makes me Sneezy."
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Translation:
Someday my prince will come
Someday I'll find my love
And how thrilling that moment will be
When the prince of my dreams comes to me
He'll whisper I love you
And steal a kiss or two
Though he's far away I'll find my love someday
Someday when my dreams come true
Someday I'll find my love
Someone to call my own
And I know at the moment we meet
My heart will start skipping the beats
Someday we'll say and do
Things we've been longing to
Though he's far away I'll find my love someday
Someday when my dreams come true
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perswig
climber
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Sep 25, 2014 - 05:09pm PT
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low tide and fog
In two steps we are surrounded by silence,
sound tamped and skin dampened in an instant,
akin to a snowstorm smoothing light and sight but
warm and smelling strongly of salt,
of soul, of sex, of the sea.
We are embraced by a storm intimated only
and mixing with the ocean
unseen and unheard but near enough to spit,
returning saliva and salt back from whence it came,
from whence WE came and to which we’ll go.
But not tonight; tonight we sleep and wait to see
what tomorrow brings.
Dale
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Super Topo
Filling station for the imagination
Waste not your youth
For surely it, youth, was wasted on me,
That I regret not shuffling farther than I did
Seeing at least twice as much would still not be enough
Said to have only an hour to see Yosemite,
The rangers tell it over and over
Just sit down right here, and cry.
--Gnome Ofthe Diabase
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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So you're saying in your way that Siciliano from Flute Sonata No 2 in E flat major, BWV1031, has poetry.
It has that vibe, certainly.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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This poem is too good not to be saved here!
10-09-14, following Coz' rigging accident.
"for YOU scott"
by neebeeshaabookway
some days may seem, they never end...
they drag on, just a tedious blend...
perhaps a blend of discomfort-and-pain...
BUT--cherish this thought, it all LEADS to a gain...
you are the captain--no matter, if hospital-staff, be the crew...
you can TAKE charge of your 'innerman', in your tasks, that you do...
sail your self, as if a ship...
ride-out every: lift, roll, or dip...
as the storm subsides...
you will catch glimpses of warm, gentle tides...
bask in those, and catch more wind, to mend...
and hold tight, to each hope and hand, from each friend...
and know that the north star, never falters to 'lead'...
an example of god above, to use, as we need...
sail and master the troubled-waters, charted, that you face...
and later, no matter how later, smile, and thank god, for such grace...
you can't keep supertopo-climbers at bay...
they are sailing, 'round about' FOR YOU, even if/or at play...
you are in our thoughts and hearts, you see...
and if you need anything, well--here they all be!...
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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nICE THOUGHt
take a bearing on the Barents Sea straight from the Bering Strait
straightaway from there to your household,
for the bare, warm breast that I there see
calls stronger than any sea I've seen.
--thebravecowboy
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 10, 2014 - 04:29pm PT
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A Waltz with Walk Whitman
I used to go to Pfaff’s nearly every night. . . after taking a bath and finishing the work of the day. When it began to grow dark, Pfaff would politely invite everybody who happened to be sitting in the cave he had under the sidewalk to some other part of the restaurant. There was a long table extending the length of this cave; and as soon as the Bohemians put in an appearance, Henry Clapp would take a seat at the head of the table. I think there was as good talk around that table as took place anywhere in the world. Clapp was a very witty man.
—from an interview with Walt Whitman, July II, 1866, The Brooklyn Eagle.
The butcher-boy puts off his killing clothes, or
sharpens his knife at the stall in the market,
I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and
his breakdown.
Walter crosses the Fulton Ferry as usual, views the waves and the sky as placidly, contemplates the forests of tall masts, the laboring tug-boats, the big ships bound in or out, and the details of that great picture, our busy bay, with the same studious and undazzled vision. Walter exchanges his accustomed joke with the deck hands, and winks to the pilot just the same as ever, and over at Pfaff’s, where the convivial coteries of Bohemia are wont to congregate, no happier soul shines forth its radiance o’er the festive scene than Walter’s.
And speaking of books, here comes Walt Whitman, author of ‘Leaves of Grass,' . . . His shirt collar is turned off from his muscular throat, and his shoulders are thrown back as if even in that fine, ample chest of his, his lungs had not sufficient play-room.
Tall, large, rough-looking man, in a journeyman carpenter’s uniform. Coarse, sanguine, complexion; strong, bristly, grizzled beard; singular eyes, of a semi-transparent, indistinct light blue, and with that sleepy look that comes when the lid rests half way down over the pupil; careless, lounging gait. Walt Whitman, the sturdy, self-conscious microcosm, prose-poetical author of that incongruous hash of mud and gold, ‘Leaves of Grass.'
Washes and razors for foofoos. . . . for me freckles
and a bristling beard.
They who piddle and patter here in collars and
tailed coats. . . .
I am aware who they are. . . and that they are
not worms or fleas,
I acknowledge the duplicates of myself under all
the scrape-lipped and pipe-legged concealments.
For none other than Walt is it who, in response, turns up with springing and elastic motion, and lights on the off side top of the stage with his hips held against the rod as quietly as a hawk swoops to its nest. . . As onward speeds the stage, mark his nonchalant air, seated aslant, and quite at home. —Our million-hued and ever changing panorama of Broadway moves steadily down; he, going up sees it all, as a kind of half dream. —Mark the salute of four out of five of the drivers, downward salutes which he silently returns in the same manner—the raised arm, and the upright hand.—
The old Whitman said: “I suppose the critics will laugh heartily, but the influence of those Broadway omnibus jaunts and drivers and declamations and escapades undoubtedly entered into the gestation of ‘Leaves of Grass.'"
Whitman would have dropped off the Fifth Avenue near Bond Street and then strolled over to Broadway, heading for Pfaff’s. Past Bond Street on Broadway he would go by a line of newly-built hotels, theaters, and institutions as the new entertainment district had moved to “upper Broadway," going up as far as Fourteenth Street. At No. 677 Broadway on the west side stood the Metropolitan Hall, rebuilt and renamed after fire had destroyed it along with a companion building in 1854. (The companion building was renamed the New York Theater and Metropolitan Opera House.) At No. 659 was the Egyptian Museum, housing a private collection owned by a scholarly Englishman, Dr. Abbott, with whom Whitman spent many hours and who inspired the poet to read books on Egyptology and other ancient civilizations and religions.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 19, 2014 - 11:37am PT
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I deleted a thread to place what was (apparently) unread
In this graveyard of thoughts that came here to die.
dude
u no who
i will say no more say no more
like monty python crawlin' under ur door
if u will just listen to my story 'bout a man named u
i am flexible about ur choice of pronouns
but what's this reality gig?
are u not secure in ur fantasy?
are life's persistent questions beginning to need answers?
this is not an intervention, by the way
it is an invention
it has a real title and everything
Das Kapital of Misery
Hey there, say, masochist for the ages
I'm talking to your ass
So turn around and grab your ankles
You've been naughty
A neo-khan came to ride horde on the Walking Taco today.
He never said his name. Nor do I remember it.
We’ll call him Jingus Con.
He was dressed up in some weird orange Mexican jumping suit
Said he’d been to Bumfuk
Wanted to die there but they kicked his ass out
disregard those civil moments.
the ones that are assigned hyper-meaning;
the ones shoved into my mind by
the bored universe.
He needed a break
So I cut him some slack
I gave him some bark tea
I made him promise to grow into a bright young man
With more promise in him than the arch-fiend liar
Who got to him in the first place
A paradise of words with no worn-out phrases
And lots of silent listeners
To his troubles in El Foresta del Paradiso
Which is just a jumping-off place for the big-tme
At the end of the line
Exclamation Point Beyond
And what do you think he did
he snubbed the protection
and entered the bath naked....
Use your imagination on this one
It’s really not hard to do
Just lay down your guitar and pick up that double-bit ax
And start chopping
Don’t worry where the chopped bits land
We are all just sawdust on the floor of the wood-shop
Cow turds in the mountain of manure at the dairy
Tat on the anchors of our routes through the Province of Real
Soiled pillow cases in the laundry hamper of this smelly old world
Less than perfect but with more potential than Tesla ever had
More than Edison ever dreamed of
We are incandescent bulbs of beautiful flowers
It’s just some are dimmer than others
It’s not time to turn out the lights
This party is far from over, neithernorwegian
There are many more logs floating down into your pond
Don’t let them roll over on you
The tide will come in on little mouse feet
And drown you in front of your brothers
And you will be forced to become a new man
Don’t forget to turn over in your grave
And I won’t forget to put flowers at your door
And try to keep the tip of your tool out of the mud
Nawmean?
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Oct 19, 2014 - 12:00pm PT
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And when it's time to rest...
Elisabeth Schwarzkopf: Vier Letzte Lieder- Beim Schalfengehen (Strauss) - "Going to Sleep"
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 19, 2014 - 04:23pm PT
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A friend, having delved into the Oxford English Dictionary web site, challenged me to create some doggerel using the only five words in the English language ending in uum.
Well, I failed. The first result was not in good taste. If she will accept 4 out of 5, padded with a couple of Latin words and a few which end in ium, here’s a shot at it, which almost strangled my spell-checker.
Opprobrium
or
The Deluge)
Earth once was an Elysium
Within the space continuum
Which stretches in perpetuum.
It’s now a fouled residuum
Which orbits in the vacuum.
Said Yahweh, during triduum,
“That place is Pandemonium,
I’ll cure that rank contagium!
I’ll quench that foul effluvium -
I’ll send down a diluvium!
“An inundating menstruum
Dissolves that human odium
And brings back equilibrium -
And for the next millennium
I’ll have an oceanarium!”
(And sea level is rising. Hmmmm.)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 19, 2014 - 04:33pm PT
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Encomium
Cutting edge
Avant garde
On the ledge
Wasn't hard
Wayne Merry
Sees you through
If it's hairy
Or five-two
Fossil owns
The big prize
His big stones
Are giant-size
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 19, 2014 - 08:32pm PT
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I remember with moans
That I once had great stones -
Those huge painful lumps
Were a symptom of mumps.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 20, 2014 - 01:42pm PT
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Is Gnome “Staring Into the Abyss?”
So quietly he squats, kneels, assumes the pose.
The lemon tree, kumquats, grapes, surround his soul.
Then he suddenly smiles, sniffs, this is no rose.
He comes to see, neath the lemon tree, the mole.
Holy Moley, pastor of the garden of fun on the Isle of Repose
"This sure beats thinking of bird-eating spiders," he muses.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 21, 2014 - 09:35am PT
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I have heard BooDawg's sung tale twice now, a capella around a fire.
Nancy McQuacken, hand upon the wheel.
DR. MCQUACKEN
Dr. McQuacken (To the tune of “Casey Jones”)
Come all you dieters we have right now
A program to help you lose some weight, and how!
If you have excess baggage that you’d like to lose,
Sign up with us for the Doctor’s cruise.
Chorus:
Dr. McQuacken, hand upon the wheel;
Dr. McQuacken with the jib-sheet in his hand;
Dr. McQuacken has the weight-loss program for you,
And you can’t get off it ’til you reach dry land.
Oh, the doctor’s wife, Nancy, she’s a mighty fine cook.
She’ll whip up any meal from the old cook book.
She’ll make up any meal that your heart could wish,
But you still lose weight because you feed the fish.
The exercise program is a mighty fine treat.
You dance rock & roll to a windward beat.
You do isometrics with each move you make.
And to lose your cookies is a piece of cake.
You’re up after midnight in the pouring rain.
The doctor’s orders are to reef the main.
You pull in sail ’til you’re soaking wet.
And there goes another seven pounds in sweat.
And when you’ve arrived at your port of call,
Your excess baggage, you’ll have lost it all.
At the celebration party, there will be no lack,
And in one night of feasting, you will gain it back!
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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The first time I stayed trough the end of the season in the valley.
While I had seen photos of early snow, that caught me intrigue, the hush of the place compared to the noise pollution of only weeks before, had never been described.
Some where someone had turned off the flow switch.
At the time it even seemed like the world spun one way for all most everyone else.
and spun the other way for me.
November fourth, then the sixteenth, then in the mornings
the snowmelt would re freeze, the glaze with a dark wet streak
shines and glistens as sunlight plays with growing shade.
Car doors closing and alarm chirps
The background cacophony that droned in alert ears
Just a month ago are replaced with a skeet shooting like game
DID YOU SEE THAT- Turn your head and stare as the ice,
sheets of verglas
come crashing down. That is cool, a must see show.
The first time that I was smart enough to listen to my hart,
and stayed in the valley till only the few and that last November light
I wish I had seen a New Years sunrise from a wall
what was the question ? When I realized that I Should Never leave
YOSEMITE winter, spring summer, or fall. In so many ways I stayed. I took some of the valley with me where ever I roamed.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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PASS
its been nearly 20 years since i drove it
living out there is like dreaming
the highway takes off west of town
rising over the pass
in the shadow of pikes peak
thinking about travelers of the past
this highway
my truck flying up it
magic carpets
over millions of years
looking at those mountains
the walls and the shadows
beneath me
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Four nine nine is a tough number
Almost 500 it is one away from that a biblical age
Who was that old?
(I tell anyone that dares to ask that I am forty nine and a half at seventy it will a good joke be)
My Old Testament is to rusty to open
Noah ? No ahh it was Abraham 1st last most ghost
frigg that marble rye won't toast and seeds lead to a dental emergency
that dawg don't call or hunt if called a runny count so let's not call a cat a dog
or a dawg a cool kat. (not callin boodawg any thing )not speaking is choice as well
? a bartered peace if the duplicitous cod piece you will wear
who would know and why do any care?
if it is for protection then I will wear it
but to HAVE to
oto , is to not be free
a cup will not stop a blow to the taint which is to say unt
running has been no thing
for me
for thirty years I stand
Stand and if not love
then fight
to take one in and savour the spice and roll another then hit it twice is freedom
that it is all that
is enough but add scoffing at the powers
while harnessing the lion of Selasie
makes the puff puff that floats on the breeze
attracts Richards the great but also big dicks
(but you dare not say slurs that's right ihkuonts a female more than once
put that where it should be)
Not in the thrown pipe that I also left out of the better memory early yesterday
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Bushman
Social climber
The island of Tristan da Cunha
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'Empty Spaces'
To prove that I am nothing,
What have I to lose,
So let me take my leave,
If it would so amuse,
To chum the ocean full and rife,
The proposition that I go,
Would leave no empty space,
Void to fill the void,
How then the disgrace,
And what then of my family life,
Where trinkets and spare change,
With pet hair, lint, and green,
The yellowed photographs,
Aging brittle and unseen,
Are hiding out with my old knife,
The leaves that crunch and rustle,
As the autumn winds do blow,
Empty stepping spaces are what's left,
Where memories once did go,
And failing this my only strife,
Now all is stripped away,
There's nothing left to hide,
What dignity I'd hoped for,
In this short and frail reside,
Has been imparted to my wife.
-bushman
11/07/2014
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Largo
Sport climber
The Big Wide Open Face
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LUSH LIFE (Billy Strayhorn)
I used to visit all the very gay places
Those come what may places
Where one relaxes on the axis of the wheel of life
To get the feel of life from jazz and cocktails
The girls I knew had sad and sullen gray faces
With distant gay traces
That used to be there you could see
Where they'd been washed away
By too many through the day, twelve o'clock tales
Then you came along with your siren song
To tempt me to madness
I thought for a while that your poignant smile
Was tinged with the sadness of a great love for me
Ah yes, I was wrong
Again, I was wrong
Life is lonely again
And only last year everything seemed so sure
Now life is awful again
A troughful of hearts could only be a bore
A week in Paris will ease the bite of it
All I care is to smile in spite of it
Ill forget you, I will
While yet you are still burning inside my brain
Romance is mush, stifling those who strive
Ill live a lush life in some small dive
And there Ill be, while I rot
With the rest of those whose lives are lonely, too
Third quatrain swaps out the magic for terms and catch phrases, but the overall vibe is lonely and distant, like cool jazz.
A stark version of the same adventure was trotted out few years ago by ZZ Tops (Mescalero). Thar she blows:
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"Goin So Good"
Just when I had the money to spend
And I was always thinkin' it would never end
Then the time came, to the end of the game
Don't you know?
And just when the sky got shiny and bright
There never seemed to be an end of the light
But then the clouds came, it started to rain
Don't you know?
Just when it was goin'
Just when it was goin' so good
Just when it...
Just when it was goin' so good
Just when the highway straightend out for a mile
An' I was thinkin' I just cruise for a while
A fork in the road brought a new episode
Don't you know?
Just when it,
Just when it was goin' so good
Just when it was goin'
Just when it was goin' so good
But baby don't you worry
I said baby don't you cry
We're gonna get it together
And I know you're askin' why
Just when it,
Just when it was goin' so good
Just when it was goin'
Just when it was goin' so good
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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DAM THE ZIGGURATS! FULL SPEED AHEAD!
Spill.
Dish it.
Open says me.
I hope everything Otay today.
One day at a time, one twinge at a time.
Dying is easy. Comedy is hard. Life's funny that way.
This is an easy leftward traverse leading up to the top of the spillway.
You can do it you can do it you can do it you can do it you can do it, you can.
They just pulled the plug on our elevator here in Middle Earth.
We now need to climb the stairs for what it's worth.
The easy path is not for such as us.
We just fuss & fuss & fuss.
But we get the job done.
Rule number one.
Gotta be fun.
I'm done.
MFM
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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MFM
I’m done
Gotta be fun
Rule number one
But we get the job done
We just fuss & fuss & fuss
The easy path is not for such as us
We now need to climb the stairs for what it’s worth
They just pulled the plug on our elevator here in middle earth
You can do it you can do it you can do it you can do it you can do it,you
Can.
This is an easy leftward traverse leading up to the top of the spillway.
Dying is easy. Comedy is hard. Life's funny that way.
One day at a time, one twinge at a time.
I hope everything Otay today.
Open says me.
Dish it.
Spill.
DAM THE ZIGGURATS! FULL SPEED AHEAD!
full credit is due to the fine poet
who's verse I just reversed
The master
The Mouse From Merced
Don"t Burn Me down
with this electric hook up
It should happen by itself
I have some thing more to add
That it is cheeky
It might be "bad" bait
So I will think and wait
The flames might be
A better fate
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Bushman
Social climber
The island of Tristan da Cunha
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'There's no time like yesterday'
These are the difficult years,
When I was young and unaware that time was exponentially advancing,
I wasted time on every foolish whimsey,
Feeling bored most of the time,
I was lucky all the time and was so oblivious to my state of decline,
Everything was fine,
I never knew I walked the line,
Advancing was time's arrow but for me there was no straight and narrow,
"Look at all those squares," I said
"Why worry about tomorrow,"
I thought I had an unlimited supply of irreverence,
Little did I know that it would manifest itself through pain,
This is the dark depressing side of my psyche,
That I would harbor such regret and self loathing for all the wasted moments,
All the idle hours of self indulgence and self pity,
Falling so short in bitter disappointment,
What was yesterday will not be redeemed,
So even in this hour of moody reflection,
I waste away my time,
As if I had all the time in the world to care.
-Bushman
11/07/2014
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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ODE: THEM GOLDEN MISSES
Grave Alice and golden-haired Edith
Lay in wait for me under the stairs;
Laughing Allegra, too, underneath,
Hoping to catch me all unawares.
They are planning to smother my face
With lovingly placed little kisses
Just now I dare not slacken my pace
For I love my three little misses.
Thx, RLS/The Childrens' Hr.
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Bushman
Social climber
The island of Tristan da Cunha
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'Walking With Her on Sunday'
"Lets walk down to the gravelly brick yard
to watch the crows fly,"
Their eyes are on the scraps of carrion left over from the
turkey shoot yesterday,
"Rotting turkey flesh is so tasty!"
says the crow with the short left wing,
He always flies counterclockwise
that way,
There in the morning paper
we saw the earthquake warnings,
"I love that freight train rumbly grinding feeling,"
she would say,
"What feeling?" I reply
and try to think of a way to change the subject,
"Turkey jerking, I mean, turkey jerky's pretty good,"
I stumble away,
She gives me that
"why do men always think of sex" look again,
I plot the various possibilities of that
particular Sunday,
She's still giving me the look
and I still haven't changed the subject,
I want to get back early but of course
she wants to stay,
I'm walking along balancing on the old railroad track
in the cool morning air,
"Yeah," she says, "I like turkey jerky,
it tastes okay."
-bushman
11/09/2014
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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JOHN HOOKER BLUES
I want to know, yes, I want to know:
Who put the poo in the spring, my friends?
Was it one of you? Cuz it wasn't me.
Was it some john?
Some dude hangin' out
Lookin for some toosh?
Ch.
My baby climbin Half Dome
He not be climbin me
And now he don't feel so proud
About eating just Clif Bars
And nothing else.
But he's not selling any alibis:
He's switched to bacon bars, that's no lie.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Nov 11, 2014 - 06:53pm PT
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11/11/14 Veterans Remembrance Day
And the stars blew through the sky.
they were never told 'A reason why'.
just ...do and do and do
And if you die we will
remember that it was not fair
So many, all heros, had to die
so that we can have
someone's name to
Put on walls and
Honor in the parades
to sell...IT... war
To the Next ones
to do and do and
die
Peace and condolences to all
Who have served and given
And for the loss of so much
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 11, 2014 - 07:19pm PT
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TWO TIMBUKTU POETRY CONTEST
by Sam Peeps
Ivy Leaguer's version:
"Slowly across the desert sand
Trekked the dusty caravan.
Men on camels, two by two
Destination -- Timbuktu."
Redneck version, SE Alabama A&M:
"Tim and me, a-huntin' went.
Met three whores in a pop-up tent.
They was three, we was two,
So I bucked one and Timbuktu."
And so to bed.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 16, 2014 - 09:55pm PT
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CALAVERASS?
Starring Em and Brutus
Sweat trickles down arms shaking from fear as I climb the
serrated dikes and free-crimp-lakeyshegged past the A2 grungy
placements, pawing the edge of the crack, point-toeing up the
serrations in a teetering, balancy gibbet- dance until I pull
into a belay slab with flared grungy placements and set up an
elaborate redundant, equalized, and backed-up anchor system
utilizing three cordelettes and 8 pieces of protection.
--Brutus of Wyde
Thank you, man.
Thank you, too, ma'am. :0)
PLANE OF HEAVEN (or Tea of Heaven is timely, too.)
It's autumn. Trees of Heaven are turning red all over.
The tree of heaven has a distinct odor, an unpleasant one, but a natural one.
The tea from heaven had a distinct odor, but a pleasant one, a natural one, too.
But it was, some, tainted by av-gas, and would not burn too readily. Many men wasted their selves, then forgot the joint, which had gone out. It is the price you pay for free weed.
But the parties it engendered, some of them...were not up to Flames standards.
Here is a tribute to the ingenuity of the Yosemite Climber of the seventies.
Choose yer own tune, then
Break out the uke
Drink until you puke
The ditties are all dirty
The women are all purty
And we have a ton of weed
The Teton Tea's a-brewin'
I don't know what yer a-doin'
But the harsh-mellows are a-toastin'
We're all here a-boastin'
That we've got a ton of weed
It came out of the lake
T'was there for us to take
And take it all we did
Oh, WAY more than a lid
Yeah, man...we found a ton of weed
The coals are dark and red
It must be time for bed
But before we all are done
Let's roll another one
Cuz we have a ton of weed (It's really top drawer)
Yeah, we got a ton of weed (And it's all home-grown)
Oh yeah, we've smoked a ton of weed (Are we done yet?)
Baked on a ton of weed (We're really toasted)
Love smokin' weed every day (It's good for you-ou-ou)
God bless Ireland! God bless Poland! God bless Finland. God bless Iceland. God bless the Himalaya...wait...huh?
"Are you still smoking that stuff, Brian? What about the promises you made? The hearts you hurt? I'm talking to you..."
One that Nita sent that week, early November. Thanks, chica.
http://www.supertopo.com/climbing/thread.php?topic_id=1973718&tn=0
Where Have YOU Gone?
To where the streets are nameless
And the residents are blameless
It's always been famous
For the sweet sweet afterlife
Remember
OREGON STREET
LIBERTY STREET
MARYAL DRIVE
FITCH WAY
OLIVE AVENUE
Cradle to the grave
I was never so brave
As my dad
My dad
So sad
He never got too mad
He drank
I have proof
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 28, 2014 - 09:34pm PT
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Ultra-thanks to jimthomsen for supplying us with a Dolt poetry fix.
Something for THE Muppet to memorize.
There is a land I dearly know
Of rock and ice and snow
Where the wind, the clouds, the sky,
Oh, how they make me feel so high.
My hands, my feet,
My eyes, my ears,
I feel, I tread,
I see, I hear,
Mountains!
There is a land of rock and ice and snow
To which I always long to go
Where storms’ thunder and lightning
A silent fear kindled and frightening
My pulse, my breath,
My thought, my all,
I’m in tune
With Earth’s
Mountains!
This is a
Desert
Wetted by rain
Clothed in soft light
Brushed in
Pastel
Awake and
You’ll see
A misty
Rainbow
Born of the
Sun and
Seeded by drops
Of sparkling
Rain
Look to the
Heavens
Raise up your
Brow
Full of thanks
Feel as you wish
This is your
Earth and mine
For it
I am Grateful
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tom Carter
Social climber
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Anybody remember a poem Chinese? About hanging the moon in every branch of a tree?
I have tried to track it down but have failed. Wondering....?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nope. All I know is "Turtle on Fencepost." A raga.
A cherry tree branch in full bloom
is hiding the brightly shining moon-
I want to cut the moon-hiding branch,
but at the same time I hate to do so,
because the branch with its blossoms is so beautiful.
An example of maekuzuke poetry, haiku with 31 syllables in Japanese, as I understand it.
But it's Japanese, not Chinese.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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The rain has come overnight.
With the dark pre-dawn comes sound to match the light.
Dark sounds they are compared
To rain.
But warm sounds all the same.
The heating unit mounted in my wall
And the generator at City Hall
Compete.
One is in my face the other across the street
Civil servants fire it up each week
In an emergency they'll at least have light
And heat.
I am toasty warm and my room is lit
But I hear the rain say neither pitter-pit
Nor pitter-pat as it hits the ground, it seems, with
No sound.
So as the silent night has grown
Loudly I lament the way we no longer hear
Aboriginally but by aural
Subterfuge.
If it's not for the car's tires
Kicking up rooster-tails behind
I swear that I'd go out of
My mind.
I could not tell if it were raining
If not for this distinct song,
One I've come to recognize all my life long
And love.
Motors and engines surround'
Unnatural sounds abound
And will be worse after I'm not around
Anymore.
Don't forget the street sweepers' broom
Its day is lost way in the gloom
I can hear its replacement from my room.
You're doomed...
To be warm and clean and dry and safe and well-lit and contented behind your ear-pods next to your India Pale Ale, you SNAG.
And you won't hear the leaf blowers cranking up, either.
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Just discovered a Japanese poetry form called tanka. Had to try it.
==
WINTER COMING
hard frost furs the roof
north breeze hurries mist southward
I blink sleep away
savoring rich coffee scent
planning now for coming snow
***
berries turn dark now
loosen and drop from the canes
the freezer is full
there are too many berries
it’s so hard to let them fall
***
garden is brown now
frost crisp on mulch and dry weeds
hang up rake and hoe
rub linseed oil on maple shafts
keep a shovel out for snow
***
aspen’s gold has flown
greyness owns the earth and sky
colors have gone south
snow can not come soon enough
white will light our world again
***
dark limbs wave helpless
naked against a grey sky
arguing with wind
winter flows cold from the north
dry limbs crackle in the stove
***
the first flakes drift in
perch on the deck and cling there
I search the closet
wool and fleece and warm gloves yes -
the down can wait another month
***
all is white at dawn
new snow muffles earth and sound
turn from the window
sense the skis in the rafters
waiting for that first long glide
***
put back the new skis
lacking soul of living wood
pull down the wood skis
torch in the bubbling pine tar
inhale taste of winters past
***
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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lush images abound
making Merry make no sound
writing letters down
our tankas abound
terse folliliferous verse
followed by no sound
one hand claps only
in time to the ancient one
it's all haiku fun
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Fooling around on a rainy afternoon,
I came across this.
I don't know how old the photo is, nor have I met this "the Larry" fellow.
My first reaction was, like,
"The driven snow could not be this white."
{Photo supplied by the Larry}
A License to Limerick
I blame it on the smut in the air.
Token men, mostly women, blonde hair.
FOXES NEWS, it’s more like.
I’ll just go for a hike,
Till it becomes much less biased, more fair.
It’s very distracting,
It’s very bad acting,
They all have a cloned sense of style;
And they all wear the same frozen smile.
They are told this from birth,
None will surpass their self-worth,
And they will pass from this earth
Hearing the sounds of our mirth,
As they finish the race in life’s mile.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 13, 2015 - 09:41pm PT
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Say what there?
[Nothin'.]
Say, what the hey?
[Nothin'.]
Hey there, say?
Now we're talikin'.
About what?
How 'bout y'all?
YOU
Jorge Luis Borges
(trans. From the Spanish by Norman Thomas di Giovanni)
Throughout time, a single man has been born, a single man has died.
To think otherwise is to be led into statistics, is to attempt the impossible.
Something no less impossible than trying to add the smell of rain to the dream you dreamed the night before last.
That man is Ulysses, Abel, Cain, the first man to make the stars into constellations, the builder of the first pyramid, the man who set down the hexagrams of the Book of Changes, the smith who carved runes on Hengest’s sword, the bowman Einar Tamberskelver, Luis de Leon, the bookseller who fathered Samuel Johnson, Voltaire’s gardener, Darwin on the deck of the Beagle, a Jew in the death chamber--with time, you and I.
A single man has died at Troy, at Metaurus, at Hastings, at Austerlitz, at Trafalgar, at Gettysburg.
A single man has died in a hospital ward, on shipboard, in bitter loneliness, in love’s and habit’s bedroom.
A single man has seen the spreading dawn.
A single man has felt on his tongue the coolness of water, the taste of fruits and flesh.
I speak of the one man, of the individual, of the man who is always alone.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Einar_Thambarskelfir
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luis_de_Le%C3%B3n
(samples of Fray Luis' poetry herein)
Where have all the ST poets gone?
Gone to climb and ski and hike and jive and most of all to dance, I hope:
with more phrases singing praises,
with more words honoring turds,
with more jingles about Kraft singles,
with more tongue-twisting turning twirling tankas
with partners who cannot remain silent much longer.
Winter is long, boredom heavy, but your poems may last forever.
And the dance will never stop if that's the case.
Thank YOU all, ST, for helping this thread along and all.
MFM
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 13, 2015 - 11:11pm PT
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From out there on the prairies of Cornwall.
Cowboy Song
by Charles Causley
I come from Salem County
Where the silver melons grow,
Where the wheat is sweet as an angel's feet
And the zithering zephyrs blow.
I walk the blue bone-orchard
In the apple-blossom snow,
Where the teasy bees take their honeyed ease
And the marmalade moon hangs low.
My maw sleeps prone on the prairie
In a boulder eiderdown,
Where the pickled stars in their little jam-jars
Hang in a hoop to town.
I haven't seen paw since a Sunday
In eighteen seventy-three
When he packed his snap in a bitty mess-trap
And said he'd be home by tea.
Fled is my fancy sister
All weeping like the willow,
And dead is the brother I loved like no other
Who once did share my pillow.
I fly the florid water
Where run the seven geese round,
O the townsfolk talk to see me walk
Six inches off the ground.
Across the map of midnight
I trawl the turning sky,
In my green glass the salt fleets pass
The moon her fire-float by.
The girls go gay in the valley
When the boys come down from the farm,
Don't run, my joy, from a poor cowboy,
I won't do you no harm.
The bread of my twentieth birthday
I buttered with the sun,
Though I sharpen my eyes with lovers' lies
I'll never see twenty-one.
Light is my shirt with lilies,
And lined with lead my hood,
On my face as I pass is a plate of brass,
And my suit is made of wood.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Causley
Thanky, Amyjo. She tells me Causley never ever traveled to The Wild West.
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Bushman
Social climber
The island of Tristan da Cunha
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Jan 17, 2015 - 10:32am PT
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'My Writers Block'
My writers block was on my neck where once my wrinkled head did rest,
I used to write and think of things whether or not I tried to wrest,
Ideas and stories from my mind I thought amusing or at best,
Would keep me centered or at the least would put acumen to the test,
The words that came so easily I might have put to better use,
To educate my simple mind that I should not be so obtuse,
To say I'm fine right where I am has always been my worst excuse,
If I'm right where I ought to be I ought to let my thinking loose,
To dream of journeys far and wide of voyages I'd seldom miss,
To coin a phrase or tilt my pen at windmills in my minds abyss,
To ride away with pockets lined with verbiage plentiful and this,
To catch at words that come and go if not for this I'd be remiss,
To grope for the ungraspable but falling short I still would bet,
The journey is worth all the pain the telling of it better yet,
But now my mind is cluttered with such bric-a-brac I'd soon forget,
Were it to wash out with the tide and leave only this brief vignette.
But cluttered as my words may be my life's disorder would be told,
Is more or less predictable as situations do unfold,
Where everyday occurrences are common and might fit the mold,
To say that it's more complicated shows I'm only growing old,
So clearing up the garbage that's been plugging up my busy mind,
I to hope find some satisfaction in the moment to unwind,
But classically, unexpected, and ironically I find,
The writers block that exited has lodged in my behind.
-bushman
01/17/2015
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 18, 2015 - 10:21am PT
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^^^Block steady, Bushman! Thanks very much for posting that.
Local wordsters: Published in "Tree" from Coffee Bandits.
Some UCM students, some Merced College students.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jan 18, 2015 - 10:34am PT
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yes pause for effect,yeah, Yeah, I See
try herd work the words , spend the time and post it here on the super Topo poetry thread!?m,.!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 19, 2015 - 07:25pm PT
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THE TENTH POEM
for my son, Sancho Fergus, age one
Galway Kinnell
1
The skinny
waterfalls--footpaths
wandering out of heaven--strike
the cliffside, leap and shudder off.
Somewhere behind me
a small fire goes on flaring in the rain, in its desolate ashes.
No matter, now, whom it was built for,
it keeps its flame,
it warms
everyone who might wander into its radiance,
a tree, a lost animal, the stones.
For if one has loved,
(even if only once, but loved),
it burns forever,
because in the dying world, in some blood-soaked
heap of bones, it was set burning.
2
I know there is so much of my life
wasted, so much of everyone’s life
thrown away; so much
we could have been or done
that we held ourselves back from
out of fear
or out of the dream we had but one thing to be or to do
or out of a sense the richest life
moves through mystery—past doors not opened, roads not taken.
And yet I think nothing once touched by desire can wholly
escape us, can keep itself always
beyond the last flares of the brow-lamp of knowing
And how clear the air is, before dark.
3
This is the tenth poem
and it is the last, It is right,
at the last, that one
and zero
walk off together,
walk off the end of these pages together,
one creature
walking away side by side with the emptiness.
The wind
blows over a leaf, a jaw-bone
a stalk of witch-grass. Whatever
springs from sod, one day, the last day,
finds out
what it is to be singing.
4
Lastness is
brightness. It is the brightness
gathered up of all that went before. It lasts. It endures.
And when it ceases
to endure, there is nothing, nothing
left.
In the rust of old cars,
in the hole torn open in the body of the Archer,
to the river-mist smelling of the weariness of stones,
the dead lie,
empty, filled, at the beginning,
and the first
voice comes craving again out of their mouths.
5
I remember
that Bach concert I went to so long ago--
the chandelired room
of ladies and gentlemen who would never die...
the voices go out,
the room becomes hushed,
the violinist puts the irreversible sorrow of his face
into the opened palm
of the wood. The music begins:
A shower of resin,
the bow-strings listening with all their might
to the wail,
the sexual wail
of all the back alleys and blood-strings of our lives
still crying, still singing, from the sliced intestine
of cat.
6
About this poem,
if we shall call it that,
or concert of one
divided among himself,
this earthward gesture
of the sky-diver—silkworms
on his back still busily spinning
and already gnawing away
the chutes of his love, who could have saved him
this free floating of one
who opens his arms into the attitude
of flight, as he obeys
the necessity and falls...
7
Sancho Fergus, don’t cry!
Or else, cry.
On the body,
on the blued flesh, when it is
laid out, find
the one flea which is laughing.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 19, 2015 - 10:29pm PT
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The Climb of My Life
unnamed
no rating
I began this long-ass climb in 1948
the support team called out the rescue team
before I had made my first move
the umbilical was about 20mm
you might think it safe to tie into
...but mine was a "nuchal cord"
and had wrapped itself around my neck
they thought I was blue
I guess I was a little “smurf-like”
and sad
and weak
a lack of oxygen
nothing more
and so mom and I bivvied at the hospital
for two extra days while tests were done
and I was monitored not with patches and electrodes
but by palpation and reflex testing
and mom’s watchful eye
the first pitch was accompanied by my older brother
I don’t remember much
there are flashes of older cousins
the next pitch was a trip to Idaho
I remember much of it distinctly
but no one else has the memories
we had a younger sister about then
but I doubt she came along
it would have been too much for mom
so Lenna was probably still safely tucked away
in two separate places
we stopped for a night among redwoods
and the stars wheeled through the branches
we arrived at McCall where Sis and Roy
my great-aunt and uncle lived on a ranch
a chicken was slaughtered in our honor
we were fed dumplings and then the pigs were fed what we didn’t eat
I witnessed the sun’s rising over the lump of choss called Sunrise Mtn.
I rode the horsie and I was three and had been on an expedition already
the next twelve years comprise the second pitch
it was varied terrain involving first, second, third and fourth class
it sounds complicated
but the nuns, the den mothers, and the scoutmasters kept me on the right route
by the time I was learning about Chaucer and his pioneering rhymes
I had a genuine climbing partner
he introduced me to a girl
my, my, this was beginning to be more fun than ever
but I got seriously off-route here
and she became the family’s bugaboo
the cord with mom was severed
there was nothing to do but serve my country
and so began a series of pitches that led nowhere
and I found myself rapping down and starting over in another set of cracks
but my partner was always (nearly always) taking up my slack at belays
he was busy with his own conquests at this time and so we parted ways
I found a suitable female and gave her my ring and she gave me hers
this was a series of pitches involving lots of lying back and forth
a lot of aid and several more reversals of course
but it ended with progeny
another mouse to feed
and a woman who could not do any more aid but had to go free
so she freed herself and the child and bagged it
I was left holding the bag
she was the pig and I was the mouse
here are your papers and there goes the house
I climbed in a fog for several years
at Tahquitz and J Tree I shed me no tears
I climbed to forget and to enjoy the regret
I began to drink lots and then couldn’t get
why no more ladies were too sold on my style
I have an old man, they’d say with a smile
that seemed to mock
this drunken rock jock
and the VW fell apart and I lost my left eye
and came back to this town where I’ll be when I die
because paradise is only eighty miles away
and I may not get any closer
it’s a pity I’ll never see the summit
but then none of us do...
or do we?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 19, 2015 - 10:37pm PT
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Yes, Gnome
paws for effect
you need to grind and grind and grind
unless you dance a lot
polished verse is a nod to convention
since when do I nod to that?
not that I can't appreciate others' fine efforts
but just effing do it
Mikey will like it regardless
and so will I
so will I
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 19, 2015 - 11:09pm PT
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E.E. Cummings
POEM
let’s, from some loud unworld’s most rightful wrong
climbing,my love(till mountains speak the truth)
enter a cloverish silence of thrushsong
(and more than every miracle’s to breathe)
wounded us will becauseless ultimate
earth accept and primeval whyless sky;
healing our by immeasurable night
spirits and with illimitable day
(shrived of that nonexistence millions call
life,you and I may reverently share
the blessed eachness of all beautiful
selves wholly which and innocently are)
seeming’s enough for slaves of space and time
--ours is the now and here of freedom. Come
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jan 20, 2015 - 06:37am PT
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Cool!
Swami
Nutz n' Hexz',
.Molinar hammer with a pick
Four lost arrowz, those four Dolt pinz,
E.B's for shoes, a Royal crown chalk 'sack',
Save a pin for the belay ?!
He'll bring 'em up,
If he don't fall
Try it Like that.
Cool!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 20, 2015 - 10:54am PT
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Stellar's Gnome.A bird of a feather.
POEM ON A MOUNTAIN BLUEBIRD
George Young (1931- )
The Navajo stones never managed such a blue as you
nor the lips of the man
pulled from an icy river last year.
You are a grace
never mastered by earth’s bluest eye
at the foot of a glacier, open to a cloudless sky--
nor recognized by idle school children
staring out the window at what appears to be a blue ribbon
tied to a telephone wire.
You are a flash of living, breathing blue.
And Lord what am I
that such a bird can escape from my skull and fly.
http://www.drgeorgeyoung.com/about-the-author
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jan 20, 2015 - 11:17am PT
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He as, I see it, is Immune Form the doom that haunts so many now,
Among the reeds and weeds a seed of denial wells up within me.
FROM WITH IN.
A tower of doubt has sprung up making, me miss the dyno. . .
For if only I had thought it out,
in the positive and left the run out in ..
.
Then fur shore, No gulf, no beach,
surely this missed jump
would have begun and not end todays fun!!
Happy big dat birthday Mike
Great minds and Climbers
Share more than
Fingers for
the mouse!
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jan 20, 2015 - 12:45pm PT
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Conform me not,
trouble be hot
all far from forget me not!
Swing low the eddy of time
I see the time is drawing nigh
or nye
you be the judge ,jury and excommunicator
Chief executioner in chief, post not for if thy post is sheep dip it will be held up to ridicule forgettme knott
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Leggs
Sport climber
Made in California
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Wonderful, Sullly... just wonderful.
And so appropriate. You are so unbelievably thoughtful, and a wonderful friend. ~xx
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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INNOCENTS' SONG
by Charles Causley
Who's that knocking on the window,
Who's that standing at the door,
What are all those presents
Laying on the kitchen floor?
Who is the smiling stranger
With hair as white as gin,
What is he doing with the children
And who could have let him in?
Why has he rubies on his fingers,
A cold, cold crown on his head,
Why, when he caws his carol,
Does the salty snow run red?
Why does he ferry my fireside
As a spider on a thread,
His fingers made of fuses
And his tongue of gingerbread?
Why does the world before him
Melt in a million suns,
Why do his yellow, yearning eyes
Burn like saffron buns?
Watch where he comes walking
Out of the Christmas flame,
Dancing, double-talking:
Herod is his name.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Feb 10, 2015 - 11:46am PT
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THanx to z brown and Flames an de beat boyz who inspired this guy . . .
Howl
By Allen Ginsberg
For Carl Solomon
I
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and c*#k and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be f*#ked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate c#&% and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blur floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally **, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time—
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.
II
What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smoke-stacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! C*#ks@cker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!
III
Carl Solomon! I’m with you in Rockland
where you’re madder than I am
I’m with you in Rockland
where you must feel very strange
I’m with you in Rockland
where you imitate the shade of my mother
I’m with you in Rockland
where you’ve murdered your twelve secretaries
I’m with you in Rockland
where you laugh at this invisible humor
I’m with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
I’m with you in Rockland
where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio
I’m with you in Rockland
where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses
I'm with you in Rockland
where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica
I’m with you in Rockland
where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx
I’m with you in Rockland
where you scream in a straightjacket that you’re losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss
I’m with you in Rockland
where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse
I’m with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void
I’m with you in Rockland
where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha
I’m with you in Rockland
where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb
I’m with you in Rockland
where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I’m with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won’t let us sleep
I’m with you in Rockland
where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls’ airplanes roaring over the roof they’ve come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls collapse O skinny legions run outside O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear we’re free
I’m with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Feb 10, 2015 - 12:05pm PT
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1. BEGIN the morning by saying to thyself, I shall meet with the busybody, the ungrateful, arrogant, deceitful, envious, unsocial. All these things happen to them by reason of their ignorance of what is good and evil. But I who have seen the nature of the good that it is beautiful and of the bad that it is ugly, and the nature of him who does wrong, that it is akin to me, not [only] of the same blood or seed, but that it participates in [the same] intelligence and [the same] portion of the divinity, I can neither be injured by any of them, for no one can fix on me what is ugly, nor can I be angry with my kinsman, nor hate him. For we are made for co-operation, like feet, like hands, like eyelids, like the rows of the upper and lower teeth. To act against one another then is contrary to nature; and it is acting against one another to be vexed and to turn away.
2. Whatever this is that I am, it is a little flesh and breath, and the ruling part. Throw away thy books; no longer distract thyself: it is not allowed; but as if thou wast now dying, despise the flesh, it is blood and bones and a network, a contexture of nerves, veins and arteries. See the breath also, what kind of a thing it is; air, and not always the same, but every moment sent out and again sucked in. The third then is the ruling part: consider thus: Thou art an old man; no longer let this be a slave, no longer be pulled by the strings like a puppet to unsocial movements, no longer be either dissatisfied with thy present lot, or shrink from the future.
17. Of human life the time is a point, and the substance is in a flux, and the perception dull, and the composition of the whole body subject to putrefaction, and the soul of a whirl, and fortune hard to divine, and fame a thing devoid of judgment. And, to say all in a word, everything which belongs to the body is a stream, and what belongs to the soul is a dream and vapour, and life is a warfare and a stranger’s sojourn, and after-fame is oblivion. What, then, is that which is able to conduct a man? One thing, and only one — the love of wisdom. But this consists in keeping the daemon within a man free from violence and unharmed, superior to pains and pleasures, doing nothing without a purpose, nor yet falsely and with hypocrisy, not feeling the need of another man’s doing or not doing anything; and besides, accepting all that happens, and all that is allotted, as coming from thence, wherever it is, from whence he himself came; and, finally, waiting for death with a cheerful mind, as being nothing else than a dissolution of the elements of which every living being is compounded.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Feb 10, 2015 - 01:51pm PT
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LIFE AND ESSENCE
There seems to be one source of truth.
It is benevolent.
All else is commentary on the truth and it’s benevolence.
Life is a continuum.
Physical-birth and physical-death are just two events on the continuum of life.
This continuum is much more than a one-way street between maternity ward and funeral parlor.
Our purpose here is to evolve spiritually.
This earth is a spiritual kindergarten wherein
we trade time for experience,
experience becomes intelligence,
intelligence becomes knowledge,
knowledge becomes wisdom,
wisdom becomes consciousness,
which is what we take with us when we are done riding around in this beater of a physical body.
We sort of begin THERE where we left off HERE.
For me the essence of human experience is the ideal behind Christianity, warped now, but undeniably useful, in which one might could find that
the essence of Christianity is the Bible,
the essence of the Bible is in the Gospels,
the essence of the Gospels is contemplation,
the essence of contemplation is stillness,
the essence of stillness is silence,
and the essence of silence is probably God,
but I’m not there yet.
(Not mine, precisely, but a gent's named Bill King, one of my book customers, always seeking. I've simply modified it in form.)
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Feb 21, 2015 - 07:14pm PT
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I'm working on some poetry using only words that all start with the same letter all the way through the poem.
It's lighthearted and a little challenging.
'Try to Tally Tommy's Total Tucumcari Trolly Track Texting to Trudy Total'
Texting Tommy texted Tuesday,
Tried two times to text to Trudy,
Tommy texted twice to tally,
Texted twice times two totally,
Texting Tommy texted truly,
'Til Tommy truly texted Trudy,
Twice times two to total tally,
Taking Toms ticket totally,
Total two times two to tarry,
Two tickets to Tucumcari,
Tommy took two trolley tokens,
Two times Tommy took two tens,
Taking twenty tokens Tuesday,
Two to track ten trolleys total,
Twice to Tucumcari Trudy,
Tried to total Tommy's toll,
Texting twice to Tucumcari,
Trying twice Tom's total tarry,
Taking twice two trolley tickets,
Trudy took Tom tawdry trinkets,
Tawdry trolley trinket tarry,
Twice two trips to Tucumcari,
Tom texted tricking Trudy,
Trudy tricked Tommy twice truly,
Total Tommy's total texts,
To total texting tolls to Trudy,
Total trains times trolley tracks,
To Tucumcari total truly.
-Timmy
10/20/2012
'Zella's Zany Zoologist's Zeppelin Zone'
Zebras zapping zygote zealots,
Zarzuela zooplankton,
Zed Zander's zinkifying zeal,
Zippy zealot zit zinging,
Zinging zippy zealot zits,
Zoocephaliccally zootoxificating,
Zella's zany zoologist's Zeppelin zone.
-Zeke
ZZ/ZZ/ZZZZ
'Angry Arnold and Andy's Axe'
Andy asking angry Arnold,
"Aren't an aardvark always at,
An acute angle at an axe?"
Angry Arnold accused Andy,
"Ask an Aardvark, Andy ask!"
"An aardvark ain't an animal,
Availed at answering at all,"
Andy arguing Arnold as,
An apt aardvark ambled away.
Aardvark's assumptions are assured,
As Arnold's adams apple's at,
An acute angle at Andy's axe.
And an aardvark's aptitude alas,
An aardvark's attitude as asked,
Away, away are an aardvark's ass.
-Aardvark
8o/8o/8o8o
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Feb 21, 2015 - 07:49pm PT
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THE OLD POETRY SHACK
It stands out in the corner of the yard hidden by the wishteria vine.
There is a pile of broken rhymes and twisted metaphors lying next to the door.
Some obsolete cantos are stacked between the fence and the south wall.
Swiss chard has taken root at the sunny end of the stack.
Under the eaves is an abandoned hornet nest.
No longer will barbs infest any verse produced here.
The kiln itself is still, the fires long extinguished, like the old boy who used to come out here to play with words and watch them turn into genuine works of art or functional utensils holding odd ideas.
I would never bother him when he was there.
I hid on one side of the viny curtain and listened, though, as he cursed his way through verse after verse.
He would shout Aha Yes and stand up and do a little dance, take a cigaret and smoke it standing in the doorway, then go back to his labor.
One day he was smoking like that and he said out loud,
“Does your mother know you come here?”
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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[Click to View YouTube Video]
just another fire hydrant
a real live barking democratic dog
he is just about to have his picture taken
"Ferlinghetti!"
"No, Snyder! With John Cage, too!"
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 15, 2015 - 09:34am PT
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The Totalitarian State of Mind Control
I was lost in a sea of writhing coiling robot arms that encompassed the earths face,
O'er every thing and every place,
The world was possessed by criminal organizations known as corporate run governments,
Forcing trillions into tents,
The perpetrators forced all manner of punishments and medical experimentation upon us,
In a world full of mistrust,
The oppressors employed billions of military police to detain and torture and maim and kill,
To bend us to their will,
The artists of tyranny had imbedded mandatory robotic implants into my aching head,
To monitor all I said,
There were wires and tubes and circuits and lights on every manner of everything,
Nevermore would anyone sing,
In a black steel tower the disease riddled mutants who were the CEOs of earth,
Fed on those after their birth,
Wealthy patrons ate at a banquet of puréed remains of all species and biological waste,
Seasoned by our blood to taste,
I groped the ropey tendrils offshore from all the mayhem to design a desperate escape,
But was wrapped and bound in tape,
Then their words enslaved my mind with the mantra of their logic as it looped around my brain,
For the world had gone insane,
As I lapsed into unconsciousness to dream of an existence still preserving all held dear,
But I washed ashore to here.
-bushman
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 16, 2015 - 06:39am PT
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'Sergio'
As Sergio pulls the long commute,
The interstate it calls his name,
As the twisting turning rambling highway,
Gives way to reveal another long day,
The birds and sun awake to greet him,
"Good morning Serge," they seem to say,
And all the world unfolds its colors,
As all the darkness slips away,
Methodically his waiting workload,
Meticulously complete in time,
Like life his work is always waiting,
But Serge he tends to what needs done,
For each and every day completed,
Meets the setting of the sun,
And rambling back along the highways,
Returns him to his loving one.
For the sun will shine and the birds will sing,
And tomorrow they'll still have their fun,
But today's a day that still is dawning,
'Til evening comes and day is done.
-bushman
04/16/2015
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 17, 2015 - 05:10am PT
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'The Salty One'
The sawdust floated in the air,
It settled here and settled there,
Upon the floor and on the chair,
On wings and fuses everywhere,
Eyes focused with intensity,
For what seemed an eternity,
He sanded at the density,
And shaped it with tenacity,
"Here's the secret to how it's done,
It takes awhile yet more to go,
Go too far and you'll screw it up,
Then you'll have to start over you know,
Where are those other templates?
Use the strongest wood you've got,
I don't use power tools tools or else,
Looks like it's built by a robot,"
But I never knew a man,
That looked to land a punch,
Who knew how to take hunch,
Then take a break for lunch,
As when I met the Salty One,
And learned how building can be fun,
Never to be done in haste,
For time's too valuable to waste,
As fast as wood chips flew,
Off of his carving knife,
The expletives flew faster,
As he described the wood to life,
I could see it in his work,
And crafted in his art,
Built into every project,
Were pieces of his heart.
There's no other like the Salty One,
I call him for the C-Man knows,
That like the winter winds that come,
That words will come and words will go,
He's treated me like a brother,
He's like a train that's on a track,
And like some long lost relative,
I'll never send him back.
-bushman
04/17/2015
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Apr 17, 2015 - 05:33am PT
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The constant last, the watch-mans past shadows his dawn patrol,
The gates stay locked the cameras stocked twin machines on one and seven,
The ride out to the far gate is seventy minutes away.
The sun is coming up on a new day, as dawn arrives his crux will be,
To sleep or go climb rocks.
FOR 'LOBES'
I have not stepped up but thank you. Bushman
The wealth of emotions that your writing ranges over pursues me through out the day and I read your words into a cold at grade, basement. No man cave it holds the ruins of many lives, some living some not, but all well represented by the flotsam, trash from lives lived in-between
The current world while hanging on to a few things from the past.
One tool 'layed it down' on a sunny day in May. On a straight-away at eleven in the morning?
I have no idea how high he was or how bad he'd got ? The thing is, his - 'Tough old'- boy came back to him in his unconscious state, he faught death as it enveloped his body.
His mind seemed far away but still in the fight. He lingered broken, to me, he seemed to be/was re-climbing every pitch he'd ever climbed since the days of banging pins and star drives to the Shield, in his mind.
When I opened the box of stuff of his, the stuff that nobody wanted that was to be thrown away, I fond the sad remains of crushed love, emotional correspondences, mixed with boasts and wild tails of failure at the hands of fate and alcoholism.
The accident report was only for family. Three days after the fact, there was nothing to see at the spot of the accident. I walked it. A sunny stretch of pavement split by a grassy berm, the truck route is an easy goin' spot after the morning rush.
How or why a mad bad asz could put out his life here?! Compared to the rocky places where he had cheated death, only coming close to dying.
well now I see it was this that was to be . . .
Death by Harley - and a good thing in the end?
He was also known for silly bad stuff . . .
breaking a good friend 's thumb, is one of many,
Some very bad stuff! He drank too much for too long.
On the five twenty five of twenty fifteen I'll climb Duck!, Bob, and Weedge,
cleaned already, it may need chalk!
Scrappy face climbing for fifty feet, too a crack that widens as it gets steep and a good crack leads into a chimney.
The crux for most is working up and out and back I step across the gap three times,
Twice with mandatory gear, (the Weave) the thinly protected face climbing up left avoids harder climbing that goes straight up.
D. B. W. Takes the path of least resistance the natural , old school, line and stops short. . .
In the fond memories of my friend, LOBES.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 17, 2015 - 07:23am PT
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Prologue to The Canterbury Tales
When fair April with his showers sweet,
Has pierced the drought of March to the root's feet
And bathed each vein in liquid of such power,
Its strength creates the newly springing flower...
Like hell.
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 17, 2015 - 08:33am PT
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'I'm My Uncle Brother's Stepson'
Said the pregnant woman who gave birth to her mom,
"That the child is my parent is terribly wrong,"
To the doctor she said, "How on earth could this be?"
He said, "She came back through a time travel machine."
She said, "If I'm her mother and she is my mom,
Then what of my father to be name of Tom?"
The doctor then shouted, "Oy Vey, Tom's my son!"
The woman replied, "See here, what's going on?
If my son-in-law's my father then you're my grandpa?"
"Of course," he then said, "And I'm happy to say,
That I welcome my new daughter-in-law great granddaughter today!"
As it goes with time travel there's more than just fun,
You can be a big family all wrapped into one,
If you ask which came first was it the chicken or the egg?
Of my great uncle grandson is the question I'd beg.
"Oh Great uncle grandson, solve this riddle for me,
Who invented that crazy time traveling machine?"
"Well Great nephew grandfather," he asked to be true,
"There's only one question I'm asking of you,
If he came from the future might not then he be you?"
I said, "I've done no time travel that I can recall,
I'll have to ask Aunt sister my great great grandma..."
(Banjos playing in background).
-bushman
04/17/2015
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 17, 2015 - 09:23am PT
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Hey there Gnome,
So I tried to honor you a while back with a poem, the title was a twisted play on your name, Gnome.
I enjoy reading your writing, it's kind of like a riddle to decipher with a wacky Kerouac style, mysterious, both light and dark, and laced with the pain and memories of your life (I guess) and your adventures. And like a lot of us, a little scarred and somehow touched a bit in the head. Here I'll post again what I wrote... hope it isn't too offensive. It's not about you exactly, but based a little on the feelings and ideas I got after reading your writing.
'Knewm on the Dial'
As he was known,
Knewm was his name,
He had no other just the same,
A curious sort,
With his wicked game of some acclaim,
His deejay role his claim to fame.
Hosting jazz music in the midnight hour,
His phobias though dire,
Caused some to question and inquire,
His robust argument for funds,
To feed artistes long since deceased,
Their obligations long released,
Assuming not what Knewm had known,
Their first mistake,
His dirt would not their thirst to slake,
And for all his loyal following,
No different from his memory clouded,
Their deejay was in mystery shrouded,
Until that day in month of May,
He disappeared my dear friend Knewm,
And more than likely met his doom,
The mystery deepens year by year,
As I realize from womb to tomb,
Though I knew Knewm I hardly knew him.
-bushman
Mar 19, 2015
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Apr 17, 2015 - 09:37am PT
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as a play to the darker side a curse and I am one to suffer under the beatnick verse that glorifies the NO THING and dares one to jump instead of do it static, thanks of course and as you know I was most inspired by your brother. that as you saw when I posted the old magazine article and shared how much it had reached into me, when he, the hero for the coming generation, shook off his mortal coil.
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 20, 2015 - 02:12pm PT
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'Only a Stanley'
My banter so ingloriously,
One day it got the best of me,
Trash texting were the lot of us,
My words somewhat opprobrious,
Alluded to unnatural acts,
And unsubstantiated facts,
'Bout Kimo and a porcine's ass,
Of that I'll speak no more alas,
The things I said were all in jest,
Such crudeness showed my worst at best,
But still the sting was sharp enough,
My biting tongue one might rebuff,
Insults and innuendo such,
My vulgarity a bit too much,
How I sullied names of innocents,
I knew not them in my defense,
But then I thought to get some rest,
Resigned that I meant no offense,
I slept the sleep of guiltlessness,
And woke to business no less,
But there a message more or less,
Admonished me in friendliness,
'Twas met by me with some distress,
Appears I'd struck too close to vest,
I saw that Kimo my good friend,
Had texted I offended him,
My hurtful words somehow so grim,
Was it his faith I had condemned?
Or virtue of a faithful friend,
Defamed within my repertoire?
Had my rude slanders gone too far?
That my vulgar fiction might undo,
A valued friendship would not do,
I had to right these wrongs I'd done,
These insults that I'd poked in fun,
And now in haste I must endeavor,
Heartfelt amends unless I sever,
More than just our mutual trust
But comradeship so true and just,
For friendships earned is friendship gained,
With some not easily attained,
I sent this message to my friend,
In earnestness I would depend,
On his good graces and forgive,
My foolish words and bawdy banter,
And in it see I meant not to slander,
The views and people he held dear,
And so I left it lying there,
What's done was done and said was said,
And went to business in my head,
The day went by and not a word,
Of judgement and what it inferred,
That I had finally crossed the line,
Of something only hearts define,
O'er solemn wisdom's fickle grace,
That biting humor might deface,
A bond 'tween brothers and their faith,
That loyalty and trust embrace,
No message came and I resolved,
To take what came where chips may fall,
No message text or friendly call,
My phone so silent as the night,
My recompense a distant slight,
Compounding on my few regrets,
But roosting there like big egrets,
And there at dusk a single text,
With nervousness I thought, "what next?"
For what had Stanley Kimo sent?
With all sincerity I'd meant,
My words expressing deep regret,
But then at once it dawned on me,
Who could this man of virtue be?
A pious wholesome devotee,
Or flirtatious Don Juan wannabe?
Who's honor was never secondary,
But garrulousness so legendary,
What veiled enigma was there to,
This friend of mine I thought I knew?
I read his text so cautiously,
Three words they said it all to me,
His simple note was, "Got you sucker!"
That dirty rotten mother------!
-Bushman
04/20/2015
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Apr 20, 2015 - 05:12pm PT
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The things I said were all in jest,
Such crudeness showed my worst at best,
But still the sting was sharp enough,
My biting tongue one might rebuff,
Insults and innuendo such,
My vulgarity a bit too much,
STILL MID- READ
GWAD, Thats good!
Hope that 'ell has
a wordsmith worthy
when at last, With full
acrimony I die
and the Devil, my soul, he keeps
for letting me live out my life
With a view that was better than
the view from the cheap seats.
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 20, 2015 - 09:16pm PT
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'Nitrodiaperman'
See the Nitrodiaperman?
Sh#t happens when he wins,
The nitrodiaper truck he drives,
Is full of cats who wear Depends,
And each and every diapered cat,
Wears diapers in nine lives,
And the Nitrodiaperman,
Has fifty seven wives.
-Bushman
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 20, 2015 - 09:46pm PT
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and as you know I was most inspired by your brother
Brother!
I mean Father!
Relax, Jake, it's Chinatown.
You guys are rockin' the boat
Wearin' hip boots to wade the shallows
Wishin' you'd remembered to bring the marshmallows
Two guys remain to watch the dwindling flame
Bottle rockets at night what a stone delight
Memories made of stone last longest
Even scribbled down on bum wad
I give you each a vigorous nod
And one lost thumb up
A voter saint!
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pud
climber
Sportbikeville & Yucca brevifolia
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May 14, 2015 - 09:06am PT
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love not lost.
For all the times we missed,
for all the times we kissed
For all the times we never spoke,
for all the times we shared a joke
For all the help that wasn't there,
for all the times we showed we care
For all the memories we lost,
for all our love at any cost
For all the dreams we swept away,
for all the plans we share today
For all the hugs we never gave,
for all the memories we save
For all the experiences gone by,
for everything we want to try
For all the things we faced alone,
for all the years our love has grown
Through all these things our love stayed true
My heart and soul belong to you.
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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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May 14, 2015 - 09:09am PT
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pud thank you for
shattering my pane
of misconception
for i previously
thought,
based upon your
love of motorcycles
that you were made
of steel
and that your heart
pumped oil.
but now i know
that both you and
i are arranged
in a strangely
similar chain
of carbon.
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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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May 14, 2015 - 09:14am PT
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here's one:
my entire existence
is a favor to satan
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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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May 14, 2015 - 09:29am PT
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i offer another:
the new now,
is yesterday.
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pud
climber
Sportbikeville & Yucca brevifolia
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Why a lonely heart is better than a broken heart.
Lonely hearts hold treasures waiting to be found
Treasures leak from a broken heart
Lonely hearts beat in rhythm with their owner’s dreams
Broken hearts skip and jump in restless sleep
Lonely hearts build strength in time
Broken hearts wait forever for strength to return
Lonely hearts yearn for love and run to it
Broken hearts forget what they need and trip when they move
Lonely hearts open easily and wide
Broken hearts have rusty hinges
Lonely hearts breathe long and deep
Broken hearts cough and wheeze
Lonely hearts look back and smile
Broken hearts cry when they remember
Lonely hearts find new paths
Broken hearts lose their way
Lonely hearts reach out for love
Broken heart's arms don’t work
Lonely hearts speak loud and clear
Broken hearts stutter quietly
Lonely hearts see the future
Broken hearts regret the past
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Jun 19, 2015 - 04:00pm PT
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Just rolled into my home town for the in-laws party and jotted down this one;
'The Valley of Smog'
In the valley of Smog,
I rinsed out my eyes,
In the ocean of Petrol,
And dinosaur cries,
Not for one single moment,
Did I let my guard down,
Infected by traffic,
And the retrograde frown,
I was one with the hive,
And my sinister host,
Had no clue I was living,
T'was accepted by most,
In the city on steroids,
Of lost Angels in flight,
I'll was clutching my pillow,
On the concrete at night,
As i plotted my exit,
I remember well why,
I so desperately wanted,
For to leave lest I die,
From that city of Angels,
And those valleys around,
That insidious a hellhole,
Like none other are found,
I once was a child there,
But I left there one day,
From that insipid quagmire,
And then found my way,
From the valley of gargoyles,
From so garrulous a whore,
Who would suck out your life's blood,
Be you rich or be poor,
Please don't make me return there,
For I made my escape,
And I feared I would die there,
Where men plunder and scrape,
For a piece of existence,
And a place in the sun,
Where no light can enter,
Where some think it's still fun,
In that Big sucking blow hole,
Many millions call home,
Where the planet will open,
With a hideous groan,
And the oceans will bury
That city with foam.
-Bushman
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Jun 19, 2015 - 04:03pm PT
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'Love is Obsequious'
Love is a crapshoot
Obsequious is she
Tasking me endlessly
In all the wrong moments
I do her bidding
Love finds me parsimoniously
Able yet unwilling
More than I would do for me
She is not the woman
But what the woman requires
What I think of love
And what she actually is are not the same
Her deafening beyond desire
These deeds of madness that I do
I love the woman but the love itself is separate
Separated from rationality and reason by
The ever present passing of my life
Love is a bitch
-bushman
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 19, 2015 - 04:55pm PT
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Do It right
I've done all the numbers
but never in sequence.
I planned a vacation
and then took a powder.
I've read Huck Finn
but never Tom Sawyer.
I ordered Manhattan
but but got Coney chowder.
Life's zigged when I zagged
and Time's just the same.
I've been given a number
but can't think of my name.
Nothing seems to go right
and it all seems so wrong
I tried writing a poem
and it came out a song.
My rhyme scheme's a mess
to that I'll confess
If you told me it sucked
then I'd have to say yes
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 20, 2015 - 06:05pm PT
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Mountain Pines
In scornful upright loneliness they stand,
Counting themselves no kin of anything
Whether of earth or sky. Their gnarled roots cling
Like wasted fingers of a clutching hand
In the grim rock. A silent spectral band
They watch the old sky, but hold no communing
With aught. Only, when some lone eagle's wing
Flaps past above their grey and desolate land,
Or when the wind pants up a rough-hewn glen,
Bending them down as with an age of thought,
Or when, ‘mid flying clouds that can not dull
Her constant light, the moon shines silver, then
They find a soul, and their dim moan is wrought
Into a singing sad and beautiful.
--Robinson Jeffers
Ansel wrote of his friend's poetry:
"Jeffers' poetry deeply affected me...the extraordinary grandeur of the images invoked and the profound music of his lines....The surge of the ocean lives in the flow of phrase and imagery...give an added dimension to the harsh bones of his creative vision, expressed in lines such as these from 'Night.'
The deep dark-shining
Pacific leans on the land,
Feeling his cold strength
To the outermost margins."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 20, 2015 - 06:33pm PT
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Natural Music
The old voice of the ocean, the bird-chatter of little rivers,
(Winter has given them gold for silver
To stain their water and bladed green for brown to line their banks)
From different throats intone one language.
So I believe if we were strong enough to listen without
Divisions of desire and terror
To the storm of the sick nations, the rage of the hunger smitten cities,
Those voices also would be found
Clean as a child's; or like some girl's breathing who dances alone
By the ocean-shore, dreaming of lovers.
--Robinson Jeffers
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Jul 11, 2015 - 01:00pm PT
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'Jack Manning'
As a teen I was a rebel,
And was angry to the bone,
With my family I had quarreled,
So I struck out on my own,
For I was just a boy then,
So wandering I did roam,
Uprooted from my family,
And far away from home,
I hitchhiked to Minnesota,
And met danger I should say,
I was hungry and was dirty,
And remember to this day,
The rumble in my belly,
But it soon would go away,
For I followed my directions,
And found instruction on the way,
I arrived at two am,
At a farmhouse in a glen,
All dogs put up a racket,
But the lights were on within,
My note was worn and tattered,
Written by a family friend,
"So you've come from California?"
As his wife ushered me in,
"You can sleep upon the couch,
In the morning you can ask him,"
He hasn't logged in years,
So on him it will depend,"
And I slept a fitful sleep,
With the demons and the din,
Of a chorusing of angels,
Who harassed me once again,
And I woke to see a figure,
Who was coming down the stair,
An old man bent and broken,
Who was stubbled with grey hair,
But his hands were veined and gnarly,
His steely gaze a stare,
The rumpled hat pulled low,
And his purple frown severe,
I made my introductions,
Feeling sheepish and afraid,
I explained my situation,
And the mess of it I'd made,
The old woman served me breakfast,
The orange juice was homemade,
The eggs all peppered black,
With toast and marmalade,
And afterwards he looked at me,
And offered me a smoke,
I believe it was the first time,
I remember that he spoke,
He told me it took courage,
Or craziness no joke,
To hitchhike 'cross the country,
So destitute and broke,
"So you want to be a logger?"
He asked me with intent,
"We could give it a go then,
If you work for food and rent,
And an extra hundred here and there,
If on working you are bent,
But we always rest on Sunday's,"
Wasn’t sure of what he meant,
For every yard of fresh cut pulpwood,
Paid a hundred dollar bill,
And before I knew my poplar,
I was sure to get my fill,
Of the toiling and the danger,
And before I climbed that hill,
For every log I rolled up there,
I was sure to foot the bill,
He taught me to drive the one ton,
Up the winding mountain road,
To a lot that he laid claim to,
And we started to unload,
In the damp and humid forest,
Sounds of crickets and the toad,
Then we fired up the chain saws,
'Twas the north woods loggers ode,
Falling them and bucking them,
And skinning every pole,
Hoisting them and hauling them,
With the dozer was our goal,
I almost lost my life the day,
A snag nearly took its toll,
As Jack yelled out to warn me,
I had clearly lost control,
The branch caught on the dozer stack,
While towing up a sled,
I ducked down when the stack broke off,
It near took off my head,
Jack had saved my life that day,
My face turned crimson red,
If he hadn't yelled to warn me,
I knew that I'd be dead,
Jack had seven children,
From sixteen to forty three,
And we always worked to help them out,
On every Saturday,
I plowed from dawn to dusk one day,
For sandwiches and tea,
Jack alway did what he would do,
For love and family,
On Sundays we would drive to town,
And the women went to church,
As Jack and I sat in the car,
Drinking whiskey 'neath the birch,
For Jack and I saw eye to eye,
God being handy in a lurch,
We accepting it for the present time,
And were contented with our perch,
Jack treated me as equal,
And respected me as much,
He had rode the rails in forty eight,
And knew of hardships in a clutch,
The railroad men had almost killed him,
As he’d camped out in a hutch,
The kinship that he showed me,
Was stronger than the crutch,
I was strong of flesh but wounded,
In my spirit and my heart,
But Jack stood out a legend,
As he gave me a new start,
And one day upon the homestead,
He blew my mind apart,
As we walked the wire fence line,
And he proved I weren't so smart,
The fence it was electric,
And Jack made me a bet,
That he could hold that wire,
As the voltage through him let,
And I watched him wince in series,
As two minutes came and went,
He never let that wire go,
To challenge me as yet,
He bet me half my paycheck,
That I couldn't do the same,
For even thirty seconds,
And I thought the bet was lame,
I grabbed into that wire,
Thinking I would win his game,
The first jolt knocked me back a step,
He knew that I was tame,
And then he grabbed the wire again,
And rubbed it in for luck,
I'd just been taught a lesson,
And was out a fifty buck,
He held on for a minute more,
And I felt like a schmuck,
For a man of over seventy,
Jack really had some pluck,
I worked for most the summer,
And passed my sixteenth year,
The work had made stronger,
In my body that was clear,
But mind was still confused,
And I found solace in my beer,
But whenever I had words to say,
Jack always lent his ear,
As the season turned to autumn,
And my thoughts returned to home,
The road was calling out to me,
I knew that I must roam,
I thought I was a man then,
Not afraid to be alone,
Jack's tutelage had bolstered me,
So I struck out on my own,
Back on the road once more,
I survived by tooth and nail,
And back in California,
I found trouble without fail,
Adversity was my friend no doubt,
At times I slipped and fell,
Into troubles with the law again,
I created my own hell,
My good friends and my family,
They loved me through it all,
The days went by as I grew up,
A few years later in the fall,
My thoughts returned my friend Jack,
I had to make the call,
My mentor sounded none too well,
For time exacting took its toll,
A few months later I called back,
To speak to him again,
His wife Maria answered and,
I intuited it would be grim,
She said the cancer in his lungs,
Took him finally in the end,
I set the phone down woefully,
And said goodbye to my old friend,
Somehow through all my hardships,
I wound up on my feet,
For big brother and my family,
It was a monumental feat,
They gave me opportunities,
To help save me from defeat,
So I grabbed onto my bootstraps,
And held onto my seat,
Up the hill and over dell,
I made compromise with strife,
And somehow in the thick of it,
Through love I found a wife,
The trees became my trade,
And the marketplace was rife,
By providence or confidence,
I finally made a life,
My kids grew up and grandkids came,
They're growing up so fast,
From time to time I think back on,
My adolescence and my past,
The lumberjack and mountain man,
Who befriended me back then, alas,
There's nary been a man I've known,
Who treated such a boy with class,
This lost and wayward runaway,
Whose self esteem was low,
He took and spent some time with me,
For what little did I know,
The man saw in himself the boy,
And knew how things might go,
He helped bring out the best in me,
With kindness helped the boy to grow.
-bushman
07/11/2015
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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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Jul 16, 2015 - 05:35am PT
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bushman you are the eyes of the word.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 16, 2015 - 06:15am PT
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Son, that's right up there with Robert Service, I swear.
What the 'L' are you talkin' about, neighbor Weej?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 24, 2015 - 03:18pm PT
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BRIEF EPITHALIUM FOR ROCK & ICE
by I. Sage
On a winter day in the month of May
They were wed in a sunless blizzard
Ice was cool and Rock just stayed
Silent like a sun-stroked lizard.
They’d been engaged when the world was new
Each a part of the Maker’s plan;
The time was right, they said “I do,”
And geology filled the land.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Aug 10, 2015 - 08:43am PT
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Three Serbian folk songs performed by three great female singers: Radmila Dimic, Kseniju Cicvaric and Mara Djordjevic
[Click to View YouTube Video]
The lyrics of the first song "Who has torn the jewelry" was written in 1907 by poet Aleksa Santic and describes a dialog between mother and daughter.
Translation by 'Zanzaguz', PdR:
Who has torn the jewels off your neck?
Mother: Who has torn the jewels off your neck?
Who has scattered your pearls and corals?
Daughter: Early this morning, o mother
I went to the garden to pick the first lilacs
of the season
A dewy branch got stuck in my necklace
And scattered jewels under the lilac tree
Mother: And why are your eyes so blurry,
as you haven't slept at all?
Daughter: From a tree branch, a nightingale sang all
night long
I listened to it until the break of dawn
Its pretty song captivated and enchanted me
Out of joy, I could not fall asleep
Mother: Oh, my daughter, oh, my sorrow
And who has undone your waistcoat?
Daughter: Do not scold me my dear mother
Once you were young just as I am now
My untamed youth and the break of dawn
Have undone the waistcoat for my lavish
bosoms to show.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Aug 10, 2015 - 03:26pm PT
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That is one of the most RESTFUL pieces of music to which I have ever listened, Marlow. Thank you so much!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Aug 14, 2015 - 05:19am PT
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THE SOUND OF WIND AND METAL
I shall buy a wind chime
And place it in the breeze
Hang it out the window
Above the moving trees
I crave the sound of another voice
This will have two or three
When the wind blows down the alley
Its sound will comfort me
In tandem with my neighbor’s chime
It might not sound too good
Their mingled sound may jangle
And not jingle as they should
But I can cut the tubes to lengths
That harmonize in sound
When the two wind chimes are dangling
Far, far above the ground
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Aug 22, 2015 - 11:41am PT
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SAT BELONELY
by John Lennon
I sat belonely down a tree,
humbled fat and small.
A little lady sing to me
I couldn’t see at all.
I’m looking up and at the sky,
to find such wonderous voice.
Puzzly, puzzle, wonder why,
I hear but I have no choice.
‘Speak up, come forth, you ravel me’,
I potty menthol shout.
‘I know you hiddy by this tree’.
But still she won’t come out.
Such sofly singing lulled me sleep,
an hour or two or so
I wakeny slow and took a peep
and still no lady show.
Then suddy on a little twig
I thought I see a sight,
A tiny little tiny pig,
that sing with all it’s might
‘I thought you were a lady’,
I giggle, — well I may,
To my surprise the lady,
got up — and flew away.
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Aug 23, 2015 - 11:58am PT
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Tunnel Vision
Where is the pathway?
Time in the present state being at a premium,
I cannot afford a lengthy deliberation,
My fear of myself keeps getting in the way,
It gets in the way,
I'm stuck in the present,
Of who I've become,
So where is that pathway?
The pathway I was looking for,
Before I lost my way,
For in the present time,
Am I just the X-ray,
Of who I used to be?
See my conundrum,
A wayfarer in the steam of life,
In a world so far from all the other worlds,
Am I so uncertain,
Of who or what or where I am,
Than anybody else?
The tree of lengthy deliberation,
Keeps putting down new roots,
While I'm dancing and dangling precariously,
From brittle limb to brittle limb,
Who am I exactly?
I've tumbled down from heights before,
To cling and climb my way again,
Back up to heights I've hovered at,
'Till heights like earth I've mastered such,
Like walking solid ground,
But tethered to my circus act,
But now I'm down,
Hobbling wretched on the earth,
I wear a frown like some fallen angels crown,
Waiting for a phone call,
Which never comes and won't go down,
To let me off the hook.
The tunnel is square and round,
It's under the bed and in the ground,
And travels beneath the rail yard,
Where the rumbly rumble of railroad tracks,
Keeps bringing sand a'sifting down,
And plugs my tear ducts,
With earth so brown,
Rounded at the edges,
The tunnel spirals down,
To meet with reversed sunlight,
At the edge of negativity,
In a world that's upside down,
I working my way back again,
The rumbling of the train tracks,
Impedes my upward progress,
Pushing my magnetically resonating image aside,
I grovel back up to the surface,
To the positive test of sunlight,
And the apex of my life.
-bushman
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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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Aug 26, 2015 - 02:37am PT
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here's one i just wrote,
while grabbing a leak
and a peek toward the sunrise:
take away the east,
so that no new day finds me.
take away the stars,
so that no heaven tempts me.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Aug 29, 2015 - 07:50pm PT
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WEALTH
by Sherman Alexie
When other Indians want to give thanks
For my poems, stories, readings, and movies,
They often give me Pendleton blankets.
I think I own twenty-five or thirty
And actively use ten or twelve of them,
Which is, according to custom, rather odd.
Growing up on the Spokane Indian Rez,
I never saw a blanket leave its box
Because my mom thought they were gifts from God.
.......
WHITE GIRL POWWOW LOVE, 1978
by Sherman Alexie
She was skinny and buttermilk-pale.
She wore her hair with a rattail.
And I knew I'd two-step to jail
For her love, which was the no-fail
Pick-up line that year. "Me in jail,"
I said. "Only you got the bail
To rescue me." She smelled like stale
Everything, and though I was frail,
I talked her into chucking the bale
And "later"-ing her Dad, a whale
Who thought everything was for sale,
Especially the sacred. So we sailed,
Her and me, on the powwow trail,
Until my dirty joke splat-failed—-
The porno punchline was "Snails."
White Girl Angry, she dug her nails
Into my skin and said, "Why males
Have to heave and hove and dog wail
Such awful sh#t?" She was a gale—-
A storm through a trailer park vale—-
An F-5 on the tornado scale—-
And I wanted to aside her veil
And touch and memorize her pale
Skin like a blind man touches Braille,
And so I did. Damn, I went flail
On her breasts, and that tough rail
Of a girl went all weakness and quail.
I thought I was all rez-prevail,
But then she put on her chainmail
Armor and golf-ball-sized hailed
Me with this confessional tale:
"My Daddy is a goddamn Whale
Killer," she said. "Ain't no scale
To weigh his evil. His devil pail
Is filled to the brim." She wailed
Tears like anvils and then bailed
On me. She ran back down the trail,
And I ran after her, but I failed
To catch her. Her pain gave her sails.
And though I never saw her pale
Self again, I pray, without fail,
When I think of her stuck in jail,
Or maybe still walking powwow trail—-
A white girl, skinny, hard, and frail—-
And likely wed to a killer of whales.
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Exquozen on Highway One
It's just a simple story and its not much of an ode,
Cruising out the hotel drive my wife and I left our abode,
We drove out on the highway and passed a croaking toad,
As a new American sunset led us down the open road,
Excuse me for a moment while I back it up a bit,
The telephone was ringing and it wouldn't seem to quit,
So I finally I picked it up and I talked a little bit,
About an invite out to dinner with a man and wife that we just met,
That's what was happening and as far as I could tell,
The story not so unusual and nothing fishy for the smell,
Turns out he was a friend of a friend named of Gabriel,
And for long as I'd known Gabriel I thought I knew him well,
The evening sky was darkening the color of blue slate,
On that warm Pacific evening as we headed to our dinner date,
And as usual on vacation we were fashionably late,
To find them at the bar in a most inebriated state,
Ed Larue and his wife Mary hailed from Morongo Hills,
And we exchanged the usual formalities and talked about the bills,
As the waiter found our table to a tune by Steven Stills,
Then I took Larue aside for he looked quite green around the gills,
I asked what was the matter did I need to call a cab?
The he told me he was fine and he faked an upper jab,
He said he wished his wife would put a muzzle on her blab,
And then he bantered with the chef about the status of the crab,
On returning to the table I was right behind in tow,
When he squeezed between the women and my wife protested, "Whoa?"
He paid her no attention as he blurted out, "Exquoozemo!"
He was so rude I should have told him then and there where he could go.
But before my sweetheart knew it he was laying on her a kiss,
And the next thing he was kissing was my good wife's swinging fist,
My hand was almost at his throat when Ed's wife screamed and hissed,
She bounced a left hook off my nose as I was clearly getting pissed,
We all jumped from the table as the shouting reached high pitch,
The waiters had to stop my wife from strangling that bitch,
Ejected from the premises I accosted him without a glitch,
An uppercut into his gut sent him vomiting into the ditch,
Dragging me to the rental car my wife's disgust was plain to see,
We backed away and left them there the palm trees framing eerily,
That drunken staggering couple no more wretched company could there be,
As we drove away I distinctly recall him yelling out, "Exquooze Meeee!!"
There was no long discussion nor a moments hesitation,
We checked out and continued to another destination,
And the next day we were holding hands and strolling along the ocean,
As speechless smiles and laughing eyes kept up our conversation.
-bushman
09/03/2015
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Sep 13, 2015 - 04:42pm PT
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I will repost the poem I posted here 'the Seafarer's first Dream' at a later date with some minor edits.
-bushman
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Sep 16, 2015 - 03:20pm PT
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When Autumn Comes Around
She's come to her season now,
The autumn,
Like the dry creek that briefly flows,
And settles down the hillside glen,
With moist cool air along a trodden path,
Awakening remembrances,
Of younger years,
And loved ones so revered,
Secreted, yet deserving,
That their remembrances be told,
See him there least of all myself,
The young man in full bloom,
As he posed beside a deserted mineshaft,
Thinking that he was a man,
But he was still a babe then,
Standing at the cleft of who he would become,
Now looking back and spying him in all his vigor,
I barely know him now,
But remember what he wanted for,
Those things so less important now,
Things that ease like breezes there today,
There and gone,
And what of him?
Now myself the man,
With memories made of wood and stone,
As I negotiate this flesh and bone,
Again comes autumn my old friend,
She helps to carry cherished grief,
And hints at my atonement,
You might have seen him in his day,
Lost to us one October long ago,
Since Tobin sought the mountain spirit quest,
Which took brother and son away,
So enormous was the spirit of the man,
We were near the same height,
I thought he was much taller then,
A welterweight at that,
Unattached in some way to the earth,
As she lie in wait,
Until that day,
When autumn found him,
We shared that quest of boy heart,
As young toe-heads we somehow knew,
His legacy would yet unfold,
A brother's memories now kept,
As to my heart was his learned patient kindness,
I remember him that way,
The way he was towards me,
Her name was Barbara,
Hers the sight and smell of ocean,
It thrills me as it did for her,
October was her birthday,
Her mother's heart so strong and true,
A courageous mind not giving in,
Until life went from my teaching mom,
Her grown to wise professor hood,
Who'd seen the world and then,
She knew there'd be no bargain struck,
Or deals to make in compromise,
But her legacy still perseveres,
Beyond this glade so weathered at my step,
Where leaves of brown now fall,
Like autumn’s memories,
They go tumbling down,
And I find comfort in old photographs,
Of young mother's radiant face,
Calling here briefly year-to-year,
Autumn bears softly with her grace,
But for a month or two,
Her balmy winds a blushing so,
As if time were traversed,
Going sideways in her path,
She follows further in its wake,
To slide with stealth her silky hand,
Aside the simple days we live,
And those memories that we make,
As she saunters down the hill to wash her hem,
In a lonely pond beneath the firs,
Before the winter comes.
-bushman
09/16/2015
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Sep 19, 2015 - 06:33am PT
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Seize they control done rested and now procured.
Not creepy old knees bent can't kneel no more
Fallen on that sword once more
Asked if ? A good man? Is?
Are they the same who rested , as those who wrestled
With no need. For sobriety in cruel dysfunctional Orem born?
What is is that the point Gravity is not up or down just is
Too
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Sep 19, 2015 - 10:53am PT
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When Angels and Demons grow Old
"You're getting older now,"
The doctor said to me,
This concept of myself,
And who I used to be,
Like stale pieces of bread,
Withering to mold,
Dissipating to the ether,
To the darkness and the cold,
Putting things in true perspective.
Like an ever present hiss,
Life is suffering and chaos,
Quite the opposite of bliss,
Were I to live a thousand years,
It wouldn't change the fact,
That somewhere near the end,
I would begin my final act,
Like an actor on a stage,
With an audience of myself,
And present in the balcony,
Sits my ego like an elf,
Who judges every nuance,
Every word of every scene,
He always plays the critic,
Over thinking everything,
Social order would impose,
A prison for the mind,
And our willingness to express,
The best about our kind,
Not the intellect or the form,
Though exquisite and complex,
But our capacity for suffering,
And enduring what comes next,
So of agony and misery,
When I think I've had my fill,
And I would not find relief,
From a potion or a pill,
While reflecting on mortality,
There's a victory to be had,
In recording simple words,
Whether poignant or just sad,
Riding pain through every night,
For many months without an end,
One might try to strike a bargain,
Or seek exit as a friend,
But the suffering I can't escape,
Has been revealing to my mind,
It's more than inspiration,
But something rare for me to find,
There’s a quality in listening,
When the hearing starts to go,
There is comfort giving empathy,
When bad eyesight doesn't show,
And new wisdom found in patience,
That I never thought I'd know,
For my angels and my demons,
Are finally growing old.
-bushman
09/19/15
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Sep 23, 2015 - 04:19am PT
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A Whistling in the Dark
Happy wife
Happy life
So many lists a gathering dust
Honey dos
Honey don'ts
Holidays that get put on hold
Work until you're growing old
As I now go under the knife
Happy life
Happy I
Once
I visited my old man
When gramps he worked for Uncle Sam
Disdain he had once for Japan
Now turned to love
So pure
So right
And my heart goes out to him
Tonight
She married me when we were young
Young her and I
So wild and free
But slave to our humanity
We touched tongues and other things
My wife sees all the best in me
What I can't say
She says
For me
With that you can only guess
But I confess her vanity
Really confuses me
And I speak her tongue
Occasionally
So kinders and their kinders
Try to please
As I once tried
They do so much more than me
But I supply
A wealth of stern hypocrisy
Transparent to I
Best not for all the world
To see
So see
Happy pain
There's no rain
There's no rain that we can see
No sudden revelations
Only misdirected incantations
Blathering on so endlessly
From the political box of my tv
It strikes me odd
They cannot see their futile words
So many follow easily
So few think independently
That some of us
Can see
I see
Happy challenge
I once ran up the mountain trail
Or toiled with loads
That made me smell
And followed giants without fail
Up granite spires
O'er precipices shear and bold
It made me strong as I grew old
My hands were gnarled just like the elm
Of trees I wielded at my helm
Like mountain men of days of old
I swam up steam and broke the mold
And stood up to transgressors who
Would tear me down
As some would do
They might have thought I would lie down
They walked away
I stood my ground
But not without giving up
That pound
Of flesh
Up hill I roll
With dogs as I grow old
Each and every one
A friend to me
They've taught me every day what they
Could give of themselves so endlessly
I walk with them as they point out to me
Look at all there is to see
But they like I are mortal
Life is rare even here
As if the illusion of abundance
Outweighs
Our vision
Yellow grass
White hair
Wrinkles here and wrinkles there
Stop and stare the mirrors they are everywhere
And I can't say for certain when
Things got so bad or good back then
I'm only as old as I'll ever be
And only as young as I am
So I relish
It
As I go under the knife
Happy pain
Happy strife
As clear as clear as things can be
At two am so sleeplessly
I write down what it means to me
To breathe the air
And wonderingly what comes to me
As time is near for me to sleep
Wanting not that my words should slip
Beneath the waves so soon
Reflecting in this
Happiness
A whistling goes our breathe
Happy
This
As soon do I
Go under the knife
I mustn't forget to buy
A birthday gift and card
Happy wife
Happy life
-bushman
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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The cops are coming, you can go anywhere you like, but you can't stay here.
I was born an orange redhead
Fading blonde bender to bender
But sometime during the '80s
Like Elvis in Las Vegas
It checked out 'Return to Sender'
Now my hair's done gone and left me
Like the '90s when my kid
Had no use for the old man
And who could blame him when
I was his age that's what I did
Now it grows in those odd places
'Till the 'bug man' comes around
Or my wife appears with tweezers
When I used to squeal in protest now
I give up without a sound
Of those follicles I once had
The last vestiges of my mane
They've departed to deep cover
Abandoning their old post
For a lonely shower drain
-bushman
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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'Clot Dog'
Yawl I wanna hawt dawg
With some mustard n' some cheese
Some bacon n' some mayo
With some greasy French fries please
Oh so sharp and painfully
Mah heart has finally
Dun plain give out on me
Whoa is that a light I see?
So bring some soopa size'a
To the cardiac ward
And some O2 to be fair
The grim reaper will be there
Feed me hawt dawgs on a bun
With nitrates and sodium
Jus' like a loaded gun
Cuz a heart attack's no fun
Bring some squirrel and battered catfish
and some okra fried in lard
With lots of salt and pepper
To keep my arteries hard
Jus' like on my fambly tree
Where we ate what we killed
And we became what we ate
As we got our bellies filled
If I drank a lot o' booze
I would prolly get scirosis
But with frankfurters 'n cheese
It's arteriolar sclerosis
So Yawl I wanna hawt dawg
With some mustard n' a pickle
When it comes to heart disease
I can't be all that fickle
-bushman
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Opprobrium
or
The Deluge
(written in response to a
challenge to use all of the
five English words ending
in uum in a single poem)
Earth once was an Elysium
Within the space continuum
Which stretches in perpetuum.
It’s now a fouled residuum
Which orbits in the vacuum.
Said Yahweh, during triduum,
“That place is Pandemonium,
I’ll cure that rank contagium!
I’ll quench that foul effluvium!
I’ll send down a diluvium!
“An inundating menstruum
Will solve that human odium
And bring back equilibrium -
And for the next millenium
I’ll have an oceanarium!”
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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i um stunned
cave poetry!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 10, 2015 - 03:15am PT
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Muppet, say hello to Mr. Merry. You've met before.
Isn't she just the little sweetheart of the rodeo, Wayne?
The picture reminds me of this, one of my favorite poems, somehow--not that Miss Muppet would ever neglect chores.
SARAH CYNTHIA SYLVIA STOUT
by Shel Silverstein
Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out.
She'd wash the dishes and scrub the pans
Cook the yams and spice the hams,
And though her parents would scream and shout,
She simply would not take the garbage out.
And so it piled up to the ceiling:
Coffee grounds, potato peelings,
Brown bananas and rotten peas,
Chunks of sour cottage cheese.
It filled the can, it covered the floor,
It cracked the windows and blocked the door,
With bacon rinds and chicken bones,
Drippy ends of ice cream cones,
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peels,
Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans, and tangerines,
Crusts of black-burned buttered toast,
Grisly bits of beefy roast.
The garbage rolled on down the halls,
It raised the roof, it broke the walls,
I mean, greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,
Blobs of gooey bubble gum,
Cellophane from old bologna,
Rubbery, blubbery macaroni,
Peanut butter, caked and dry,
Curdled milk, and crusts of pie,
Rotting melons, dried-up mustard,
Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,
Cold French fries and rancid meat,
Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.
At last the garbage reached so high
That finally it touched the sky,
And none of her friends would come to play,
And all of her neighbors moved away;
And finally, Sarah Cynthia Stout
Said, "Okay, I'll take the garbage out!"
But then, of course it was too late,
The garbage reached across the state,
From New York to the Golden Gate;
And there in the garbage she did hate
Poor Sarah met an awful fate
That I cannot right now relate
Because the hour is much too late
But children, remember Sarah Stout,
And always take the garbage out.
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 10, 2015 - 12:01pm PT
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How about some political limericks?
Here's one for Canada:
Oiligarchs
Big oil in our country depends
On Conservative government friends.
They do business so well
That it’s quite hard to tell
Where one starts and the other one ends.
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Oct 15, 2015 - 05:39pm PT
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A Lyric for Turmeric
There once was an old man named Eric
With a remedy most esoteric
He tried a high dose of Turmeric
Then his wife became very hysteric
It was bordering on the Homeric
As she acted completely barbaric
Then she blew her top like a derrick
With a rage totally atmospheric
It was worse than a Taliban cleric
So he settled on trying generic
With doses much lower numeric
But it left him feeling dysphoric
And he certainly wasn't euphoric
About turmeric shipped way from Zürich
For the cost had become meteoric
But he had to stay clear of rhetoric
From a wife with a temper historic
So he drank some sulphur hydrochloric
And his dregs have become prehistoric
-bushman
10/15/15
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 15, 2015 - 07:49pm PT
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Great, Bushman!
Anybody remember Lewis Carol's nonsense verse, "Jabberwocky"?
Here's an eastern Arctic bastardization:
Lewis Carrol’s Other Walrus...
(Odobenus neologismus)
(with apologies...)
‘Twas chillig, and the slymey cod
Did smyre and swimble in the wave –
All ditsy were the eider ducks,
And the kinguks outrave.
Beware the Meanuit, my son -
The spears that pierce, the nets that catch,
Beware the Qallunaat, and shun
The roonious umiaq!
He shined his Ivrey tusks with sand –
Long time the noxsome foe he sought.
Then hauled out he on a floe of snee,
And basked awhile in thought.
And while in blubbish thought he lay
A Meanuk, Shootagook by name,
Came poddling through the bulgy seas,
Which curdled as he came!
One two! One two! And through and through
The Ivrey tusks went crunch and crack!
He made it dead, and with its head
He came spaloshing back.
And hast thou slain the Meanuit?!
Come to my flippers, whiskrish boy!
Oh clamjus day! Burgoo! Mornay!
He snortled in his joy.
‘Twas chillig, and the slymey cod
Did smyre and swimble in the wave.
All ditsy were the eider ducks,
And the kinguks outrave.
WM
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 16, 2015 - 04:02am PT
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Rumination on the Tard Bard
"Alas," said Bushman, "my poor friend Yorick.
I knew his verses were sophomoric.
They were acidic, but just mildly boric;
His descriptions, all anthropomorphic."
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Oct 24, 2015 - 10:42pm PT
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Goat Priestess on High
Among dark misty ruins
lie royal tombs in antiquity,
Lost in veils of time
to supplant divine iniquity,
With a cosmic congruence
of celestial intelligence,
They came they saw they conquered
with unprecedented due diligence,
Now all in state they lie
once masterfully predatory,
Having sought to reverse
an evolutionary catastrophe,
Laying pious claim to chaos
they called forth the magnanimous,
But supplanted in its stead
a she goat most ignominious,
Mythic blaring rams horns
heralded the tragic she beast,
Arriving at the parapet
cloven hoofed yet graceful,
All along the hallowed halls
lined the tombs of ancient astronauts,
Who died reticent in grief
for having sacrificed all that was for naught,
In raiment of cotton
she proceeded with an epitaph,
And with visage foul and rotten
she pointed out their cryptograph,
And the prophesies fulfilled by
their reprobate microbiology,
In that bovine physiognomy
laced with callousness and calumny,
While continuing the diatribe
on the alien genomics,
Were working in the background
the hidden electronics,
And the recondite mechanics
of an underground facility,
Unimaginably efficacious
in it's manifest utility,
All creatures great and small
and the entourage of mutants,
Held rapt by all her countenance,
and goatish jurisprudence,
Were preoccupied with fervor
indiscreetly unaware,
Of Goat Priestess and her purview
and her lethal Savoir faire,
Intersected like a matrix
were the multiple connections,
Of creator and creation
and all of their deceptions,
Of the magnitude and mastery
the latitude and scope,
Of an erstwhile superannuated
seraphim of hope,
And by her own designs
leading all to take the fall,
Went the Goat Priestess on high
in an infamous cabal,
Though shrouded was a secret
unbeknown to her through time,
Was a deadly apparatus
in the Capra hircus line,
A peculiar complication
set in motion by the architects,
Encrypted in the blastula
of the caprine she goat sect,
Something heavy in her hand
as she saw it glowing white,
The appendage was erupting
with an eerie glowing light,
With a nauseating drag
the arm was pulled erect,
To a vertical position
by the gyroscope effect,
In opposed rotating spirals
coruscating laser light,
Emanated from the artifice
resplendent in the night,
And seizing at an axe,
the priestess was frenetic
Before she hacked it off
the limb was fully cybernetic,
The craft detached it fused the wound
and exited the proximity,
The priestess gasped in horror
at the remnant of her extremity,
No action ever trivial
no truth too enigmatic,
The company of partisans
injudicious yet pragmatic,
Extracted her to safety
with provisions for her honor,
Not grasping at the transubstantiation
that was upon her,
Of vegetable and mineral
part goat and part of woman,
The angel and the incubus
half animal and human,
The robot god and alien
of birth and Armageddon,
The baptism and requiem
that counts for our acumen,
For lack of comprehension
we dramatize the mystery,
For all the best intentions
we romanticize our history,
We populate the emptiness
with useless superstition,
With the monsters and the demons
that bring meaning to fruition,
The Goat Priestess on high
was caught and never knew her way,
Creation myth and fall from grace
can happen every day,
To beings that have come and gone
there's no homage to pay,
For interstellar wormhole travel
might be for us one day,
Every species was considered
Homo sapiens without exception,
But our latent collective consciousness
part cause for our rejection,
In a tragedy of circumstantial
cosmological committee,
Our intelligence non-exculpatory
on us they had no pity,
Out of chaos comes order
then chaos again,
Uncertainty and folly
on that we can depend,
Evolution like disorder
with its delicate imperfection,
Are like beauty in the making
and of natural selection.
-Tim Sorenson/aka bushman
(Archived WGAW)
04/16/2013)
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 25, 2015 - 12:04pm PT
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On Biological Terminology
Taxonomy, applied to organisms
vegetable, avian or mammalian,
Involves Greek or Latin terms which are
obscure, arcane and sesquipedalian.
I find it possible to remember and even blithely to announce
The mellifluous and euphonious name of a bat called Myotis,
But I become dyslexic, dyspeptic and apoplectic
trying to recall and pronounce
The prickly polysyllabics of the sea urchin,Strongylocentrotus.
And as for biologic processes, why, the terminology borders on apocrypha!
For example, the strobilation of the scyphistoma of the Cestoda and Coelenterata,
Which, by division of the larvae into segments, produces multiple sons and daughta.
There must be easier terms to use –
Or anyhow, there oughta.
wm
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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The Prisoner of Chillon
By Lord Byron (George Gordon)
My hair is grey, but not with years,
Nor grew it white
In a single night,
As men's have grown from sudden fears:
My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil,
But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon's spoil,
And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are bann'd, and barr'd—forbidden fare;
But this was for my father's faith
I suffer'd chains and courted death;
That father perish'd at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake;
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling place;
We were seven—who now are one,
Six in youth, and one in age,
Finish'd as they had begun,
Proud of Persecution's rage;
One in fire, and two in field,
Their belief with blood have seal'd,
Dying as their father died,
For the God their foes denied;—
Three were in a dungeon cast,
Of whom this wreck is left the last.
There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old,
There are seven columns, massy and grey,
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray,
A sunbeam which hath lost its way,
And through the crevice and the cleft
Of the thick wall is fallen and left;
Creeping o'er the floor so damp,
Like a marsh's meteor lamp:
And in each pillar there is a ring,
And in each ring there is a chain;
That iron is a cankering thing,
For in these limbs its teeth remain,
With marks that will not wear away,
Till I have done with this new day,
Which now is painful to these eyes,
Which have not seen the sun so rise
For years—I cannot count them o'er,
I lost their long and heavy score
When my last brother droop'd and died,
And I lay living by his side.
They chain'd us each to a column stone,
And we were three—yet, each alone;
We could not move a single pace,
We could not see each other's face,
But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight:
And thus together—yet apart,
Fetter'd in hand, but join'd in heart,
'Twas still some solace in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,
To hearken to each other's speech,
And each turn comforter to each
With some new hope, or legend old,
Or song heroically bold;
But even these at length grew cold.
Our voices took a dreary tone,
An echo of the dungeon stone,
A grating sound, not full and free,
As they of yore were wont to be:
It might be fancy—but to me
They never sounded like our own.
I was the eldest of the three
And to uphold and cheer the rest
I ought to do—and did my best—
And each did well in his degree.
The youngest, whom my father loved,
Because our mother's brow was given
To him, with eyes as blue as heaven—
For him my soul was sorely moved:
And truly might it be distress'd
To see such bird in such a nest;
For he was beautiful as day—
(When day was beautiful to me
As to young eagles, being free)—
A polar day, which will not see
A sunset till its summer's gone,
Its sleepless summer of long light,
The snow-clad offspring of the sun:
And thus he was as pure and bright,
And in his natural spirit gay,
With tears for nought but others' ills,
And then they flow'd like mountain rills,
Unless he could assuage the woe
Which he abhorr'd to view below.
The other was as pure of mind,
But form'd to combat with his kind;
Strong in his frame, and of a mood
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood,
And perish'd in the foremost rank
With joy:—but not in chains to pine:
His spirit wither'd with their clank,
I saw it silently decline—
And so perchance in sooth did mine:
But yet I forced it on to cheer
Those relics of a home so dear.
He was a hunter of the hills,
Had followed there the deer and wolf;
To him this dungeon was a gulf,
And fetter'd feet the worst of ills.
Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls:
A thousand feet in depth below
Its massy waters meet and flow;
Thus much the fathom-line was sent
From Chillon's snow-white battlement,
Which round about the wave inthralls:
A double dungeon wall and wave
Have made—and like a living grave
Below the surface of the lake
The dark vault lies wherein we lay:
We heard it ripple night and day;
Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd;
And I have felt the winter's spray
Wash through the bars when winds were high
And wanton in the happy sky;
And then the very rock hath rock'd,
And I have felt it shake, unshock'd,
Because I could have smiled to see
The death that would have set me free.
I said my nearer brother pined,
I said his mighty heart declined,
He loathed and put away his food;
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude,
For we were used to hunter's fare,
And for the like had little care:
The milk drawn from the mountain goat
Was changed for water from the moat,
Our bread was such as captives' tears
Have moisten'd many a thousand years,
Since man first pent his fellow men
Like brutes within an iron den;
But what were these to us or him?
These wasted not his heart or limb;
My brother's soul was of that mould
Which in a palace had grown cold,
Had his free breathing been denied
The range of the steep mountain's side;
But why delay the truth?—he died.
I saw, and could not hold his head,
Nor reach his dying hand—nor dead,—
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain,
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain.
He died—and they unlock'd his chain,
And scoop'd for him a shallow grave
Even from the cold earth of our cave.
I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay
His corse in dust whereon the day
Might shine—it was a foolish thought,
But then within my brain it wrought,
That even in death his freeborn breast
In such a dungeon could not rest.
I might have spared my idle prayer—
They coldly laugh'd—and laid him there:
The flat and turfless earth above
The being we so much did love;
His empty chain above it leant,
Such Murder's fitting monument!
But he, the favourite and the flower,
Most cherish'd since his natal hour,
His mother's image in fair face
The infant love of all his race
His martyr'd father's dearest thought,
My latest care, for whom I sought
To hoard my life, that his might be
Less wretched now, and one day free;
He, too, who yet had held untired
A spirit natural or inspired—
He, too, was struck, and day by day
Was wither'd on the stalk away.
Oh, God! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing
In any shape, in any mood:
I've seen it rushing forth in blood,
I've seen it on the breaking ocean
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion,
I've seen the sick and ghastly bed
Of Sin delirious with its dread:
But these were horrors—this was woe
Unmix'd with such—but sure and slow:
He faded, and so calm and meek,
So softly worn, so sweetly weak,
So tearless, yet so tender—kind,
And grieved for those he left behind;
With all the while a cheek whose bloom
Was as a mockery of the tomb
Whose tints as gently sunk away
As a departing rainbow's ray;
An eye of most transparent light,
That almost made the dungeon bright;
And not a word of murmur—not
A groan o'er his untimely lot,—
A little talk of better days,
A little hope my own to raise,
For I was sunk in silence—lost
In this last loss, of all the most;
And then the sighs he would suppress
Of fainting Nature's feebleness,
More slowly drawn, grew less and less:
I listen'd, but I could not hear;
I call'd, for I was wild with fear;
I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread
Would not be thus admonishèd;
I call'd, and thought I heard a sound—
I burst my chain with one strong bound,
And rushed to him:—I found him not,
I only stirred in this black spot,
I only lived, I only drew
The accursed breath of dungeon-dew;
The last, the sole, the dearest link
Between me and the eternal brink,
Which bound me to my failing race
Was broken in this fatal place.
One on the earth, and one beneath—
My brothers—both had ceased to breathe:
I took that hand which lay so still,
Alas! my own was full as chill;
I had not strength to stir, or strive,
But felt that I was still alive—
A frantic feeling, when we know
That what we love shall ne'er be so.
I know not why
I could not die,
I had no earthly hope—but faith,
And that forbade a selfish death.
What next befell me then and there
I know not well—I never knew—
First came the loss of light, and air,
And then of darkness too:
I had no thought, no feeling—none—
Among the stones I stood a stone,
And was, scarce conscious what I wist,
As shrubless crags within the mist;
For all was blank, and bleak, and grey;
It was not night—it was not day;
It was not even the dungeon-light,
So hateful to my heavy sight,
But vacancy absorbing space,
And fixedness—without a place;
There were no stars, no earth, no time,
No check, no change, no good, no crime
But silence, and a stirless breath
Which neither was of life nor death;
A sea of stagnant idleness,
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless!
A light broke in upon my brain,—
It was the carol of a bird;
It ceased, and then it came again,
The sweetest song ear ever heard,
And mine was thankful till my eyes
Ran over with the glad surprise,
And they that moment could not see
I was the mate of misery;
But then by dull degrees came back
My senses to their wonted track;
I saw the dungeon walls and floor
Close slowly round me as before,
I saw the glimmer of the sun
Creeping as it before had done,
But through the crevice where it came
That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame,
And tamer than upon the tree;
A lovely bird, with azure wings,
And song that said a thousand things,
And seemed to say them all for me!
I never saw its like before,
I ne'er shall see its likeness more:
It seem'd like me to want a mate,
But was not half so desolate,
And it was come to love me when
None lived to love me so again,
And cheering from my dungeon's brink,
Had brought me back to feel and think.
I know not if it late were free,
Or broke its cage to perch on mine,
But knowing well captivity,
Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine!
Or if it were, in wingèd guise,
A visitant from Paradise;
For—Heaven forgive that thought! the while
Which made me both to weep and smile—
I sometimes deem'd that it might be
My brother's soul come down to me;
But then at last away it flew,
And then 'twas mortal well I knew,
For he would never thus have flown—
And left me twice so doubly lone,—
Lone as the corse within its shroud,
Lone as a solitary cloud,
A single cloud on a sunny day,
While all the rest of heaven is clear,
A frown upon the atmosphere,
That hath no business to appear
When skies are blue, and earth is gay.
A kind of change came in my fate,
My keepers grew compassionate;
I know not what had made them so,
They were inured to sights of woe,
But so it was:—my broken chain
With links unfasten'd did remain,
And it was liberty to stride
Along my cell from side to side,
And up and down, and then athwart,
And tread it over every part;
And round the pillars one by one,
Returning where my walk begun,
Avoiding only, as I trod,
My brothers' graves without a sod;
For if I thought with heedless tread
My step profaned their lowly bed,
My breath came gaspingly and thick,
And my crush'd heart felt blind and sick.
I made a footing in the wall,
It was not therefrom to escape,
For I had buried one and all,
Who loved me in a human shape;
And the whole earth would henceforth be
A wider prison unto me:
No child, no sire, no kin had I,
No partner in my misery;
I thought of this, and I was glad,
For thought of them had made me mad;
But I was curious to ascend
To my barr'd windows, and to bend
Once more, upon the mountains high,
The quiet of a loving eye.
I saw them—and they were the same,
They were not changed like me in frame;
I saw their thousand years of snow
On high—their wide long lake below,
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow;
I heard the torrents leap and gush
O'er channell'd rock and broken bush;
I saw the white-wall'd distant town,
And whiter sails go skimming down;
And then there was a little isle,
Which in my very face did smile,
The only one in view;
A small green isle, it seem'd no more,
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor,
But in it there were three tall trees,
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze,
And by it there were waters flowing,
And on it there were young flowers growing,
Of gentle breath and hue.
The fish swam by the castle wall,
And they seem'd joyous each and all;
The eagle rode the rising blast,
Methought he never flew so fast
As then to me he seem'd to fly;
And then new tears came in my eye,
And I felt troubled—and would fain
I had not left my recent chain;
And when I did descend again,
The darkness of my dim abode
Fell on me as a heavy load;
It was as is a new-dug grave,
Closing o'er one we sought to save,—
And yet my glance, too much opprest,
Had almost need of such a rest.
It might be months, or years, or days—
I kept no count, I took no note—
I had no hope my eyes to raise,
And clear them of their dreary mote;
At last men came to set me free;
I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where;
It was at length the same to me,
Fetter'd or fetterless to be,
I learn'd to love despair.
And thus when they appear'd at last,
And all my bonds aside were cast,
These heavy walls to me had grown
A hermitage—and all my own!
And half I felt as they were come
To tear me from a second home:
With spiders I had friendship made
And watch'd them in their sullen trade,
Had seen the mice by moonlight play,
And why should I feel less than they?
We were all inmates of one place,
And I, the monarch of each race,
Had power to kill—yet, strange to tell!
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell;
My very chains and I grew friends,
So much a long communion tends
To make us what we are:—even I
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh.
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Nov 24, 2015 - 11:57am PT
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Blessed is the Turkey
Blessed is the turkey who has paid for all our sins,
For we immigrants and pilgrims of un-sacred origins,
Who traveled from so far away to be Americans,
Displacing all the people just the means to the ends,
Like slavery and imprisonment our gratitude depends,
On the name of your religion and the color of your skins,
So gather around the table and imbibe with us my friends,
The constitution favors in the end the one that wins,
Now bring along your wallet and your legislative friends,
And all the rich and famous and some criminal king pins,
'Cause no matter what the hand you're dealt the dealer always wins,
And blessed are the turkeys who have paid for all our sins.
-turkeyman
11/24/2015
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 24, 2015 - 02:27pm PT
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The prisoner of Chillon escaped, the way I heard it.
He's now somewhere on the Cote d'Azure and is know as The Prisoner of Chillout.
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Just another simple rhyme here and I'm not trying to make light humor or to be insulting, but I believe the life and death situation of so many millions trying to remain sober and survive alcoholism requires some levity to temper all the seriousness. At least the seriousness of my recovery has required large doses of it, but then, that's just me.
The Sound of One Ass Flappin'
There's that time of my life
Thought I had it all down
I kept foolin' myself
While wearin' a frown
I was way down inside
Where I once kept my crown
But this day was done
When the chips were all down
There once was 'this' lad
Who with intricate plan
Would control his whole life
Were it not for the 'man'
Least that's what I thought
Trading chance for some sand
Feeling empty and undone
With delusions so grand
Then the wife and kids left
As my sanity darted
And some the clarity set
Like the Red Seas that parted
I had finally lost hope
To find reason within
And a life without drink
Or a place to begin
And a voice from within
And some well equipped friends
Pointed me to a path
Where a world without ends
So less dire and grim
Than the place I was in
Yet the alter of self
Was to sacrifice from within
That fun luvin guy
Who I thought was my bro
Who would lead by the nose
This child who would go
Was my selfish-est self
That I ever did know
He the life of the party
Cared not for me no
And this intricate self
Compartmentalized
Was never that crazy just
Substance compromised
All my defects and shortcomings
Denied to my sight
Would nerr hold me hostage
When held up to the light
Confused yet by self
And deluded by fun
To cop to my selfishness
Has had me on the run
Though denied by the truth
And the light of the sun
It remains a most ardent
Insidious gun
It would sabotage all
Given half of a chance
But is countered by selflessness
Well in advance
I'd trade alcoholic sickness
For the duel of the self
In leu of sure death
On a liquor store shelf
It's a delicate dance
But a bet that I'll take
With returns high and low
There's so much more at stake
There's the family I love
There's my want and my need
Being true to myself
Remains paramount indeed
So demanding control
And directing the show
In all aspects of life
As if I should know
Beyond all expectation
In reality won't happen
And rings hollow as the sound
Of one ass that's flappin
-bushman
12/06/2015
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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The Things that came out of the Corpses in the Old Mill
One day I went exploring
The old mill upon the hill
Boarded and abandoned
I could not resist the thrill
My parents both had warned me
But temptation had its way
I pried the boards off of the door
And went inside that day
The smell was what I noticed
When I climbed the rotten stairs
To the fifth floor of the old mill
Then I saw them lying there
Their faces brown and swollen
Their prison blues turned green
The stench was thick and horrid
And the flies the worst I'd seen
Two inmates that were wanted
Had hid out in this lair
Of their obvious demise
Of little did I care
But what I witnessed then
Dare I possibly describe
At the top of that old mill
As I turned on heel to jibe
I had heard a sucking sound
As their heads fell on the floor
And something escaped the corpses
And slid across the floor
With such hideous disgust
I will tell you in detail
Nearly worse than the sight
Was their nauseating smell
Coming at me on those floorboards
From the two dead men's remains
Were two giant grayish slugs
With large and bulging veins
And a cry caught in my throat
As I launched towards the stairs
And a chill was at my neck
On my scalp were standing hairs
And I've never run so fast
As I did upon that day
And I never will escape
And I'll never get away
For although I soon found safety
In the shelter of my home
There will be no sanctuary
In my dreams where they still roam
They were hideous and gray
With their brown and bulging veins
For where they slid across the floor
There were dark and smoldering stains
For a child of tender years
Though he now grown old and gray
Should never see such a horror
And it never goes away
Well the old mill burned down years ago
And no one will ever know
What did happen in that place
And where never again I'll go
-bushman
12/06/2015
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Thanks for posting that Marlow.
I had never read
The Prisoner of Chillon.
It was such an inspiring poem, as captivating as the
captivity of the subject within it.
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Jan 15, 2016 - 08:47am PT
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A Woman's Touch
I glanced upon my morning view
With nothing missing or askew
And saw the trees and morning sky
And light reflected to my eye
With racks of movies and of song
That we've collected all along
And there aligning window sill
Are boxes some with hopes we've filled
And some contain the dear remains
Of pets like children's tears that stain
Our hearts until the day comes near
They're cast in river's waters clear
Flowing from the glaciers melt
Where we'll hold sacred how we felt
When warm soft puppies tumbled forth
Warmed to our hearts for all their worth
And we can say goodbye to those
Of loyal paws and cold wet nose
Until then they'll stay on the shelf
Revered like spirits of woodland elf
But something there in window frame
Occurs to me and calls to name
The one whose feel for craft and art
Captured my eye and stole my heart
My wedded partner and my spouse
Whose touched in every part this house
Someone I treasure more I think
As time goes by with every blink
Reflecting on our lives I see
The love that she has brought to me
The warmth of family and of hope
Through darkened days I've learned to cope
And nurse to health my lifelong friend
Till I would see her smile again
And share once more her wants and wiles
Her mystery and how she beguiles
Like that which frames my morning view
As fleeting as the morning dew
And holds to promise dreams of such
The whispering of her woman's touch
-Tim Sorenson
01/15/2015
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MisterE
Gym climber
Small Town with a Big Back Yard
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Dark Bird
There is a dark bird
perhaps a raven
inside my head.
I open the cage sometimes
when I sleep;
my mind's eye
sees the shadow of wings
on my pillow.
EW 2/2/16
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Mar 12, 2016 - 11:49pm PT
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"Once a dream did weave a shade
O'er my angel-guarded bed,
That an emmet lost its way
Where on grass methought I lay.
Troubled, wildered, and forlorn,
Dark, benighted, travel-worn,
Over many a tangled spray,
All heart-broke, I heard her say:
'O my children! do they cry,
Do they hear their father sigh?
Now they look abroad to see,
Now return and weep for me.'
Pitying, I dropped a tear:
But I saw a glow-worm near,
Who replied, 'What wailing wight
Calls the watchman of the night?'
'I am set to light the ground,
While the beetle goes his round:
Follow now the beetle's hum;
Little wanderer, hie thee home!'"
A Dream from Songs of Innocence, William Blake
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Mar 13, 2016 - 06:30am PT
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Why Does Time Fly As We Get Older?
Why do we age and wither away
Does our expiration date always have to say
Time to go now you've had a nice stay
Fly into oblivion now be on your way
As if we had a choice anyway
We go where we go for our work and our play
Get used to the fact of our inevitable decay
Older and wiser sometimes much to our dismay
?
-bushman
03/13/2016
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Mar 14, 2016 - 01:40pm PT
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" Thou fair hair'd angel of the evening,
Now, while the sun rests on the mountains light,
Thy bright torch of love; Thy radiant crown
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves; and when thou drawest the
Blue curtains, scatter thy silver dew
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep.
Let thy west wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes
And wash the dusk with silver.
Soon, full, soon,
Dost thou withdraw; Then, the wolf rages wide,
And the lion glares thro' the dun forest.
The fleece of our flocks are covered with
Thy sacred dew; Protect them with thine influence."
Evening Star by William Blake
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Gary
Social climber
Where in the hell is Major Kong?
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Mar 14, 2016 - 07:25pm PT
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Death is a beautiful car parked only
to be stolen on a street lined with trees
whose branches are like the intestines
of an emerald.
You hotwire death, get in, and drive away
like a flag made from a thousand burning
funeral parlors.
You have stolen death because you're bored.
There's nothing good playing at the movies
in San Francisco.
You joyride around for a while listening
to the radio, and then abandon death, walk
away, and leave death for the police
to find.
 Brautigan
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MisterE
Gym climber
Small Town with a Big Back Yard
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Mar 21, 2016 - 09:32pm PT
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Wrote this one tonight:
BUSY FINGERS
I married a woman
with busy fingers -
fussing here, messing there.
Busy fingers
everywhere.
I sometimes look
at those hands when they are still,
study them intently
while she sleeps -
and wonder at the balance
of delicacy and strength.
Then,
they awaken.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Apr 30, 2016 - 04:03pm PT
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The Road to Onyx
(Fiction)
I was boy once who loved hunting
And mentored by a man named Red
Learned how to keep my rifle steady
And always aim right for the head
Taught me to track for elk and pronghorn
To only kill what we could eat
In east Nevada and Wyoming
Packing on horseback for a week
But I found girls and I went climbing
And on the weekend climbed the peaks
Life and its obligations found me
But still I'd disappear for weeks
I loved to follow my own foot falls
And let my heart ride on the wind
But when I heard that old Red died
I found myself back home again
He was my mother's only boyfriend
That ever treated her with worth
And I felt something in me dying
When he was covered by the earth
So then I set out to go hunting
Just to honor him in that way
To a place near the Bright Star Wilderness
Where we once hunted back in the day
Stopping at a bar east of Bakersfield
A woman for whom I didn't care
She followed me with her eyes
While she was playing with her hair
Something she whispered in my ear
Displeased the man across the room
Looked like he kept some ugly company
I left and knew it was none too soon
That day the mountains were so beautiful
And I had to go look at a horse
Way out on Ranch Lake Isabella
Though it was well to fear the worst
I kept on checking in my mirrors
There was one car also took my route
Up to that point fear had been a friend to me
Like the insurance in my boot
Turned off to Ranch Lake Isabella
Off highway one seventy eight
Many miles back I'd lost my tail
But at a turn off sat to wait
Some horses at the ranch were feisty
Of a strong gelding and a mare
The mare had time with trails and hunting
The gelding also to be fair
The rancher stared down at my hands
"There's something boy you ought to know
He spooks from things above eye level"
That said I loaded him up to go
As I turned east towards the pass
The moon rose full upon the crest
A dark sedan turned on its headlights
And pulled out towards me from the west
I wrote it off as paranoia
Dull to alarms by youth and pride
But I turned south five miles from Onyx
Killed the lights and stretched my hide
Then one lone car drove on east beyond me
It stopped a ways and there it sat
As it U-turned it killed its head lights
I was driving south before all that
Taking the back roads by the moonlight
Turned southwest to a gravel tract
I drove off road into a creek bed
And bought myself some time to act
Mounting my saddle with my rifle
I rode my horse a quarter-mile
Feeling secure that I had lost them
Dismounted then and walked a while
He went by Buck and in the moonlight
Though he was tan brown like his name
He had a white flame from his nose up
Between his ears into his mane
By first light we'd made our acquaintance
And made some distance just the same
Though over ridge tops and beyond
I checked my six time and again
I found some grass behind a boulder
Left Buck to graze and fixed the rein
Scrambling the rock I scanned the ridge lines
Something odd chattered in my brain
Dropped to my belly and heard the gunshot
Distant two figures I could see
I climbed down swiftly to mount the gelding
He spooked and then ran off on me
Boulders ran up along the ridge line
I ran to dart beyond the stones
Buck ran down into the next valley
I took a route all of my own
Finding high ground to spot my pursuers
When they saw Buck a shot rang out
They'd missed him neatly as he bolted
That's when I circled far about
I sprinted hard and gained momentum
My boot heels grinding on the grass
Beyond some trees o'er another ridge line
I found my horse standing at last
I took some time as I approached him
Calming my rasping burning breath
While speaking soft I watched the ridge top
My horse was life while the ridge was death
The trees had given us good cover
But trusted to no one again
That buck and I might find survival
So I thought to think like my new friend
One battered apple from my pocket
One hungry horse lest we might die
I took a bite and chewed it slowly
As Buck still had me in his eye
I took the bridle ever gently
Buck took the apple in his mouth
Riding saddle o'er the next ridge line
Heard two shots ring as we bolted south
There was a spot between two tree stumps
Overlooking the valley down below
The sunset quartered to southeast
That's where I reasoned they would go
At two hundred yards I had the drop
Adjusted minutely for the breeze
Last I remember one turned and ran
The other slumped down to his knees
I'd never hit a moving target
From anywhere close to this range
But when the shot rang out he stumbled
I felt something animal-like and strange
Buck walked behind and we tracked him east
I sighted him once but fired wide
We found more blood but he'd kept moving
We crept along as twilight sighed
The moon hung low now in the east
The breeze had settled to just a whisper
I heard his legs scraping the sage brush
He was up ahead then not too far
I'd never paid much heed to dying
But learned to listen on a curve
I knew what ambush laid in wait then
And that the wounded had way more nerve
I'd left Buck tied at an old mesquite
And in the moonlight on the scree
In darkness heard some labored breathing
There was a dark figure beneath a tree
Though my approach was slow and steady
He must have heard me on the sand
At forty feet a muzzle flashed
It felt like a hammer struck my hand
I saw my rifle at my feet
And limping towards me a tall man
That thirty eight from my right boot
Was something for which he hadn't planned
He had his rifle down as he walked
I aimed towards his head like I was taught
He wasn't a man to me right then
Just something dangerous to be shot
He took his last breaths on his back
And then I thought I heard him curse
"You mother f*#king bitch," he called me
I could have come up with much worse
Though he was dead I still felt sorry
For he had wounded me but good
His bullet had gone through my left hand
And one rib felt like splintered wood
I took my jacket off and tied it
To staunch the bleeding in my limb
I took a deep breath and passed out
I came to staring up at him
Maybe that horse had seen a raven
Whatever he saw I'll never know
I only knew was that he found me
And it was time for us to go
Don't remember getting to the road
Recalling only fields of hay
When a rancher found us Buck was grazing
I was passed out cold I’d heard them say
After three days sleeping in the hospital
I'd had my fill of loving care
The cops they asked me plenty of questions
Then suggested I wasn't welcome there
Said I pissed off some local gangsters
Two members had singled me out for play
With no clue what was in the bargain
When they went hunting me that day
I picked up Buck where he'd been stabled
With apples and two bales of hay
We headed east over to Ridgecrest
Three ninety five, then north all day
We only stopped for fuel and groceries
Slept once off road near Reno way
Heard there was lots of grass up in Oregon
And peace of mind, that's what they say
-Tim Sorenson
(Archived,
Writers Guild of America West
04/30/2016)
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Apr 30, 2016 - 04:46pm PT
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Good work, Tim! Great to get original stuff like this.
Just read your short life history - really liked it. I too have been a firefighter, EMT and worked in the trees. Can identify.
Wayne
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Apr 30, 2016 - 04:56pm PT
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Thanks Wayne,
I would never expect any compliments,
but that means a lot to me.
-Tim
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 30, 2016 - 07:02pm PT
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Wayne's REALLY interesting.
Fossil Climber, you ever grow your beard out?
I mean, when you aren't huffin' and puffin' over the Brooks Range on skinny skis, pullin' a sled like a draft animal?
Let me thank you in arrears
For helping me lose my fears
When I began to churn out verse
It could have been lots, lots worse
Except for your good advice
To young poets who are mice
Cheersies to you, Northman!
And to Tim, who's now the ST laureate by default in the absence of a certain other northperson, you're doing fine and probably don't smell like beer. (Never met either of you squirts, but have my own images/sensations created by your words).
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Apr 30, 2016 - 08:52pm PT
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I think Bushman and Mouse are terrific!
But I should be much more specific.
They are both immensely prolific
And deserve our comments honorific.
They produce verse of such excellence
That both should be “Poets in Residence”
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Apr 30, 2016 - 09:20pm PT
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Tim, you inspired me with your last.
I've always been afraid of free verse - never understood it. It has been described by cynics as like playing tennis without a net. However, I had to give it a try a while back, so I'll inflict this on y'all, with apologies. It's a true story though - in Yosemite, Bridalveil Cr. campground - I think it was 1957.
Lost Child
It is day three.
She is out there somewhere,
Shirley-Anne.
Three years old, in a sun suit.
Out in the subalpine woods,
alone at seven thousand feet
in the shivering night.
It is day three.
There’s a cannon ball in our guts.
In the dawn we gather, silent.
The parents are kept away,
kept with friends at the campground,
kept by the warming fires, the RV,
kept from reporters,
kept from our growing doubt,
our growing fear.
Chief assigns new sweeps,
closer spacing this time.
Call but don’t expect an answer.
He pauses, looks down,
Check out bear scats.
Watch for ravens, crows,vultures,
Watch for coyotes
...but keep calling.
We look at the ground.
We nod, silent.
Single-file up the mountain
to our base line coordinates.
Thighs ache from other steeps,
throats raw from calling,
skin torn by chaparral, by deadfall.
A rattler nearly hit Mike.
What about Shirley-Anne?
I felt guilty, warm in my sleeping bag.
How did she feel?
Did she lie hard on cold rocks
Under the icy stars?
Under a bush? Under a fir?
Tormented by mosquitos?
Did she shiver all night?
Is she shivering now?
Or is that... all past?
Bear tracks in sandy patch.
Cougar, too. And coyote.
Take a deep breath.
We line out, ten strides apart.
The whistle shrieks,
the line creeps forward, downslope,
scanning for sign.
We call as we go, and listen
without much hope.
A raven answers.
Ravens recycle children.
Thick brush ahead,
dusty clinging limbs,
a brittle wall, but we go in.
Kids do that, so we must.
Crash through, duck, dodge.
Watch for snakes.
Open forest again.
The whistle screams stop,
a pause for breath.
Warm now, almost hot.
Skin crawls, sensing ticks.
Canteen is still icy from night.
I munch a candy bar.
Arm stings, skin is ripped -
stick on a plaster.
The whistle wails again.
We move on, calling-
Mike shouts.
We stop.
He has fresh bear scat.
We barely breathe
while he pokes at it.
It’s okay, all fibrous, all vegetation.
We exhale.
A little stream lies ahead, a rivulet.
Willows envelop it, dusty green.
We call again.
A tiny sound from the willows
a bleat
maybe a fawn
maybe a child!
Jack and I break the line, race forward.
The child is there.
Looks up with startled eyes.
Sits by the trickle with her tin dipper,
Speckled with bites.
She is unharmed.
We laugh and cheer -
and choke up.
Jack scoops her up.
She clings to his warmth,
to his love, to his reality.
Frank calls it in. Found!
The radio squawks delight.
From miles away we hear it,
a chorus of car horns,
joy echoing from the peaks.
Has that sun been out all the time,
Or did it just come out?
Has it always been such a beautiful day?
Didn't notice it this morning.
We hurry toward camp,
vaulting deadfall,
feet skimming the ground,
almost floating.
Shirley-Anne rides Jack’s shoulders.
After her thermos soup, her candy bar,
she chatters,
tells us she drank with her dipper,
made sand houses,
cried,
slapped bugs,
cried all night.
Saw a bear.
Mother runs to meet us, weeping.
A hundred people cheer.
Some turn away head down,
shoulders shaking.
Not an eye is dry.
Can life hold a better moment?
In mom’s arms Shirley still chatters.
Tells mom that a bear came to see her.
Tells mom that the bear was lost.
WM
***
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Apr 30, 2016 - 10:57pm PT
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Not a dry eye, Fossil Climber.
Well done.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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In mom’s arms Shirley still chatters.
Tells mom that a bear came to see her.
Tells mom that the bear was lost.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Freak Climbing With the Merry Cranksters
Great is thy gift
Be it with verse or cliff
Flintstone of the riff, like
A beat poet
A bear poet
A ravenloon if ever there was one
A hardman with a soft heart
A Harding man with an early start
An observant servant
Holding the rope in the dark
So glad to be hangin' in the park
On a workaday thing
To Mister Harding
But to FossilBoy it was a lark
Muchas for your gracias-ness
I'm just a poet doing poetness
Maybe hoping to attract me a poetess?
NOT!!!
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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The Northern Pike
(Esox voracius)
This predacious ectomorph looks dyspeptic or anemic.
But compared to him, the great white shark is anorexic and bulemic.
Though usually retiring, when he feeds he couldn’t be much directer.
And his diet is even more varied and eclectic than that of Hannibal Lecter.
He eats almost anything that swims, according to statistics.
He happily snaps up his own progeny like so many fish sticks.
He bolts down anything that falls into the water,
Including things he probably hadn’t oughter.
He eats as much for his weight as shrews or snakes or leucocytes.
He is snappish and pugnacious, and his jaws deliver megabites.
When fishing, keep your fingers far away from his maxillae and his mandibles.
Or he will mangle and masticate and lacerate your phalanges and your handibles.
And if you subsequently cook and eat him, then you have to come to terms
With the thought that you are eating
fish
frogs
toads
mice
ducklings
tadpoles
muskrats
shrews
voles
insects
fish baits
parasites
and worms.
(The French relish pike -I don’t know about you.
It’s really a case of chacun a son gout.)
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Morsel
The ground squirrel is a tasty item
To grizzly bears, who love to bite ‘em.
A griz will tear up beaucoup tundra
While looking for a ground squirrel undra.
We’ve seen one move six tons of soil
To catch a tasty one-pound squoil.
And when it’s finally excavated.
It’s bludgeoned flat, then masticated.
The fur and tail and guts and ears –
Are relished by those gourmet bears.
They don’t spit out the teeth and claws –
All vanish in those giant jaws.
Raw ground squirrels don’t appeal to us.
We’ve got to think – de gustibus....
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Stone Cowboy
Trad climber
Livermore, CA.
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then out spake brave Horatius, the captain of the gate:
to every man upon this earth.
death come soon or late, and how can man die better,
than facing fearful odds,
for the ashes of his fathers,
and the temples of his gods.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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The Merry Fossil
Merry Merry
Is quite a library
Of any -ology & animal lore;
From great big walls
To sheep called Dalls
He knows details and more.
Merry mirth & wit
Make quite a hit
'round any campfire ever fired;
His well-told tales
Of voles or whales
Will never make one tired.
Here's to Fossil's
Hardened muscles,
His knowledge and energy.
He's done more stuff
So hard and tough
He's really impressive to me.
--MFM, with much respect
(No ball-cupping. Just the facts.)
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Merry Merry
Is in decline.
Just like Harding.
Too much wine.
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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This seems topical.....
The Taiga
(apologies to William Blake)
Taiga, taiga, burning bright
In the warm subarctic night ,
What myopic policy
Fans thy flammability?
Taiga, tundra, up in fire,
Temperatures edge ever higher,
Reindeer moss and lichen burns –
Fifty years ere it returns.
Corporate malfeasance harms
Climate as the planet warms.
Corporate air pollution earns
Profits as the forest burns.
Taiga, tundra, burning bright
In the hot subarctic night ,
What short-sighted polity
Fans thy flammability?
WM
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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May 16, 2016 - 11:25am PT
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Pluralities
Some northerners think
That one cat’s a link
And two cats are lynx.
So does that mean
That one mink’s a mink,
And two mink are minx?
The lynx doesn’t care.
Just give hime a hare.
(Don’t expect him to share.)
Some people think ‘bear’
Is the plural of bear.
It is properly ‘bears’
(As though anyone cares.)
Though it seems as if deer
Is the plural of deer -
And that’s rather queer.
And why is it that moose
Is the plural of moose,
But the plural of mouse
Is mice?
Don’t you dare tell your wife
For fear of your life
That the plural of spouse
Should be spice.
WM
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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May 16, 2016 - 11:34am PT
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^^^^... I was just tumblin' around with the Sampo of the Kalevala, and I found another spice girl involved.
In the expanded second version of the poem, the Sampo is forged by Ilmarinen, a legendary smith, as a task set by the Mistress of Pohjola in return for her daughter's hand.
"Ilmarinen, worthy brother,
Thou the only skilful blacksmith,
Go and see her wondrous beauty,
See her gold and silver garments,
See her robed in finest raiment,
See her sitting on the rainbow,
Walking on the clouds of purple.
Forge for her the magic Sampo,
Forge the lid in many colors,
Thy reward shall be the virgin,
Thou shalt win this bride of beauty;
Go and bring the lovely maiden
To thy home in Kalevala."
Ilmarinen works for several days at a mighty forge until finally the Sampo is created:
On one side the flour is grinding,
On another salt is making,
On a third is money forging,
And the lid is many-colored.
Well the Sampo grinds when finished,
To and fro the lid in rocking,
Grinds one measure at the day-break,
Grinds a measure fit for eating,
Grinds a second for the market,
Grinds a third one for the store-house.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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May 19, 2016 - 09:33pm PT
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Astroman .... the one and only.
by WBraun
A little Mei inside a dream just the other day
Her mind fell out of her face and the wind blew it away
A hand came out from heaven and pinned a badge on her chest
It said 'get out there, girl, and do your best' .....
[Too good a mental image to leave in one place, like his head.]
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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May 27, 2016 - 09:52am PT
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Comic Book Gods
You might think it strange
Or believe that I was odd
That when I was just a boy
Comic books were like my god
My collection numbered hundreds
With superheroes by the score
But artwork wasn't everything
I collected them all for
From Jack Kirby to Steve Ditko
To Barry Smith and Stan Lee
They wove their tales with more than art
As far as I could see
But the heroes in their sagas
They all served to transport me
To strange worlds and far off places
And where I could never be
To where imagination leads us
From the epic fantasies
Going way back to the classics
Like Melville and Homer's Odyssey
Every great work of fiction
Can be traced to an inner truth
Or some inception of experience
For whatever that is worth
And no matter how trite or trivial
The pulp and rags were deemed
They brought inspiration tenfold
To so many childhood dreams
From Jules Verne's Michel Ardan
To Neil Armstrong on the moon
That our 'Spidermen' of Mars
Would welcome someday soon
The travelers from Orion
Bedraggled by their trip
Like Odysseus in the Odyssey
Making port in huge black ships
On Deimos and Phobos
We should set the grandest stage
To negotiate a bargain
On our interstellar trade
But beyond the merchant trappings
Of our finances and vice
We should note the lack of differences
And leave it to suffice
That our thirst for grand adventure
And the knowledge it incurs
Could be mutually beneficial
For our survival to endure
So the comic books and novels
They all share a common thread
Though not based on calculations
They put dreams in children's heads
So you might not think it strange
Or would not believe it odd
That when I was just a boy
The comic books were my god
-bushman
05/27/2016
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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May 27, 2016 - 12:28pm PT
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^^^Words are inadequate.
Sad but True
We age and rage and want to cry--
Shame fills us so we wanna die.
With bad backs and crapped out knees
We no more climb just what we please.
With all life's troubles, woes and cares,
We're lucky we can climb the stairs.
--Mousie
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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May 27, 2016 - 12:40pm PT
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"In all great cities there are zones which reveal their true character only after dusk. By day they wear a mask, assume a look of amiable good-fellowship that hoodwinks even the astute. (...) But, when the nightmists rise, such places wake to life that is a parody of death; the smiling banks turn livid, dark surfaces grow pale and flicker with funereal gleams, coming with evil glee into their own again. It is the street-lamp that works this transformation. Under the first ray of this nocturnal sun, the nightscape dons its panoply of shadows and a malefic alchemy transmutes the texture of the visible world. The smooth, sleek trunks of the plane-trees seem suddenly transformed to leprous stone, the cobbled pavement grows darkly mottled like the skin of a drowned man, even the river-water burns with a metallic sheen. There is nothing that does not take on a life-foresaken aspect, sloughing off the honest form it had by daylight. Here nature is at her strangest; nothing breathes and nothing grows, yet all her features writhe in odd grimaces -- it is as if the stage were set in preparation for some furtive drama. Under the broken gleams of the lamplight buffeted by the wind, amid the odour of death that hovers on the water, this dark domain of silence and the rats is hospitable only to the thief counting his plunder, apt for the humble orgies of the poor."
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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May 27, 2016 - 12:40pm PT
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The woods were unmoved, like a mask -- heavy, like the closed door of a prison -- they looked with their air of hidden knowledge, of patient expectation, of unapproachable silence.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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May 28, 2016 - 08:41am PT
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St Patrick Once Said
Reflection is safe ground to tread
Quelling demons and doubt in my head
My conscience has chided me in my dreams
Where once was a haven in my own bed
No stranger to self induced misery
I've devoted near half of my life
Through poor judgment and indecision
I've created my own special strife
It's usually not like me to boast
But of late I eat more crow than most
And the energy required to make sense of it all
Has exhausted my patience the most
Last night I dreamt of a burning bridge
Too personal and close to my heart
Sometimes my transgressions have skirted the edge
And threatened to tear me apart
The price to pay for loving
Holding close to the ones we endear
Is a gut wrenching feeling of knowing true loss
When the present or future's unclear
My anger is rooted in fear
The fear for a lack of control
Control's the illusion there is such a thing
When my love could be there for to sew
Patrick of Assisi once said
And this coming from me should sound odd
The subject was loving for loving itself
Though I'm not one quote men of God
Reflection is safe ground to tread
Quelling demons and doubt in my head
My conscience has chided me in my dreams
Where once was a haven in my own bed
-bushman
05/28/2016
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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May 28, 2016 - 09:38am PT
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Lots of talent in this crowd!
Marlow - that bit about cities at night you posted on the 27th - where's it from?
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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May 28, 2016 - 12:13pm PT
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Wayne: It's a quotation from Julian Green used in the preface to Brassai's Paris After Dark.
"In all great cities there are zones which reveal their true character only after dusk. By day they wear a mask, assume a look of amiable good-fellowship that hoodwinks even the astute. ?. But when the nightmists rise, such places wake to life that is a parody of death; the smiling banks turn livid, dark surfaces grow pale and flicker with funereal gleams, coming with evil glee into their own again. It is the street-lamp that works the transformation. Under the first ray of this nocturnal sun, the nightscape dons its panoply of shadows and a malefic alchemy transforms the textures of the visible world. The smooth, sleek trunks of the plane-trees seem suddenly transformed to leprous stone, the cobbled pavement grows darkly mottled like the skin of a drowned man, even the river-water burns with a metallic sheen. ?. it is as if the stage were set in preparation for some furtive drama. Under the broken gleams of the lamplight buffeted by the wind, amid the odour of death that hovers on the water, this dark domain of silence and the rats is hospitable only to the thief counting his plunder". (Julian Green)
Brassai: http://c41.net/articles/brassai/
The dark lord: https://www.theguardian.com/culture/2001/feb/06/artsfeatures
Philosophy of night photography: http://photo.net/philosophy-of-photography-forum/00DvUp
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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May 28, 2016 - 12:30pm PT
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ARTEMIS IN SIERRA
Brett Hart
DRAMATIS PERSONAE: Poet. Philosopher. Jones of Mariposa.
POET: Halt! Here we are. Now wheel your mare a trifle
Just where you stand; then doff your hat and swear
Never yet was scene you might cover with your rifle
Half as complete or as marvelously fair.
PHILOSOPHER: Dropped from Olympus or lifted out of Tempe,
Swung like a censer betwixt the earth and sky!
He who in Greece sang of flocks and flax and hemp,--he
Here might recall them--six thousand feet on high!
POET: Well you may say so. The clamor of the river,
Hum of base toil, and man's ignoble strife,
Halt far below, where the stifling sunbeams quiver,
But never climb to this purer, higher life!
Not to this glade, where Jones of Mariposa,
Simple and meek as his flocks we're looking at,
Tends his soft charge; nor where his daughter Rosa--
(A shot.)
Hallo! What's that?
PHILOSOPHER: A--something thro' my hat--
Bullet, I think. You were speaking of his daughter?
POET: Yes; but--your hat you were moving through the leaves;
Likely he thought it some eagle bent on slaughter.
Lightly he shoots-- (A second shot.)
PHILOSOPHER: As one readily perceives.
Still, he improves! This time YOUR hat has got it,
Quite near the band! Eh? Oh, just as you please--
Stop, or go on.
POET: Perhaps we'd better trot it
Down through the hollow, and up among the trees.
BOTH: Trot, trot, trot, where the bullets cannot follow;
Trot down and up again among the laurel trees.
PHILOSOPHER: Thanks, that is better; now of this shot-dispensing
Jones and his girl--you were saying--
POET: Well, you see--
I--hang it all!--Oh! what's the use of fencing!
Sir, I confess it!--these shots were meant for ME.
PHILOSOPHER: Are you mad!
POET: God knows, I shouldn't wonder!
I love this coy nymph, who, coldly--as yon peak
Shines on the river it feeds, yet keeps asunder--
Long have I worshiped, but never dared to speak.
Till she, no doubt, her love no longer hiding,
Waked by some chance word her father's jealousy;
Slips her disdain--as an avalanche down gliding
Sweeps flocks and kin away--to clear a path for ME.
Hence his attack.
PHILOSOPHER: I see. What I admire
Chiefly, I think, in your idyl, so to speak,
Is the cool modesty that checks your youthful fire,--
Absence of self-love and abstinence of cheek!
Still, I might mention, I've met the gentle Rosa,--
Danced with her thrice, to her father's jealous dread;
And, it is possible, she's happened to disclose a--
Ahem! You can fancy why he shoots at ME instead.
POET: YOU?
PHILOSOPHER: Me. But kindly take your hand from your revolver,
I am not choleric--but accidents may chance.
And here's the father, who alone can be the solver
Of this twin riddle of the hat and the romance.
Enter JONES OF MARIPOSA.
POET: Speak, shepherd--mine!
PHILOSOPHER: Hail! Time-and-cartridge waster,
Aimless exploder of theories and skill!
Whom do you shoot?
JONES OF MARIPOSA: Well, shootin' ain't my taste, or
EF I shoot anything--I only shoot to kill.
That ain't what's up. I only kem to tell ye--
Sportin' or courtin'--trot homeward for your life!
Gals will be gals, and p'r'aps it's just ez well ye
Larned there was one had no wish to be--a wife.
POET: What?
PHILOSOPHER: Is this true?
JONES OF MARIPOSA I reckon it looks like it.
She saw ye comin'. My gun was standin' by;
She made a grab, and 'fore I up could strike it,
Blazed at ye both! The critter is SO shy!
POET: Who?
JONES OF MARIPOSA: My darter!
PHILOSOPHER: Rosa?
JONES OF MARIPOSA: Same! Good-by!
[Forest echoes with laughter.]
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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May 28, 2016 - 12:43pm PT
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For the Love of Blood or Money
As so it often happens
With a sister and a brother
Henna Stone and Robert Stone
Were quite different from the other
And speaking from experience
I can only give a sigh
To say they always were at odds
Until the day they were to die
Through tragic circumstances
In an accident abroad
Their parents both were killed
Leaving more money than god
With ten billion dollars each
They were the only two relations
She bought stock in blood supply
And he in oil speculation
Then the world became crazy
In a World War III scare
They locked themselves away
In an underground lair
Deep under Greenland
With manufactured fears
There the sibling Stones remained
For almost twenty years
Back in civilization
Their investments fell and grew
But down below the surface
They remained productive too
He'd schooled her in finance while
She'd tutored him in medicine
With news of stable politics
They resurfaced to begin again
She built a worldwide charity
And his capital did accrue
But the world had different plans
Disquiet and social unrest grew
Global conflict spread again
With third world factions warring
He traded all their shares in blood
And disappeared on safari
As it goes in politics
So it always goes in war
While economies might fall
Old money stays in power
Invested in their weaponry
Illegal drugs and medicine
It's always the same old story
On that you can depend
And little did it matter
Their portfolio was now gone
Robert Stone lay badly wounded
With little hope to atone
For the life of the hunt
Where he'd been trampled by a bull
Just a a rogue elephant
Who was there like him to kill
To Botswana from Jakarta
Dreading all the while they'd flown
She arrived at his bedside
He'd been crushed and he'd been thrown
But Henna was the rock
His prognosis wasn't good
He was busted up inside
And he'd lost a lot of blood
In the cooler at her feet
There were bags of hemoglobin
She had carried at her side
Over the vast Indian Ocean
She spoke to him of childhood spats
And games that they had played
A smile then crossed his lips
As he squeezed her hand that day
Someone said there'd been a bus crash
She stepped out to take the call
When she returned she kissed his cheek
And then the hardest part of all
She only left 500 units
As the tears rolled down her face
And with the cooler in her hand
She stood up and left the place
-Tim Sorenson
05/20/2016
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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May 28, 2016 - 03:15pm PT
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We have some incredibly talented people living in the bush around Atlin. One is Kate Harris, whom I wish was my grand daughter, and she'd like that too. Awesome writer, adventurer. If you want to read some great outdoor writing, Google Kate Harris blog, go to her writings, and read "Contours of Cold", about skiing across the Hardangervidda.
She's a poet, too. Here's one of hers.
ODE TO WHAT COMES UNDONE
the sun sets and the mountains turn
to smoke two loons gossip loudly
across the lake until the moon spills
its craters into the water
I was here once long ago
and don’t know where I’ve been since
the trail was straight as pines
until it wasn’t suddenly those trees
became a charity of needles longing
in all directions and the forest proof
that parallel lines can meet
now I run through the fields
of a forgotten country its flag in tatters
between my teeth and why shouldn’t
I spend this surplus of light like it’s
a given the only guarantee
of more?
the mountains start from scratch
every morning the loons devote their lives
to praising what comes undone and I climb
the high places to listen for the wind
the waves for anything
that goes on and on.
Kate Harris
-Arc Poetry Magazine issue #72
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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May 29, 2016 - 10:43am PT
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Cool...
From the blog:
"In some ways getting lost was my goal from the start. Growing up in small-town Ontario, where the tallest mountain was a haystack and the broadest horizon a field of corn, I’d felt wilder than the world in all directions. It wasn’t until university that I finally stepped beyond the borders of my home country, finally saw a mountain and a desert in more than pixels or words on a page, and there was no looking back. From then on my greatest joy has been wandering the planet’s rough peripheries with a tent and a backpack full of books. My greatest fear is having to work, heaven forbid, in a cubicle. To avoid this I mostly subsist on instant noodles, and I travel whenever possible by my own two legs, enabling a vagabond life rich in every currency but money."
This is essentially my life's mission statement as excerpted from Lands of Lost Borders, a new essay of mine about wildness, borders, and cycling the Silk Road.
Lands of Lost Borders is to be published by Knopf Canada.
what goes up and up in us.
Before I sit down to write this morning, here's a brief blog post knitting together some favourite quotes from Wittgenstein, Adrienne Rich, and Jack Gilbert on the power and inadequacy of words as deeds, and on what goes up and up in us nevertheless.
***
“Words are deeds,” argued philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein.
Still, “we may feel bitterly how little our poems can do in the face
of seemingly out-of-control technological power and seemingly
limitless corporate greed,” writes Adrienne Rich. “Yet it has
always been true that poetry can break isolation, show us to
ourselves when we are outlawed or made invisible, remind us
of beauty where no beauty seems possible, remind us of
kinship where all is represented as separation."
Which is why “I crank my heart even so and it turns
over. Ranges high in the sun over continents and eruptions
of mortality, through winds and immensities of rain
falling for miles," says Jack Gilbert. "Until all the world is overcome
by what goes up and up in us, singing and dancing
and throwing down flowers nevertheless..."
***
The blog: http://kateharris.ca/blog/
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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May 29, 2016 - 11:19am PT
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Sällskapet (Thåström, Hellberg, Ossler) - Såg Dom Komma
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Kvinnan: Agnieszka Piasek
Pojken: Ludwik Okulowicz
Hamnarbetare 1: Krzysztof Gienieczko
Hamnarbetare 2: Mariusz Grochala
Soldaten: Jordan Pawlowski
Utkiksmannen: Radoslaw Szaraniec
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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The Fluttering
Yesterday
under leafy
undergrowth a
haven for the Labrador
I dug the soil beneath
the weathered thorns
of pyracantha
as it tailored my old hide
but then I heard
a fluttering
And moist beneath
my finger nails
I traced an old
water line
that beetles and
earwigs told
me how to find it
under the photinia
again I heard
a fluttering
Laced with
spider's webs
suspended there
I laid among the
crispy leaves and
dug the soft and loamy earth
beneath the gnarled
privet as
I heard the sound
of fluttering
As I lifted up
myself to grab
a branch to cut
from where I knelt
I peaked across
as sunlight splashed
across the feathered
wingspan of
the dove in flight
a fluttering
There lives in
hedge and trees
about the sheltered grass
where bullfrogs croak
as rabbits hide
from chasing dogs while
birds of prey fly overhead
who cry for all
the world to hear
a fluttering
-bushman
06/01/2016
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Susan--we were given short shrift on that dumped Blinny thread.
I believe there is some rancor and spite at work, but here are our two haikus back, Jack.
sun-warmed igneous
the staff of life for many
pie shops and breadloaves
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Long Santa Cruz days
Afternoon brewery time
Pleasure Point is next.
--SC Seagoat
And a plug for Discretion Brewery.
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Jun 14, 2016 - 08:40pm PT
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Understand that the warmer waters in many coastal areas have increased toxic phytoplankton blooms and thus the chance of paralytic shellfish poisoning for those who harvest clams and mussels. Had to say something about this:
Red Tide
(Gonyaulax toxicus)
There’s a pot of clams a-steaming on my venerable Coleman,
And they strained the intertidal till today.
But I spotted telltale dimples and I dug them from their burrows
And I rinsed the sand and carried them away.
Now the pot is gently steaming and my mind is softly dreaming
Of the chowders and the dips that lie in store,
And those clams are all through scheming of predacious filter-feeding;
They will threaten phytoplankton nevermore!
Now my appetite is sated and the clam threat is abated,
And the zooplankton have a bit more peace -
But I’m feeling nauseated and my gut is irritated,
And I wonder if this malaise will increase.
Have my motives altruistic reaped a poison paralytic?
My attempt to save the plankton been betrayed?
I fear some dinoflagellate may cause me to regurgitate -
Good intentions have betrayed me, I’m afraid!
WM
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 17, 2016 - 04:15am PT
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Deserves inclusion here.
Feb 5, 2015 - 07:07am PT
"Untitled Bastard"
or, untitled
and mrs. pacific is ovulating today
on this full moon
and she's sending us some land lubrication.
yes she's ripe for more forevers..
so i accepted her passionate
advance and broke my spell
of solidarity, entered her course
and now beyond is pregnant
because we failed to employ
precautions and now,
the future is gestating
within our moment.
should we abort it?
or shall we see it through
and then throw all of
our money at It.
and our time
so it grows
into a respectable
contributor unto
this reckless
and unimpeded disaster.
--norwegian (OCEAN thread)
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Jun 17, 2016 - 09:26am PT
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Good shot!
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jun 17, 2016 - 09:21pm PT
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A Dirge for Perished Travelers
He watched the strange birds
Coursing across the sky
They left behind their twin wakes
Crisscrossed and he wondered why
They never flew on down to fish
Or even to say hi
He was the master of the seas
The ocean his domain to fly
And delving down below the squalls
Though wind and rain was no concern
He liked to plumb the deepest depths
His massive lungs with air to burn
And lengthy dives did serve to quell
His cetacean need to learn
His findings broadcast to his pod
And their's to him in turn
But something odd and curious
Caught within in his sonar clicks
And as he rolled his eye to see
There littered all about like sticks
Were bodies foreign to his world
And strange within the mix
They looked like beings he'd seen before
But where it was he could not fix
Why had they come unto this place?
These hallowed depths to be enshrined
Feeding the fishes fathoms down
Under algae blooms where they now lie
On a sea floor which the whales hold dear
The travelers had come to die
And the whale sang a mourning song
Below a crimson sunset sky
-bushman
06/17/2016
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 23, 2016 - 08:56am PT
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From jumbo to tiny, just that easy.
Nice job, Bushman.
Flyer
Planes crash into mountains
Mountains fall into the sea
I sought to prevent a big fall
And in doing so messed up my knee
Left hand thrust in a jam crack
The other fumbling with pro
Right foot was jammed in the same crack
About five or six feet below
Til then I’d been making good progress
But here I began to slow down
I knew that I needed protection
I was very far from the ground
The crack I was climbing was varied
It went from off-width to fists
It narrowed yet further I could see
As it soared up and into the mists
So I slotted a number six stopper
It was marginal but passed my pull test
I saw another spot that looked better
In another crack off to the west
I ‘d not bothered to clip the weak stopper
As I switched my two feet around
I suddenly started to plummet
I was heading straight for the ground
But my lower-down placement arrested
My fall just before I hit scree
My belayer managed to hold me
But I’d managed to bang my right knee
To this day I still walk but I hobble
I have only one speed and it’s slow
So always clip your protection
It could save your knee don’t I know
As far as I know that nut is still up there
Silent witness to my failure to cope
With a dangerous situation
On the sharp end of the rope
--MFM/6-23-16
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Jun 23, 2016 - 09:42am PT
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Bushman - Mouse - love it!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 23, 2016 - 09:58am PT
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Thank you, Wayne.
You know, you are my ideel, poetical-wise, just like Dings is my ideel travelogue-wise (the Rick Steves of Middle California).
One thing about your own work--I can see the earnest young biology student at SJ slaving to learn the nomenclature by the light of a horn lantern hanging from the rafters of his cot in some cabin loft.
You use Latin like no one I know, even Cosmic.
Looking forward to more of your elevated and refined vocabulary used in mellifluous and melodic ways, with careful attention to rhyme scheme and telling tales of which no man has ever dreamed, let alone encountered, excepting you, old Fossil.
With regards from all the poetry readers on ST, Mouse.
:)
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jul 10, 2016 - 02:03am PT
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It was three o'clock in the dawn of a sabbath day, I'm gonna go smoke pot.
I'm in need of the reprieve at before the cohk crows because
my captain o captain says again he has left the park
Say it not be so - Please make him not go - God
Who are you talking about there is no
Cohk to crow we are all just chickens
Harvested at will by who , we do not know.
In the open, where there is no cover, the snipers job is no easier than if he were in the jungle
Captain Soaring if it were me I'd take a remote flight, my eyes would see those things you saw when you were at half height.
Your take and sight are yours to share to our delight.
If your plight makes it painful or stops the flow of life then go, share your thoughts when ever you want to, or never again.
You don't need us this rabble of ill willed old men. Hell hath come to many of us
You re right to take your words and go away we don't deserve you
and you sure deserve better than us.
What time till the next show
It is a word that means male chicken. In case you didn't get that, meh!
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Jul 10, 2016 - 05:00am PT
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Bushman - I sincerely hope you don't mean to stop poeticizing!
You just keep getting better.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 10, 2016 - 03:05pm PT
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Many thanks for the tour of the other side of the pond, sir sycorax.
A noble gesture on your part.
Chrome Dome
or, bushman's scalp isn't as shiny as he thinks.
They never did it free.
It sits shiny-bright in the sun, saying in its fashion,
"I dare ya, anyone.
C'mon and have some fun."
Bring your daughter and your son.
Tell them it's not for everyone.
First ascent was done by no one.
It remains unclimbed and undone.
It will remain that way till our race is also undone.
Tradition means that "by any means" we must shun.
There is one route, called No Way but One.
Relaxation through meditation brings elevation.
Results come from technique, not strength of body or coordination.
(switching gears--avoiding tears)
Polished by nothing but sand the surface rejects the hand.
The shoes slips, grips, then slips some more.
The sweat beads and then it pours--
the headband soaks it in and you begin
To fall,
shoes chittering and squeaking a bit--
that is, until the ground you hit.
Chalk? Don't make me laugh. This is serious, Lee.
And it makes one furious, Dee.
Until one comes to the realization (some take days)
that some things were never meant to be climbed.
Impossible, you say? Have it your way.
But I double-dog dare you to try.
Swami belt not required, or harness,
but a helmet prevents a knock on the noggin, as Moss will tell you.
We once did a human ladder and we got a woman on the summit,
but there was no anchor, so we all down-climbed in turn.
It was a long morning. Water was an issue.
We were all a little pissed off till the keg showed up.
It rained and we had fun with bare feet
and several rolls of paper towels.
Then the sun went down and out came the owls,
singing in the rain,
"Who? Who? Why? Why? Who what why?
Look me in the eye.
Some things were never meant to be climbed."
And so we finished up and called it a very long day with a message.
--MFM
[Location of Chrome Dome is north of the Degnan range. You'll know it when you see it. That's all I'm saying on that.]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 10, 2016 - 06:43pm PT
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Take a bow, Tim.
I'll settle for an Oscar Meyer weiner. Keep your "good doggies," buddy.
And then take another kind of bow and shoot for the stars.
Double or nothing.
All in.
Chips on the table.
Blood on the floor.
Take a deep breath and write an encore.
If the Muse moves ya. The Muse is a fickle mental laxative.
Ya never know if constipation will strike.
Coyote's shite stinks of shite.
I think he dines on it regularly.
He is patient, though.
Like the lichen, he waits like the stones.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jul 10, 2016 - 06:53pm PT
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S....old
Should I say what I really think?
The mind's a frazzle
With nothing to dazzle
I shot my kazoo
And must bid adieu
Besides there's so many things I've left to do
Ah-choo
-bushman
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 14, 2016 - 11:46am PT
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Death Wish of a Guide
You picked a fine line to climb here Bo Peel,
A blind guide who’s died and leads mostly by feel.
I’ve been on bad climbs,
But this was the baddest climb,
And this time your lead wasn’t real--
Smearing your shoes with old banana peel.
--Rodgers A. Breedlover-Leap
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jul 14, 2016 - 03:38pm PT
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Apologies all,
I deleted the last four poems that I posted here in the hopes that I would be able to submit them to a poetry magazine or another publication, but subsequently, I've had a change of heart and will repost them here like it or not.
The Seafarer's Lament
Part man part beast
I walk the plank
To descend to deep
The serpent's lair
Don't ask me why
But for a dare
Don't ask me why
That I should care
It started there
Or did it end?
In the tavern where
I was searching for
A long lost love
The girl I knew
With auburn hair
The cherub laughed
And called me out
My scaly limbs
And fishnet hair
The barnacles
And scabrous sores
Did put him off
I left not knowing
What if any
Ship I'd find
Or legion's oaths
Or where the fates
Would have me go
The China sea
Our merchant vessel
Seized upon
By pirates there
And now I stand to
Walk the plank
A man half beast
With fishnet hair
To Davy Jones
Or Neptune's home
And now once more
I've washed ashore
With thirst for bread
Hunger for mead
Has brought me back
To the tavern where
I'm searching for
My long lost love
The girl I knew
With auburn hair
The cherub taunts
And mocks me for
The pustules on
These scaly limbs
My scabrous head
With fishnet hair
What ship I seek
Or legion's oath
No regiment
Would have me there
Nor have a need
For a man half beast
With scaly limbs
And fishnet hair
The harbor masters
postings read
My ship's come in
A merchant vessel
I've seen before
As if I care
But I shall go
I'm needed there
And once again
As once before
Were bound for ports
'Round Singapore
I search to find
My long lost love
The girl I knew
With auburn hair
-bushman
07/03/2016
My Last Poem #1
If you've read this poem
With your spirits shining bright
Whether reading it by day
Or in the dark of night
On the long train to Lisbon
Or a plane that is in flight
When you're finally finished reading it
Then you can delight
This is probably the last poem
That I ever shall write
I used to white these love songs
All rambling and morose
Or on maudlin theology
Questioning the Holy Ghost
But reconciling godlessness
My writing gained more meat
Yet the work became more difficult
Without human history to repeat
If you've read this poem
With your spirits shining bright
Whether reading it by day
Or in the dark of night
All Snuggled with your books
Under your sheets of white
You'll be grateful you're through reading it
Then you can delight
This is bound to be the last poem
That I will ever write
I found solace in writing poetry
And wrote poems every day
Until one day I started stumbling
Over what I had to say
I was side tracked by every shiny thing
That flashed along the way
So I sat down on my writer's block
And wrote about my day
If you've read this poem
With your spirits shining bright
Whether reading it by day
Or in the dark of night
Or on a bivouac dangling perilously
Up on the mountains height
When you're finally finished reading it
Then you can delight
This is definitely the last poem
That I will ever write
The bad thing about politics
Religion and TV
It's the same with social media
As far as I can see
People rarely solve their problems
With what they have to say
By arguing on endlessly
Until the end of day
If you've read this poem
With your spirits shining bright
Whether reading it by day
Or in the dark of night
Well I've written with such blasphemy
Never fearful of his might
So if the lord decides to smite me
Then you can delight
Because then it will be the last poem
That I would ever write
It dawned upon me yesterday
I had nothing left to say
I've been writing about everything
As though it were all a play
Pretending I was Shakespeare
In England back in the day
But my woman keeps reminding me
That my writing doesn't pay
If you've read this poem
With your spirits shining bright
Whether reading it by day
Or in the dark of night
I've written too many words
Now some bitter and in spite
You'll be glad when you're done reading it
Then you can delight
If it is the last poem
That I shall ever write
-bushman
07/09/2016
My Last Poem #2
Capitulate; cap-it-too-late.
If this is the last poem that I ever write
It forebodes what's beyond the terrors of the night
It also is the story of the hawk and the asp
About the demise of a snake who spoke with a rasp
Forget not the tall tale of Chongo and Pete
Chongo is now gone because Pete had to eat
And also the story of a storm tossed boat
The hull was so stove in that the boat wouldn't float
Alas it is a poem about final closure
If I write no more due to overexposure
A poem about pain and a poem about death
If the last that I write before I take my final breath
Would be short of detailing any nightmares endured
Of regretting a thing to which I have become inured
But most of all it is a poem about loss
Being never too gracious and as often I have been cross
Like the recurring dream about car repairs
One thing leads to another and then I am there
Skating disaster wherever I stare
But a story of misfortune can be found everywhere
My story of life though no chronicle of woe
Is not unlike that of many others that I know
But quite opposite to those with their Christmas card news
Where folks are less likely to sing about their blues
So please forgive me if all is not roses
If upon your happy thoughts my story imposes
Regretful not grateful is my motto of late
So to most of my horrors I shall now capitulate
Like I said before I have many regrets
The list has grown longer along with my debts
I am deeply afraid that the worst of them yet
In my final demise I will lose on that bet
I made with the devil in a one way deal
Trading tomorrow for yesterday I gave him the steal
So here I am with a poem but no song
Nothing for cadence to lead me along
No guiding light or a principled tune
But more like a coyote who bays at the moon
So if this be the last poem that I ever write
I'll stop wasting your time soon and bid you goodnight
Which reminds me of something that George Burns once said
About success and about failure before we are dead
It's not the exact quote but is one I can relate
"To rather fail at what you love than to succeed at what you hate"
To stop writing these poems would be like holding my breath
Or you could say it is unhealthy how I dwell so much on death
As if choosing to write my last poem were intellectual suicide
And something I should wait to do 'till right before I died.
-bushman
07/10/2016
The World's not Black and White
Some believe the world is black and white
They're just the marketers of greed
Who would have us all believe
The clothes upon our backs
Or the color of our skin
Dictate who we are
Or the products that we need
But that's just shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They are just the people being led
And whenever that's pointed out
They are quick to defend
Believing violence is justified in the end
All for the one who would incite
Who would do anything to prove that they are right
But that's just shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
We are often told this by the rich
Who'd try to prove that we aren't worthwhile
Unless we play into their game
Of amassing power and wealth
While leaving to the wolves the innocents in the night
But it's just not true
And that's just shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They are those who use religion as a tool
To say that people are not equal for the color of their skin
Or for their sexual identity
Or for trying to have dominion over their own bodies
Or for the names of their different gods
Or for their age or for their politics
But that's just shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They are the governors and lawyers
Who write laws that favor their wealthiest friends
That they might steal and profit in the end
While enslaving and branding those who do not fit in
Punishing those who won't agree to enrich the wealthy
With their millions of little laws
But that's just shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They are the CEOs and brokers of the largest corporations
Who don't care who they hurt
And practitioners of arbitrage
Who don't care who gets laid off
And the criminal polluters
Who don't care about the planet of our kids
But that's just shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They are the traffickers in humans and of sex
They are the traffickers of the world's children
And that's just sick
Then there's the traffickers of real estate
Some think that is so nice
As if all the world itself should have a price
But that's just shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They would tell you they defend our way of life
But the masters of war curry from every front
Whether you're Muslim Jew or Catholic
They would send us to the point
While they plan their major battles as if they were a game
They have no shame
But that's just shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They're all the entertainment moguls
Who spoon feed the world with their shock and awe and fluff
Rarely giving a real glimpse of the true pain and suffering
Going on worldwide under our snouts
All while starving writers and artist have something worthwhile to say
Who sometimes get their shot on PBS
And that's no shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They are those of us who like to take consensus
While we base our opinions on what the rest of our group would think
We won't go against the crowd no matter if it stinks
They are you and they are me when we wont stand against injustice
Or what we think down in our hearts is truly right
When sometimes faced by a bully we're too afraid to fight
But that's just shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They are the old guard in power who won't give up the reins
No matter what the circumstances they always tell you the same thing
That their experience is necessary and your best interest is paramount
But young people and families are left out in the rain
Unless you're from a powerful family or you have a famous name
I'm telling you it's always the same
But that's just shite
The world cannot be black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They would tell you chose a side either you're for or you're against
For an idea or for a cause or for a right
And granted that with this life it's always been sink or swim
But not everything we believe is all so cut and dried
Except when we compromise our logic out of hatred
And it's not winning when so many others stand to lose
That's just shite
The world is not just black and white
-Tim Sorenson
(aka bushman)
07/10/2016
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jul 14, 2016 - 03:42pm PT
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Johnny Might've Said
I dreamed last night that I saw Bachar
At a party up in Tahoe
I showed him some old grainy pics
That I took of him back in the day
He looked at them and squinted
And he said he wanted prints
Although
Such poor quality were they
I think if he were alive today
And I told him I'd deleted
Something that I'd written
That I was passionate enough
To post online
Regardless of my reasons
He would have shook his head and said
"That's tough!
"Once you post something on the taco
It stays online forever
Live with it, Man
That's it!"
And then he would have laughed
And said
"No matter what others think
About you, and your writing
Keep writing
Don't quit!"
And in my memory
Like the dream
There it was again
I think
I would have seen him grin
-bushman
07/14/2016
or yesterday if today wasn't soon enough
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Jul 14, 2016 - 04:07pm PT
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The Drake
A female duck is called a duck,
The male is called a drake.
He’s loaded with testosterone –
He’s something of a rake.
He’s big and strong but not too bright,
He’s arrogant and loud.
He makes himself conspicuous;
He stands out in a crowd.
He pokes and dabbles in the muck,
And gabbles all the while;
Though he’s a bottom feeder, he
Pretends to have some style.
His foolish bird-brained fan club feeds
His monstrous self-esteem,
His id and ego grow apace,
He struts and quacks and preens.
And when migration time has come
And summer’s nearly spent,
He’ll fly away to Washington
And run for President.
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Jul 14, 2016 - 05:14pm PT
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No Evangelists, Please
Some pietistic humans think
They’ll earn good marks in heaven
By preaching someone’s gospel
With an AK 47.
If grizzlies went on jihads...
That would be a fearsome vision!
We’re fortunate indeed
That they’re not given to religion.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 14, 2016 - 05:59pm PT
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That duck tale, Wayne? Pretty subtle, sir. :0)
The "Faking" of the President 2016
con apologias a Senor TED Sorenson
T. Rannosouros was never elected but was naturally selected, though he's now prehistory...
If T. Rumpus is elected he'll be naturally infected with his false glory...
End of story, yet another profile in discouragement.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jul 14, 2016 - 06:20pm PT
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oh I've got a duck for ya, ----- !! ho no I don't !
well that was rude she is done at dusk
then by 10 o'clock, its not to be uploaded yet
artists? !
Women?!
the rolled into one smoldering beast that dwells as one ,
with-in the one I love
she has been painting, with fits and starts, the turned head duck's butt, with a fine brush for months.
Is it is finished or not?
I will try to post it if I can beat the clock ..
I hate that I can't come back,
any time , That I only have ten days,
To come back and still have the ability to edit or delete
edit / delete should always be an option.
it is why I'm scarcer than not 'round here,
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jul 17, 2016 - 03:12pm PT
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To Get a Grip
The impetus more reticent
To focus with all due respect
That I could be
More circumspect
Some people say
Some never change
A conclusion on
Which I should reflect
I'll visit this
A year from now
The truth revealed
Then I expect
-bushman
07/17/2016
(With edits)
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Jul 18, 2016 - 07:42pm PT
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We don't seem to have mosquitos up here this year. But for those of you who do...
The Mosquito
We’ve got three mosquitos up north to annoy us,
Anopheles, Culex, Aedes by name.
Diseases they carry won’t likely destroy us;
These bugs are content just to drive us insane.
Down south Culex carries two kinds of filarias,
And elephantiasis is what they give you.
Anopheles carries four types of malarias,
To roast you and chill you and possibly kill you.
We’re way too far north for that mean dengue virus
That Aedes carries and lays you out flat,
But sooner or later they’ll likely West-Nile us,
And given a choice, hell, we’ll settle for that!
Prevention is simple, just spray on your person
Some N,N-diethyl-m-toluamide. *
The other solution is even more certain –
Curl up by the TV and don’t go outside.
* The chemical name for DEET. Don’t you EVER read the labels?
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drljefe
climber
El Presidio San Augustin del Tucson
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Jul 18, 2016 - 10:06pm PT
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No one knows
the maze our hearts wander
but the dusk.
The dusk knows.
4.12.2014
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jul 18, 2016 - 11:17pm PT
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Da doze dose you hab a cold...
(The nose knows you have...)
Clearly I haven't changed.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 19, 2016 - 05:53am PT
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Some people say
Some never change
A conclusion on
Which I should reflect
Good thought to carry, bushman.
I usually disapprove of generalizing,
which may lead to rancor and prolongs debate.
Specificity is much better, more exact.
I have tried since knowing my friend John Decker,
to avoid this in my speech to him,
because he ALWAYS calls me on it when I use generalities!
I've learned; and as a result I've "changed my spots."
**A Leopard Lives In a Muu Tree^^
A leopard lives in a Muu tree
Watching my home
My lambs are born speckled
My wives tie their skirts tight
And turn away -
Fearing the mottled offspring.
They bathe when the moon is high
Soft and fecund
Splash cold mountain stream water on their nipples
Drop their skin skirts and call obscenities.
I'm besieged
I shall have to cut down the Muu tree
I'm besieged
I walk about stiff
Stroking my loins.
A leopard lives outside my homestead
Watching my women
I have called him elder, the one-from-the-same-womb
He peers at me with slit eyes
His head held high
My sword has rusted in the scabbard.
My wives purse their lips
When owls call for mating
I'm besieged
They fetch cold mountain water
They crush the sugar cane
But refuse to touch my beer horn.
My fences are broken
My medicine bags torn
The hair on my loins is singed
The upright post at the gate has fallen
My women are frisky
The leopard arches over my homestead
Eats my lambs
Resuscitating himself.
--JONATHAN KARIARA/Kenya/2014
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Jul 20, 2016 - 12:48pm PT
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Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
Wallace Stevens
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 25, 2016 - 09:15am PT
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Nolaig shona dhuit!
Warm embers in the hearth,
warm memories in the heart.
The joy of children's laughter
and pine needles in the carpet for months after.
Hot coco and carols on the radio draw us in together
through long dark nights and winter's stormy weather
to share our gifts and reunite
the bonds of love this Holy night.
copyright Peggy von Burkleo, 2008
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jul 31, 2016 - 01:50pm PT
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The Flamenvix
Part I
Down through the chasm of doom and dark gloom
In the Gruelfaschen's chamber where the Flamenvix rules
In the fumarole steamed and the brine stench filled room
Vaulted stalagmites forebodes o'er we fools
Huddled and bowed with our sweat dripped brows
Winded as harried our contingent near drowned
Nauseous and trembling we waited there cowed
As the Flamenvix entered and sauntered on down
Holding her scepter of withered thorned vine
Draped in a raiment of hemlock I saw there
Liquid her eyes in white features so fine
Crawling en mass all the scorpions in her hair
Her irises then focuses and flames in them flicked
Withered by her gaze but I looked up again
But turned my gaze downward lest by guards we get kicked
Worried for my welfare and that of my friends
Part II
She spoke soft low mystic words and the guards closed about
There came to her side a figure in dark attire
I suddenly saw stars as the lights all went out
And dreamed of subterranean pools and eyes full of fire
When I woke all was grey and a lump was on my crown
And lamely while deciding this endeavor had gone wrong
My eyes adjusted as I cast them all around
There captive in a dungeon with no clue as to how long
The drip drip drip of water synced with hunger
Many rats there scurried to and fro
One by one they were my diet sans the fur
And the drippage from stalactites my only h2o
In what seemed an indeterminate time
No one came to my rescue and no voices were heard
There was no way out but to climb
And I steeled myself to this without a word
Part III
I scratched at holds with scraped raw toes and clutched at them with shaking hands
Each stone I groped was loosening fast and slickened by a sickening slime
And slid my fingers along to pull at pockets wherever there was one
There I scratched and there I clung to lunge upwards for an endless time
Itchy pungent creeping things slithered across my face
I slowed the stuttered rhythm of my heaving rasping breath
And pulled my starved and wretched frame onto a gritty ledge
Lying there not knowing how or when I'd meet my certain death
Some creatures strange in dream approached with dark and glistened spiny limbs
At angles odd and spidery they hoisted me and carried me as deftly as the insects do
Immersing me in fragrant warmth like a rose petal and jasmine stew
Enveloped as I sank into this pungent embryonic goo
I floating there in darkness as I slept until a vision came
A moth approached unfolding dusty brown kaleidoscopic wings
Transforming in my consciousness to a bird of brown and feathered span
With a face like that of a woman once I'd loved who pulled at my heart strings
Part IV
I woke up from the dream again as my vision blurred from grey to white
The Flamenvix stood overhead towering above me in her light
Rising like the Phoenix metamorphosed from a volcanic pyre
As nauseating sparks of pain flashed in my brain like stars at night
The bludgeoning now begun in earnest at a hurtful rhythmic pace
Striking me with her wingtip claws I was sure I would not last
Her eyes shone without pity as empty hollows in her face
As she clutched me like a vice with her foot claws holding me fast
I shuddered near passed out on the floor as she released me in a heap
She stooped to hear my racing heart listening for a sign of death
And I dared not shed a single tear to show my weakness in her keep
And held my cries inside me as she opened up her wings like death
As she leaned in dragon like and opened up her icy mouth
I restrained the urge to flee once more when she cooed to me in a rattling tongue
In a birdlike alien language that slithered around inside my head
And then something else transpired there that forever shall remain unsung
Part V
Again in darkness I remained and for how long I could not know
What felt like years was only days compounding fear that would not go
And worst beyond my quandary was the gut-wrench that I felt below
To know not of my comrades fates did fill my heart with woe
Which served my thoughts to summon something deep inside and held in check
I clawed myself free from my ties and loosed the tether at my neck
I groveled to the cavern wall to gather myself from the wreck
The Flamenvix had left me in my confidence but a lonely speck
Before our bold adventure to investigate this urchin's nest
We'd been warned by local gentry to beware what devils we should wrest
But young and bold were we to sojourn to this grotto on our quest
Unknowing the Gruelfaschen's chamber held for us a ghastly test
I clung to hope in blackness now as though it were a withered vine
And knowing soon the Flamenvix upon my wretched soul would dine
I groped along the chamber wall dragging my tethers now behind
And wracked my brain for as to what inveiglements I would design
Part VI
There is the darker part of darkness that pools deep beneath our pain
Where the worst of all our demons lurk to resurface again
But we balance it with compassion lest we all should go insane
It's the the evil that's inherent in the heart of every man
Up to now the heartless alien had toyed with me and learned
What it's spawn would need to know to insure we'd all be burned
This birdlike moth she-being had both seduced me and had spurned
With her soulless dead black eyes and such cruelty be warned
So I shuffled off in the darkness and found refuge in a niche
As hate blossomed in my heart to parry the loathsome witch
This angry heart was now a weapon as a plan began to stitch
As seductive as she'd become I knew I had to kill that bitch
As the plot to slay my adversary formed inside my head
It was as brutal an idea as any thought I'd ever had
Requiring dumb luck and deception with my vitriol held in stead
It being clear to me in that moment was that my friends were likely dead
Part VII
As time traversed the metronomic tic-toc of my beating heart
I had no memory of the details beyond imperatives that I must impart
As I stood above the Flamenvix with a shard of stone thrust to her heart
I had forfeited my sanity to preserve this life now torn apart
There were rustlings and scratchings in the bones of those who lay nearby
For the Flamenvix had fertilized all her victims as they began to die
There in distance near a parapet was a torchlight upon on high
As my eyes played tricks her progeny flickered about in an angry sky
As I ran to seize the torch the sweat ran down upon my face
There her minions lay distracted in an orgy all about place
The far exit was blocked by an alien with a carapace
But the sound of trickling water drew me near it quickening my pace
On the floor of the grotto ran a darkened river below a bench
So I dove headfirst in that water just to escape the army of that wench
And as I held my breath and swam beneath the subterranean trench
I knew my life hung in the balance by but the narrowest of an inch
Part VIII
Denouement
As I scraped along through that river in the belly of our Mother Earth
I found air pockets that sustained me but of good oxygen there was a dearth
And the narrows I pressed through barely accommodated my boney girth
But I held on with my resolve and swam hard for all that I was worth
Up ahead there were strange pixies who sparkled in the watery night
They swam ahead and guided me in a vision that was so recondite
As though angels were there to guide me to my maker in his robes of white
But found instead I was swimming from beneath a pond up to the light
I returned back to the city on a train the very next day
And dared not trust a coachman that he might detour or stray
To home and hearth was what I hoped would heal me I should say
From what the Flamenvix exacted on my soul that dreadful day
But the pain of mournful injuries to my spirit was not so bad
And the loss of all my friends still made me angry and very sad
But what was worse was all the terror and the suffering that would be had
When the Flamenvix would rise again
It was enough to drive me completely mad
-bushman
(Aka -Tim Sorenson)
07/31/2016
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Jul 31, 2016 - 08:04pm PT
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Holy smokes, Bushman - I'm amazed!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 31, 2016 - 08:12pm PT
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An Opus, oh boy!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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For the closet cricket fans like Russ.
Happening on the island of Trinidad and Tobago in 1960 a cricket riot, mon.
One anecdote given by Dave Francois, a longtime member of the Queen’s Park Cricket Club, is that noted radio sports commentator of the time Raffie Knowles described the rioters as “hooligans.” Transistor radios, being the norm of the day, were glued to the ears of many of the spectators and before you knew it, the media area was bombarded with bottles too!
RIOT IN THE OVAL
By Lord Bryner
Don’t doubt me, don’t doubt me
Because ah saying what ah see
At the Test match in Queen’s Park Oval
Right after the tea interval
From the time Charran Singh get run out
Ah don’t know where all those bottles come.
CHORUS
But it was bottle and stone riot in the Oval
The Test match turn to a carnival,
Ah had to hide me head inside a canal
Lee Kow was like Nasser in the Suez Canal
Right in the middle of the Federal Capital
It was rotten and bad
And a shame to the island of Trinidad
After we had such a good sporting name
One little thing make we lose we fame
It will take us 15 years or more
To get back the good name, I am sure
So MCC take this apology please
On behalf of Trinidad, Brynner, and the West Indies.
I was on my heels.
When the Premier and the Governor came to the field.
They started raising their hands up
Signalling the rioters to stop
Well that didn’t help anything
They started calling louder to bring back Charran Singh
Then ah only hear fling like a bottle fly
And it lick out the Premier glasses clean from he eye
Any how I think am sure
This kind of things would not happen no more
Because we all should understand
West Indian cricket back bone is England
Because the same Charran Singh that didn’t get the run
Might be in Lancashire in a few months to come
And when England send him back to the West Indies.
You must call him Sir Charran Singh if you please.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Aug 11, 2016 - 11:11pm PT
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The Rendering
I took my usual route today
Through my neighborhood and down Sloughhouse road
Then hurriedly down the highway
Where no bike lane buffered me from traffic
And few cars passed but trucks careened under their massive loads
The canal path was my haven
And I cruised it until Grant Line road
I took a left and followed it
Where all the cars and trucks wore on my nerves
So I pushed to find a safe haven with my shoulders hunched and torso bowed
To a backroad I had sometimes driven
When commuting into town
I'd been cautious there to slow down
For the livestock and two hairpin turns
But at fifty five miles an hour I'd only seen but farms and fields of brown
So the turn from Grant Line onto Eagles Nest
Was refreshing and quite a switch
For a bicyclist on a summers day
In three miles only two cars went by
As I stopped to rest at Laguna Creek which in most places was just a ditch
I wondered that I hadn't noticed
The creek in this locale
It's bucolic beauty unfolded to me
Bringing back memories of childhood days and fishing trips
Something about it's solitude buoyed me with new vigor as it lifted my moral
The few crossroads up ahead
Brought honking horns and speeding cars
But I stayed my course up Eagles Nest
Beyond the busy intersections
Though quiet again this section for touring would barely rate one star
Then the road left the pavement
Onto gravelly washboard and eroded ruts
I checked out the Mather RC club
An airfield I'd once been a member of
Perhaps this day the patrons were elsewhere with their beer and nuts
Back on the blacktop and around the bend
East towards sunrise Boulevard
It's a shortcut seldom drivers take
On this lonely leg of Kiefer Road
Where I peddled past the peculiar stench of the animal rendering yard
It's difficult to put into words
What's referenced as peculiar
The revolting stench became more rotten
As I turned onto the bike trail at the Folsom South Canal
Where a herd of cows by the rendering plant eyed me for their rescuer
The gallows humor struck me
As I walked my bike on by
How near or far to death they were
Those cattle helpless in their yard
Then I saw that I was just as prone on the highway as a truck went by
As I rode home on the bike path
And thought in my defense
On how short and merciless life can be
I found my pace and with fortune grace
I had in staying with the living and my occupancy in the corporeal sense
There were cars backed up on Grant Line
As I rode beyond the drama
Of traffic jams and first responders
And pondered about those peaceful places
Just beyond the clamor in the tall grass where if you're quiet is an emu or a Llama
-bushman
08/11/2016
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Aug 12, 2016 - 07:59pm PT
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Evocative, Bushman. Keep it up.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Aug 21, 2016 - 10:35am PT
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The Island of Lost Horizons
Part 1
The Ship
As notice from my master came
The cloud cast afternoon burned clear
To lively sunset auburn haired
Much like her scratchy mane the dear
So drunk with pungent song I sang
To the pesky girl I wooed and bed
Alas my situation lost
Left me no choice and so I fled
The pastor's step on our day for to wed
A deckhands ad answered in a clutch
And we set sail on waters late
The month of August laden such
The keel on harbors bottom scraped
And hoped my captains fate was less
In kind adrift and rudderless
Or muddled like my fettered list
Escaped from I was wedded bliss
But 'fore my labors washed all this
The captains wrinkled grayish brow
O'er dark encircled eyes that frowned
With worrisome forbodence fell
To scan horizons then cast down
Through bow timbers to blackened deep
His enigmatic reputation kept
By first mate and by lock and key
Those voyages that he had seen
So buried we our worries the more
For all world a 'bound by destiny
Week on week we crested wave
Southward to as weathers calmed
And waters warm and open seas
As balmy doldrums soon embalmed
Our spirits fell on duties cursed
A deathly purgative unwarned
Less appetite left me replete
And darkened thoughts left me forlorn
On oceans wide horizon scorned
On murmured sounds of mutiny
No sharpened knives below the deck
A captain's only order stood
Between the noose and broken neck
Then spirits rose a cry to men
When west winds pressed the sails to mast
The Ivory coast appeared to east
The waves they rose and fell at last
Off Dragon's tails that never ceased
'Round Horn we pushed to India
By monster gales and seas festooned
By shoals and reefs a lurking there
To shipwreck and leave us marooned
A 'drowned and swept by Neptune's tides
To a mirthless ocean bottom tomb
And some were lost swept overboard
By sleeper waves that settled score
Left a crew survived by those much more
Now dangerous than those before
On latitudes off course bereft
Unsettled weather settled soon
Our compass course so stigmatized
We'd navigate by sun and moon
Much further south we drifted as
Through fog we saw only the ghosts
Of long lost ships and long dead crews
And heard the cries out in the mists
Of long lost Captain Darius
Whose soul was traded once for gold
Descending he to satin's lair
As olden sailor's legends told
The third day on those souther'd seas
The Indian Ocean sat like pond
No winds to tell or lift the sails
To blow the fog or stir a breeze
The captain broke out with the rum
A ration each man's fear to quell
For soon we smelled a ghastly smell
Like burning hair on animal hide
Or witch's porridge straight from hell
Which stirred us primally inside
The winds ne'er came for o'er a week
With sunken eyes and slouching gait
No words were said we did not speak
The rum long gone our nerves a wreck
A feverish red inflamed our eyes
When first came blood to black of night
The watch cried out a man on deck
His throat was sliced his face was white
The captain ordered all to top
First mates face was clenched and drawn
His pistol held and hammer cocked
He stood like that until the dawn
Each night it came each morning sun
Dispatched we were now one by one
Those of us the specter sought
In sport in form or gruesome fun
To rid the seas and keep to thee
Our cargo and our vessel for
A paltry prize for what he'd done?
Afore each dawn there came the scream
Another murdered there was lain
At midship deck for all to see
We once were forty but now fifteen
I could not wait 'till next was me
I could not sleep except by day
And cowardice kept me from flight
While hiding in a life boat passed
In trembling fear another night
And dreamed of Bess Cornelius
My near betrothed with skin of white
Her gentle smile and eyes of green
Reproached me for my treachery
I looked away but still her voice
And auburn hair encircled me
And called my name not once but thrice
With baleful moans and dreadful cries
I startled then awake to see
With flames all 'round I realized
'Twas trapped with no way clear to me
And saw no exit to my plight
As flames were there at every turn
I ran back t'wards a life boat then
A flash of pain and blackness came
I would not see our ship again
The good ship sinking as it burned
A timber'd struck me o'er the head
And when with pounding headache woke
In the only lifeboat left afloat
My former hideaway and bed
The sky was dark and the sea was black
'Till morning clouds descended
On the waters where my lonely craft
Was cloaked by fog a 'never ending
For days on end I drifted there
The dew it never quenched my thirst
No food to quell my hunger fast
With an old tarpaulin spread out where
The blistered skin and pulpy hands
I noticed not and did not care
And all my ceaseless shivering
Wore me out 'till I slept fair
As waves picked up and the wind did blow
Where I should drift I could not know
Part 2
Captain Darius
My boat made land on a blackened shore
As the tide pushed up and my feet dug in
To a coarse volcanic gravelly sand
Like one I'd never seen a'fore
Beyond all that I kept no score
For the fog had thickened all about
But my hunger ached to sound once more
So imprudently I began to shout
And thought I heard voices of men
But my eyes were weary and my ears did ring
And I stumbled into a jungle deep
Where tree vines hung to dampened ground
Knowing not what crawled or creeped
But still heard distant melodies
As I slept to rest my pulped feet
(To be continued)
-bushman
08/21/2016
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Aug 21, 2016 - 04:08pm PT
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There was an Old Man
Late one night
I heard a strange noise
So I went outside
And there was an old man
Standing by the cedar tree
He had a bald head
And a stubbly beard
All stooped and limping
Just like me
He came towards me
I raised my arm
To warn him off
But I saw something
Something moved
In the field beyond
Way out by the pepper tree
A strange glow of colors
Coruscating
A wormhole opened
Bright and green
Right out of Star Trek
Like I had seen
The old man whispered
"Don't go near
You see I once
Was from around here"
As I stood trembling in fear
He told me then
He'd worked for years
As doctor on a merchant ship
One long winter ocean voyage
They spied a man
On an iceberg there
And attempted a rescue
As a storm did rage
In the North Atlantic on that day
Then the old man said
The iceberg man
Was clearly dead
His body it was frozen stiff
Encrusted with ice
He'd waited too long
But inside his tent
Was a time machine
With it's motor turned on
The old man continued
To tell his story
That's when he said
That's when he fell
Through a wormhole there
And found an old man
Way down at the other end
Then the old man said
That it was him
I told the old man
To stop right there
That I didn't believe him
About what he'd seen
And I did not care
He smiled and turned
And disappeared
In the worm hole by
My pepper tree there
Now I've grown older
And my memory fails
Can't recall my aches or ails
Or if I've gone through
A time machine
Was I the iceberg man
Or the wormhole man?
Though there was an old man
It matters not that I can tell
-bushman
08/21/2016
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Aug 27, 2016 - 05:02pm PT
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Seasoning
There is a time in life's late seasons
To drop excuses and find reasons
To be performing daily feasance
For your dogs.
They love your butt to death
And your crotch smells like Lab breath
And it will until your death
Long time hence.
So don't be too blue and mopin'
Cuz it's nice and wide and open
And your Labs will find there's no pen
O'er the fence.
So keep on sackin' dog poo
The odor so becomes you
Here come the Labs to smell you
And your scents.
--Dog R. Ell
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Oh, An Ode
As I drove down the highway bound for Mexico,
Down to the land of the coyote and the crow,
I slammed on my brakes and almost hit a doe,
Then ran off the road where the weeds always grow,
Down through the tulies as the wind started to blow,
And that's when I saw how the sky was aglow,
When the earth shrank to nothing I had to say, "Whoa!"
I stepped out of my car because I didn't know,
I'd be lost in a cosmic archipelago,
I started to pass out when I heard a banjo,
But the worst of my fears was acute vertigo,
So I reached in my pocket real nice and slow,
I pulled out some oxygen aerosol, yo,
It comes in a pump or a spray, hello?
As that backwoods banjo strummed an adagio,
Desperately in need of some fresh h2o,
As I glanced at the moon and it's warm afterglow,
The leer she returned was most un-apropos,
But my pinkish complexion was as blue as my toe,
So I climbed in my car as it started to snow,
The snow in deep space was a dark indigo,
And as cold as the depths of the oceans below,
On an earth now gone missing into hyperspace, Joe,
So such was my quandary in space, Eskimo,
With no means for my safety or a quid pro quo,
No means to survive or a clear paseo,
But I would not relinquish and cried, "Tallyho!"
Then lapsed into deep unconsciousness, oh!
Now I could argue but I'm no Cicero,
Going from bad to worse in a heartbeat, such woe,
But much like the sad and forlorn weeping willow,
Or the puddle of drool that seeps into your pillow,
I was worse off today than I might be tomorrow,
With no future to beg, or to steal, or to borrow,
I had sealed my own fate when I'd stepped in that auto,
Now a castaway, unconscious, adrift in a grotto,
As the dueling banjos quickened pace to allegro,
My dreamscape swirled to a maelstrom staccato,
Then I woke soaked in sweat from my chronic lumbago,
And wished I'd not eaten the meat and potato,
Should've had only salad with the spinach and tomato,
So an ode to an 'Oh!' is no grand manifesto,
With some lofty philosophy to be spoken with gusto,
But a tribute to an 'Oh' without bold braggadocio,
Just a simple, "Oh, now where did the time go?"
-bushman
09/03/2016
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Alpine World #2
The Obelisk
On horizons before yesterday
Transported back in time
To the base of an ancient obelisk
Two climbers offloaded their gear
From the shuttle below a glacier
Two hundred sixty million years ago
When the Karoo Ice Age finally receded
Crackman sized up the route
He could scarcely believe his laser eye
With no portent of the danger
The bargain struck yet not conceded
The splitter ran straight from the bergschrund
To the top of the northwest buttress
Ice crystals thinly plastered the rock face
Here and there
For fifteen thousand feet
But little snow appeared on the ledges
And the crack looked free of ice
Crackman brewed hot soup
As Ropedroid sorted their gear
And hung her ledge from a nearby boulder
The climbers tended to their duties
As they spied a rare carcass
Picked clean by birds and lice
At dawn Crackman was in rare form
And Ropedroid's bionic arm
Shot bolts without ever seizing
Her pneumatic piston power source
It put a sparkle in her turquoise eyes
And they climbed forty pitches before dusk
Next day the stormy skyline
Foreboding to the west
Compelled them to climb much faster
But an ice choked chimney blocked their exit
From the buttress to the summit ridge
Ropedroid kicked her clawboots into overdrive
And led through icicles which overhung
For two rope lengths as they continued on
From nightfall into dawn
At the summit they took the south ridge
The good weather now was gone
Socked into their snow cave
The whiteout blizzard howled
As shuttle crews would not respond
With atmospheric disturbance
Playing havoc on their nerves
As well the signal from their phone
The rations spent and fuel gone
Crackman and Ropedroid spooned for heat
A love affair was born
With no calories for consummation
Two weeks went by since they had gone
The shuttle saw the woman first
His arms waved also on the second fly by
Plucked off the the southern ridge alive
They'd both lost thirty pounds or more
The second ascent party had less luck
But that's another story, son
-bushman
125,000,000 BC
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Dream-E-state?
Witness to the Black Plague, 1347-1350, it took half of civilization
Leaving the Dark ages. In its wake ,
dream estate behind earth and mortar walls
Safe from marauding hoards beatified. decorated with Topiary 'nd stone, some that were entwined
together Pontoon boats made contemporary moats ineffective
Not long past the age of moats, every one became infected
Rock Gnome, glade of Diabase, in the year of our lord 1358
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Bushman rackin' 'em up and clearing the table
Can't tell if it's a poem or if it's a fable
I can't bear it.
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oldguy
climber
Bronx, NY
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ENTROPY 2
The northwest face of Half Dome is sheer, seemingly
smooth, cut by a geologic knife like a ball
of cheese. But a closer look, as if through
a microscope, reveals ledges and cracks,
a finer structure sculpted by weather and time.
Fifteen hundred feet from the ground I found
a large flake, several feet thick, over a hundred
high. (It can be seen in an Adams photograph.)
My back against the wall, my feet pressing
the flake, I inched up. The flake's edge hung
out to the right like a curtain in the wings.
Half way up, sweating, I stopped to look
through a four-inch gap splitting the flake
like a cookie, to look at the valley
a mile down. They called it Psyche Flake.
It gave me pause, then I kept climbing,
carefully, my feet pushing just enough
to hold. At the top and to the left,
where the flake joined the wall, the accumulated
rocks shifted as I sought firm ground.
One winter, a few years later, the whole thing came off.
Joe Fitschen
_
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Sep 11, 2016 - 10:57am PT
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(With edits)
Klutz Foot
High upon the ridge top
The climber walks alone
His partner has gone ahead
After a long and grueling climb
He works his way down the descent
Jaded by worldly troubles
He's introspect
And trouble free
For the moment by
Exploits on high
Innocent as to what might be
As often we all are
He places feet down between
The boulders and the scrub oak
Between roots
To find the climbers path
And like mountain goats
With measured leaps
But as though each step
Might be his last
With pleasure
And gratitude
He spies the rap route anchors
There
Lowering himself to clip in
With his pack
From anchor point to anchor point
The water ran out long ago
Exhaustion shows upon his brow
As sweat still comes to neck and wrists
He works the kinks
Untwists the twists
And pulls the ropes from the last rappel
With chafed
And grimy hands
The loose rocks in the gully shift
Under every step until
He links together paths on down
But with every pounding footfall
His socks have failed
Where friction's worn
As blisters form
With the familiar burn
A thousand feet or more
In elevation left to go
Back to the established trails
And home
There waiting he sees the sight of gear
His partner splayed across a stone
An unattractive site
This weary pair
On gentler ground now
Though laden as they walk along
They're feeling lighter still
And see their car
Just down this hill
Cold beverages and showers compel
The one misstep
-bushman
09/11/2016
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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The other day I was getting ready to post this.
I accidentally deleted the entire poem and had to
remember and rewrite it in it's entirety.
It came out much different than the original,
oh well, such is life.
The Guidebook
The route is most impossible
Though common it's still unknown
For both mortals and demigods
Where the eagle's have not yet flown
Just north of Babylon
Take a left near the old brothel
From the base of a fiery lake
Take the pillar of the apostle
And the guidebook said
To young Wilbur Sands
Climb for a hundred pitches
With your feet and with your hands
Though it took all month
The guidebook was non de script
Except for the divorce
And the broken hip
And atop the soaring pillar
A mighty headwall loomed
The cracks were all rotten
And prevalent with doom
But the guidebook said
To find a good woman
Who won't mention the wife
T'was late advice for Wilbur then
So he cast off probing weaknesses
As insipid as his own
When the rains began in earnest
He thought that he would drown
On what tears the gods shed freely
Wilbur might've taken the plunge
Off route and lost among the clouds
With only demons to expunge
Flickering it's last the headlamp bulb
Illuminated a single theme
"Exit by way of rivets
Up a dike of serpentine"
The lonely hammock swayed
Hanging off a row of pins
Engulfed by storm and clouds
On a climb that had no end
Wilbur's socked in bivouac
A long and lonely plight
Day on day
And night on night
Lifted morning of the fifth day
Last he was seen on the summit ridge
On the knife edged powdery white
With shouldered pack high on a ledge
The guidebook was never clear
Alas crystal realm negotiations
Oft times they go awry
As do earthly expectations
From beneath our clouded respite
We might find the safety of a home
In whatever warm hearth finds us
Or on high where we should ever roam
This strange magic allure
So desolate and replete
On such totems we rely on
With parched lips and wet feet
The guidebook never tells us
Which route we might be on
But we're still up there somewhere
Corporeal or eidolon
Just north of Babylon
Take a left near the old brothel
From the base of a fiery lake
Take the pillar of the apostle
One hundred pitches give or take
Then you're in it for the long haul
That's when the true climbing begins
Between the tempest and the lull
The doorbell rang
Just once once that day
Wilbur's son answered
In his way
A worn and weathered
Package came
With a guidebook that bore
His father's name
-Tim Sorenson
09/30/2016
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Loyd
Big Wall climber
Roseburg, OR
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Yosemite
This sir, surely is the gateway to my heaven.
The Valley of light, waterfalls, and hard granite walls,
Second unto none other.
El Cap, the master. Half Dome, the mother.
I, her son, her mate, my master.
Higher Rock, my elder brother is.
Bold and strong, stand he tall.
Middle Rock, my sister is, beauty incomparable has she,
Facing north while setting sun slides gently towards west.
Oh, to sit upon my younger brother’s shoulder, Lower Cathedral,
and see the first rays of morning light touch my master’s brow.
To quote a friend is, “To be amazed.”
Born to the rock and life on a vertical wall.
To death, this life I chose to live, and would have none other.
Loyd Price
November 21 1966
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Hey Loyd! Delighted to see you on the Taco!! Good stuff!
Wayne
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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The Falcon's Call
The falcon told me where to go
Where he would lead I did not know
Over hill and yonder dell
I followed him there without fail
The falcon told me what to do
And if you heard you'd follow too
In sacred words he led me where
I stood to say a silent prayer
The falcon circled in the sky
Over this soul I knew not why
I was not dying that I knew
But I let him show me what to do
Of what he spoke I could not say
In language of the birds that day
His message was in wing-ed sign
Of serendipitous design
The falcon said come follow me
A peregrine of rapt beauty
He mesmerized me with a spell
To believe that I could fly as well
The falcon signaled me to go
To follow with my heart and soul
With losses born until I wept
My freedoms exercised and kept
The falcon spoke then flew away
To leave me 'till another day
That I might hold and should revere
The raptors grace to me so dear
The falcon was a harbinger
Of hidden destinies stranger
Than death as now a welcome friend
Ushering mercifully to the end
But the falcon warned and cried aloud
To the stay alert beware the shroud
It was not now my time to die
He said this then I know not why
The falcon spoke to me by name
You might consider this insane
But had you seen him on that day
Would you have heard what he did say?
The falcon lives here on this earth
And shares with us our place of birth
From ancient times until beyond
Our spirits share a sacred bond
The falcon calls for those who hear
For due respect and reverent fear
And a zephyr to alight upon
With a lonesome cry and mournful song
-bushman
10/01/2016
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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The Sovereignty of the Self
Winding along I ask
Can a person be an island
Unto themselves
Solitary, introspect?
Is it dangerous ground?
Like the bag man
Or bag lady
Rattling off the day to day
Mundane conversations...
Whatever is in the mind out loud
"I can't, yes you can,
I'm not schizophrenic,
Oh yes, you are!"
Troubling to say
In the least
So how else would we survive
Being cast away?
Or trapped in a coal mine
If we couldn't escape?
Being faced with our thoughts
And nobody else's
For what would seem like an eternity
Where the right hand mimics the right hand
And the left hand mimics the left
-bushman
10/06/2016
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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I'm also delighted to see your poem, Loyd.
Welcome to the poet's camp.
Up There
Wishin' I was fishin' in Cascades
Instead of watchin' the parades
Of autos sneakin' in to my private paradise.
It's fine up there on Sickle,
Where I wished I had a pickle,
To accent the taste of my sardines.
It's just so long ago
That I don't really know
When I've had more fun.
It's hard to think that I climbed that
When I was a young ledge rat
Freezing in the shadows and sweating in the sun.
MFM/10-07-16
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Flip Flop
climber
Earth Planet, Universe
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Roses are red
People suck
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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^^^
Apt
I'm nominating flip flop for a Pulitzer.
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Wow - things just keep getting better!
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Olav H. Hauge
There are similarities between his relationship to nature and his relationship to folk poetry and other types of folklore, Old Norse and Western tradition, classical Chinese poetry and Japanese Haikus, as well as Eastern religion: primarily Zen Buddhism. Hauge evinces an immediate empathy with these traditions. He seems to speak directly with and with familiarity about Acestes (from the Aeneid); figures from the classical Chinese era; and characters from early Nordic tradition, such as Ogmund of Spånheim (from The Saga of Håkon Håkonsson), Leif Eiriksson and others. Such poems are also often meta-texts, such as “I have three Poems”. It tells of Emily Dickinson who wrote so many poems, but published hardly any: “she just cut open a packet of tea / and wrote another one.” This is how poems should be, they should ”…smell of tea. / Or of raw earth and freshly split wood.”
I Stop below the Old Oak on a Rainy Day
My own translation
It’s not only the rain
that makes me stop
under the old oak
by the road. It’s
safe under the wide
crown, it must be
old friendship that lead
the old oak and me to stand there
in silence, listening to the rain
dripping on the leaves, looking out
at the grey day,
waiting, understanding.
The world is old, we think,
both getting older.
Today I don’t stand here dry,
the leaves have started to fall,
there is a sour smell in the
moist air, I feel
the drops through my hair.
Olav H. Hauge
It's the Dream
Translated by Robin Fulton
It's the dream we carry in secret
that something miraculous will happen,
that it must happen –
that time will open
that the heart will open
that doors will open
that the mountains will open
that springs will gush –
that the dream will open,
that one morning we will glide into
some little harbour we didn't know was there.
Olav H. Hauge
It's the Dream: The poetry of Olav H. Hauge: http://www.boloji.com/index.cfm?md=Content&sd=PoemArticle&PoemArticleID=78
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Persimmons
by Li-young Lee
1986
In sixth grade Mrs. Walker
slapped the back of my head
and made me stand in the corner
for not knowing the difference
between persimmon and precision.
How to choose
persimmons. This is precision.
Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.
Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one
will be fragrant. How to eat:
put the knife away, lay down newspaper.
Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.
Chew the skin, suck it,
and swallow. Now, eat
the meat of the fruit,
so sweet,
all of it, to the heart.
Donna undresses, her stomach is white.
In the yard, dewy and shivering
with crickets, we lie naked,
face-up, face-down.
I teach her Chinese.
Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: I’ve forgotten.
Naked: I’ve forgotten.
Ni, wo: you and me.
I part her legs,
remember to tell her
she is beautiful as the moon.
Other words
that got me into trouble were
fight and fright, wren and yarn.
Fight was what I did when I was frightened,
Fright was what I felt when I was fighting.
Wrens are small, plain birds,
yarn is what one knits with.
Wrens are soft as yarn.
My mother made birds out of yarn.
I loved to watch her tie the stuff;
a bird, a rabbit, a wee man.
Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class
and cut it up
so everyone could taste
a Chinese apple. Knowing
it wasn’t ripe or sweet, I didn’t eat
but watched the other faces.
My mother said every persimmon has a sun
inside, something golden, glowing,
warm as my face.
Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper,
forgotten and not yet ripe.
I took them and set both on my bedroom windowsill,
where each morning a cardinal
sang, The sun, the sun.
Finally understanding
he was going blind,
my father sat up all one night
waiting for a song, a ghost.
I gave him the persimmons,
swelled, heavy as sadness,
and sweet as love.
This year, in the muddy lighting
of my parents’ cellar, I rummage, looking
for something I lost.
My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs,
black cane between his knees,
hand over hand, gripping the handle.
He’s so happy that I’ve come home.
I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question.
All gone, he answers.
Under some blankets, I find a box.
Inside the box I find three scrolls.
I sit beside him and untie
three paintings by my father:
Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.
Two cats preening.
Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth.
He raises both hands to touch the cloth,
asks, Which is this?
This is persimmons, Father.
Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,
the strength, the tense
precision in the wrist.
I painted them hundreds of times
eyes closed. These I painted blind.
Some things never leave a person:
scent of the hair of one you love,
the texture of persimmons,
in your palm, the ripe weight.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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On a day when anything can happen...
Fluorescent Paisley Coyotes under the Moon
There in Dogtown
Barked a lonely Coyote
Short on sleep
And high on peyote
She slaked her thirst
On a leftover beer
And ate of some pizza
From a box that was near
Where some climbers slept
Off a drunken debauch
With their table still littered
By their evenings launch
To another dimension
Where they'd swooped and soared
But now they lie sleeping
And loudly snored
And the coyote sneered
At their indiscretion
Though couldn't complain of
The psychotropic selection
And the pizza with shrooms
Psilocybin the type
Combined with mescaline
Left the brain moist and ripe
For unusual visions
And delusional forms
Of an identity crisis
Beyond all the norms
Was the coyote the dreamer
Or only the dream?
Was her mind just the sound
Of the howl or the scream?
So she tried out her voice
At the top of her scale
While she stood on the table
And let loose a wail
And the rattling vibration
Made the crescent moon shift
Spilling out some stars
Down into the drift
Which bounced off the heads
The the startled young men
Who had leaped from their tents
And into the din
Where a paisley coyote
Of fluorescent on wing
Hovered over their heads
And proceeded to sing
Their site it was empty
When their friends came to peak
At the last night's commotion
'Twas the loudest all week
And a search was begun
Through the rocks and beyond
For the partying climbers
Who'd gone missing that dawn...
They found them all huddled
Under Joshua Trees
All shivering and frightened
Picking quills from their knees
Where they'd run through the darkness
With sheer terror and fright
From a flying coyote
In the cold desert night
-bushman
10/09/2016
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
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I'll have check that out...
Kumbayah
We used to sing Kumbayah
Around the fire
And campfire songs
In Idyllwild
A Christian camp
My parents worked
As counselors
My brother first saw
Old Tahquitz Rock
High on mountain side
As years went by
We worked there too
The garbage detail
Tobin had
I washed more dishes then
Than I ever imagined
But I never imagined
One day the climb would come
I was too young
And out of shape
So I just carried the rope up
While Tobin and friend
Climbed the left ski track
Tobin led his first route
The other guy
Grunted and flailed on top rope
I carried the rope back
Terrified
The years passed
My brother's legacy
Culminated
Fulfilling the prophecy
In a weird way
My earliest memory
A first dream
On passage back from
Overseas
Where Tobin first saw
The mighty alps
How could I know...
How could I know?
Such irony
As a sailors caps flew off the deck
So go our dreams
It's all we have
Who we love
Who we care about
Never aloof
Permanently
We're made to see
-Tim Sorenson
10/09/2016
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
|
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This was written as prose, but it is absolutely poetry. Read it aloud, slowly. Listen. You can hear it. You're there.
If I Were the Wind
The wind that makes music in November corn is in a hurry. The stalks hum, the loose husks whisk skyward in half-playful swirls, and the wind hurries on.
In the marsh, long windy waves surge across the grass sloughs, beat against the far willows. A tree tries to argue, bare limbs waving, but there is no detaining the wind.
On the sandbar there is only the wind, and the river sliding seaward. Every wisp of grass is drawing circles on the sand.
I wander over the bar to a driftwood log, where I sit and listen to the universal roar, and the tinkle of wavelets on the shore. The river is lifeless: not a duck, heron, marsh hawk, or gull but has sought refuge from wind.
**
Out of the clouds I hear a faint bark, as of a far-away dog. It is strange how the world cocks its ears at that sound, wondering. Soon it is louder: the honk of geese, invisible, but coming on.
The flock emerges from the low clouds, a tattered banner of birds, dipping and rising, blown up and blown down, blown together and blown apart, but advancing, the wind wrestling lovingly with each winnowing wing. When the flock is a blur in the far sky I hear the last honk, sounding taps for summer.
**
It is warm behind the driftwood now, for the wind has gone with the geese. So would I - if I were the wind.
Aldo Leopold, Sand County Almanac
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Beautiful poetry. I can easily see this, feel this...:
The flock emerges from the low clouds, a tattered banner of birds, dipping and rising, blown up and blown down, blown together and blown apart, but advancing, the wind wrestling lovingly with each winnowing wing. When the flock is a blur in the far sky I hear the last honk, sounding taps for summer.
Even "violent" prose sometimes have this poetic quality. This is from Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian:
Already you could see through the dust on the ponies’ hides the painted chevrons and the hands and rising suns and birds and fish of every device like the shade of old work through sizing on a canvas and now too you could hear above the pounding of unshod hooves the piping of the quena, flutes made from human bones, and some among the company had begun to saw back on their mounts and some to mill in confusion when up from the offside of those ponies there rose a fabled horde of mounted lancers and archers bearing shields bedight with bits of broken mirrorglass that cast a thousand unpieced suns against the eyes of their enemies. A legion of horribles, hundreds in number, half naked or clad in costumes attic or biblical or wardrobed out of a fevered dream with the skins of animals and silk finery and pieces of uniform still tracked with the blood of prior owners, coats of slain dragoons, frogged and braided cavalery jackets, one in a stovepipe hat and one with an umbrella and one in white stockings and a bloodstained weddingveil and some in headgear of cranefeathers or rawhide helmets that bore the horns of bull or buffalo and one in a pigeontailed coat worn backwards and otherwise and one in the armor of a Spanish conquistador, the breastplate and pauldrons deeply dented with old blows of mace or sabre done in another country by men whose very bones were dust and many with their braids spliced up with the hair of other beasts until they trailed upon the ground and their horses’ ears and tails worked with bits of brightly colored cloth and one whose horse’s whole head was painted crimsom red and all the horsemen’s faces gaudy and grotesque with daubings like a company of mounted clowns, death hilarious, all howling in a barbarous tongue and riding down upon them like a horde from a hell more horrible yet than the brimstone land of Christian reckoning, screeching and yammering and clothed in smoke like those vaporous beings in regions beyond right knowing where the eye wanders and the lip jerks and drools.
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
|
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While we're at it...
This is by a dear Atlin friend, Kate Harris, who has just finished a book for Knopf titled "Lands of Lost Borders - Cycling Out of Bounds on the Silk Road". We'll hear a lot more from her. For some amazing writing, check her out on <kateharris/ca>. Read her essay "Contours of Cold". Some incredibly poetic stuff in that one.
NIGHT SONG
all the insoluble night the crickets repeat their questions
not expecting answers not learning lessons by rote
but dismantling loneliness carefully like a bomb
these mantras are the oldest imagination of prayer
minds like little moons exerting force across immensity
tugging at Truth Certainty God all the usual truants
all the absolutes skipping school this time around the universe
desire is suffering Milarepa tells us through the nettles
stuck in his teeth lisping wisdom like slow water
over stones but the fact we will all someday die
argues the danger of longing for too little
when the sun rises it is not a reply but a rephrasing
of the mystery a closing of distances with light
shadows so much vaster than the shapes that cast them
the crickets are quiet loneliness is in pieces
all over the lawn tiny shards precious as gems
one pretty edge short of shrapnel.
-Drunken Boat issue #16
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
|
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Oct 17, 2016 - 04:42pm PT
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The Drake
A female duck is called a duck,
The male is called a drake.
He’s loaded with testosterone –
He’s something of a rake.
He’s big and strong but not too bright,
He’s arrogant and loud.
He makes himself conspicuous;
He stands out in a crowd.
He pokes and dabbles in the muck,
And gabbles all the while;
Though he’s a bottom feeder, he
Pretends to have some style.
His foolish bird-brained fan club feeds
His monstrous self-esteem,
His id and ego grow apace,
He struts and quacks and preens.
And when migration time has come
And summer’s nearly spent,
He’ll fly away to Washington
And run for President.
WM
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Oct 19, 2016 - 01:40pm PT
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The World is so like Autumn to me Now
I found pieces of my yard all over today
They were brown or tan, some yellowing
There was an odd owl wing
And a broken metal alligator toy
Another was a piece of yesterday
Something political
I swept them all in a pile
And lit them for an altar
Then sat to pray
"Oh autumn
Don't be afraid to linger
You know I'm melancholy when you are
With the fading light of summer
The doldrums come so easily
If I was an old fishing boat
My mold would be so much worse today
But I'm not
I'm just a man
I'm like a man a moldering
More and more each year as I get older
Pruney skin and creaking withers
I'm like the tree who'd bring back summer
At the first sign of a good rain
It's the same for every season
Where I usually regret the change
Until a few weeks have gone by
So forgive all my transgressions
Oh Autumn
And may we still be here this time next year
And may we mostly have forgotten
This rotten election
And please don't forget
To watch over my family, my pets, and my friends
Amen"
I don't expect that autumn
Should pay me too much credence
-bushman
10/-9/2016
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Oct 19, 2016 - 01:49pm PT
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"And when migration time has come
And summer’s nearly spent,
He’ll fly away to Washington
And run for President."
^^^^
Or more like this:
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 19, 2016 - 05:32pm PT
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Not sure I dare try this format but whatthehell, it's all fun. A tanka string. Like haiku, but 5 lines,
5-7-5-7-7.
Winter coming
aspen’s gold has flown
greyness owns all earth and sky
we long for light
snow can not come soon enough
white will light our world again
***
dark limbs wave helpless
arguing with icy wind
pull the chair closer
pine chunks crackle in the stove
stretch toward the sun’s old warmth
***
hard frost furs the roof
north breeze hurries mist southward
I blink sleep away
savouring rich coffee scent
planning now for coming snow
***
the first flakes drift in
perch on the deck and cling there
we dig in the closet
wool and fleece are warm to touch
down can wait for sharper cold
***
all is white at dawn
new snow muffles earth and sound
turn from the window
find the skis in the rafters
waiting for that first long glide
***
put back the new skis
lacking soul of living wood
pull down the wood skis
torch in the bubbling pine tar
inhale taste of winters past
Wayne Merry, August 2016
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 21, 2016 - 12:26am PT
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You pulled that off well, Wayne.
Hats off to winter
Though it's blowing mighty cold
You're warm and toasty
And that string is worth another read plus.
A melancholy bit from the depths of depression.
Food for Thought, Food for Worms
My family moving south
from north
by leaps and bounds
along the 99
and coming to rest
here
I have lived on the 101
and there are comparisons
two degrees of separation
by the numbers
but there is no place
that is a home to me
like here
Where I sit
where I make my stand
where I will probably lie
under the hardpan
if not mixed
into the sand of Mt. Clark beach
which I can see from
here
For that is my true home
as I see it
in the pines and rocks
of the incomparable place
amid the pure rare air
up there
But of what good is that
splendid air
to a corpse
especially one whose death
was caused in part
by breathing bad air
here?
Something
to occupy my thoughts
if any
after I take my rest
whenever
wherever
if not
here
--MFM
Someone you know may be suffering depression.
I hope it's not you.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Oct 21, 2016 - 02:43am PT
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With Nary a Trace
The cold night air blankets me
Chilling in a good way
Like the places I see
Some
But we are in between
All the vastness
And temperature extremes
Too far away, disgrace
Would I were a light beam
I were
My mind, my thoughts, my essence
A glowing crown
Iridescent and circular
Ever present
Would I were all of them
Simultaneously
Limited, brief
A flashing tiny spark
As great as all my thoughts are, to me
This kaleidoscopic space
Between two ears, way out there
Somehow escaping
I'm laughing now at both worlds
So sad, they slip away
-bushman
10/21/2016
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 21, 2016 - 09:18am PT
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Mouse, Bushman - you guys just keep getting better!
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Barbarian
climber
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Oct 21, 2016 - 09:42am PT
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An old rooster crows
in the frosty grey dawn.
I turn my collar up
against the chill
take one more look
down that lonely white line
knowing part of me is already gone.
I know the pain
a sailor must feel
dreaming of some other land
a Prodigal son
map in my mind
a stranger longing for Home.
October leaves are falling
softly
I stir them with my boots
the sky is November...
it looks like snow.
Sitting on my roll
in a pickup truck bed
sharing the wind
with an old man's dog
whining of the tires
a Highway Song
The hours pass by me
to the ticking of fenceposts
At dusk
I wander away from the road
to the trees
and as night scatters stars
I push back the cold with a blanket
a guitar
and thoughts of you...
There's a Princess
warm in her storybook
a King
cold
out on his Road
I'm hitchhiking to Colorado.
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 21, 2016 - 02:14pm PT
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Good stuff!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 21, 2016 - 07:24pm PT
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Wonderful memory, Scott.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 23, 2016 - 02:30am PT
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Norman MacKaig writing about the Cairngorms.
Don't know if there's a title.
I saw it in this blog.
https://heavywhalley.wordpress.com/
Glaciers, grinding West, gouged out
these valleys, rasping the brown sandstone,
and left, on the hard rock below — the
ruffled foreland —
this frieze of mountains, filed
on the blue air — Stac Polly,
Cul Beag, Cul Mor, Suilven,
Canisp — a frieze and
a litany.
Who owns this landscape?
Has owning anything to do with love?
For it and I have a love-affair, so nearly human
we even have quarrels. —
When I intrude too confidently
it rebuffs me with a wind like a hand
or puts in my way
a quaking bog or a loch
where no loch should be. Or I turn stonily
away, refusing to notice
the rouged rocks, the mascara
under a dripping ledge, even
the tossed, the stony limbs waiting.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 26, 2016 - 06:50am PT
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As long as we are on the opposite side of the pond, here's a pretty one from Ireland.
The Pretty Girl of Loch Dan
Sir Samuel Ferguson (1810–1886)
THE SHADES of eve had crossed the glen
That frowns o’er infant Avonmore,
When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men,
We stopped before a cottage door.
“God save all here,” my comrade cries,
And rattles on the raised latch-pin;
“God save you kindly,” quick replies
A clear sweet voice, and asks us in.
We enter; from the wheel she starts,
A rosy girl with soft black eyes;
Her fluttering courtesy takes our hearts,
Her blushing grace and pleased surprise.
Poor Mary, she was quite alone,
For, all the way to Glenmalure,
Her mother had that morning gone
And left the house in charge with her.
But neither household cares, nor yet
The shame that startled virgins feel,
Could make the generous girl forget
Her wonted hospitable zeal.
She brought us in a beechen bowl
Sweet milk that smacked of mountain thyme,
Oat cake, and such a yellow roll
Of butter,—it gilds all my rhyme!
And while we ate the grateful food
(With weary limbs on bench reclined),
Considerate and discreet, she stood
Apart, and listened to the wind.
Kind wishes both our souls engaged,
From breast to breast spontaneous ran
The mutual thought,—we stood and pledged,
“The modest rose above Loch Dan.”
“The milk we drink is not more pure,
Sweet Mary,—bless those budding charms!—
Than your own generous heart, I ’m sure,
Nor whiter than the breast it warms!”
She turned and gazed, unused to hear
Such language in that homely glen;
But, Mary, you have naught to fear,
Though smiled on by two stranger men.
Not for a crown would I alarm
Your virgin pride by word or sign;
Nor need a painful blush disarm
My friend of thoughts as pure as mine.
Her simple heart could not but feel
The words we spoke were free from guile;
She stooped, she blushed,—she fixed her wheel,—
’T is all in vain,—she can’t but smile!
Just like sweet April’s dawn appears
Her modest face,—I see it yet,—
And though I lived a hundred years
Methinks I never could forget
The pleasure that, despite her heart,
Fills all her downcast eyes with light,
The lips reluctantly apart,
The white teeth struggling into sight;
The dimples eddying o’er her cheek,—
The rosy cheek that won’t be still!—
O, who could blame what flatterers speak,
Did smiles like this reward their skill?
For such another smile, I vow,
Though loudly beats the midnight rain,
I ’d take the mountain-side e’en now,
And walk to Luggelaw again!
Got milk?
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Oct 26, 2016 - 08:20am PT
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Insight comes in many forms.
Wisdom too
I'm never sure that I understand it
What is that we do?
We search and play
We lay out under the stars for fun
We catch the sun set and the moon rise
then the sun rise again the moon fade in the rays.
Understanding comes to some
Not me
Humbled by the great walls I climbed
And that the nature I took in so deeply
Took to mean the essence of my soul
Of ephemeral flames that described me
the same ones that Defined me, also
Take a girl from whence she be a beauty +
To when all is said and done no less haggerd,
But just as much a hag as this
Setting son, a man once bright and young too
Now a stooped hag too
All the while a twinkle in the eyes that see no reason to
Rest inside when the night comes on
there is still time to be young 'nd things to do
Goin' where the wine is dry, sweet the buds are green
No father no husband no cause for alarm
At peace in the bosom of the beast
That cast him out
Only at last to see the error of that folly
Some deserve their place in the
Glorious fabric of the halls
The walls of the cathedral echo
Charles Victory Tucker is,
CHONGO.
A King among us all.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 26, 2016 - 10:02am PT
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^^^^Where, and under what bushel basket, have you been hiding your light?
DUDE!!!!
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 26, 2016 - 12:21pm PT
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Maybe not a poem, but just an observation from the front window.
Bohemian Waxwings
The waxwings sweep in through the swirling snow,
Attack the bountiful berries of the rowan.
The berries have fermented.
The birds are partying.
Two hundred fluttering wings shiver the tree.
Two late robins join the party.
Their cohort has long gone south -
These waited for the right vintage.
Magpies join the bacchanal -
They scorned the berries earlier.
Party crashers.
Power of suggestion.
A pair of hulking ravens flare in like thunderclouds,
Swaying precarious on the tiny twigs,
They ignored the berries all fall.
The waxwings caught their lofty attention.
The tree is almost stripped.
The birds are happier now.
Avian crapulence tomorrow.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 26, 2016 - 04:51pm PT
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Asking $350.
I'm posting another couple of photos of Ocean Jones' work on the ARt tHreaD, if you're interested.
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 28, 2016 - 12:10pm PT
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I like that one.
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Nice, rrider!
This time year a lot of us northerners like to head south. We did for several year, beach camping in Baja. Which provoked the following:
Song of the Snowbird
There’s a playa called Ligui just south of Loreto.
It’s a fabulous spot, but not easy to get to.
The highways are narrow and most don’t have shoulders,
And are littered with shrines, burned-out autos and boulders.
They’re patrolled by acquisitive Mexican policia
Who invent every possible reason to fleece ya.
And at times you must rush past some glorious vista
To search for a rest stop, ‘cause you’ve got turista.
But once you’re established amongst Ligui’s dunes
You can relish the seascapes, the stars and full moons,
To seaward the beautiful Isla Danzante,
Behind you the mighty Sierra Gigante -
The frutas Jose brings and Gloria’s burritos,
The campfires, friends, and of course the Hornitos.
And even Canadians have nothing but praises
For Tecate, Modelo and other cervezas.
If by Baja midnight we’re slightly borracho,
We weave carefully back to our camps mas despacio -
The night may be sweet but it well might distract us
To tread on a serpent or fall on a cactus.
The frigate birds hovering over the sea
Agree with the gulls - there’s no place like Ligui.
If the ocean gets rough or the wind starts to blow
We have only to contemplate forty below.
No one in his senses would trade the beach life
For snowfall, short days and political strife.
The only darn thing that I think we did wrong
Was not doing this sooner - what took us so long?
WM
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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There you go, raising the bar, you guys.
Rik, that was so stark and to the point.
And Wayne, I've never been on a Mexican holiday. The guys in C4 used to go on about the life on the beach in the off-season. That sure brought back some memories of wanting to go there myself.
Here's a photo from Rik of a stone from the Trinity River...but which Trinity River, Rik?
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Nov 11, 2016 - 10:24am PT
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Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
Mary Elizabeth Frye
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Nov 17, 2016 - 03:39am PT
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Business as Unusual
There appeared nothing too unusual
The day was just a normal day
Overcast a little but
Like some I'd have to say
The crew was busy working
And I helped them where I could
The job was going smoothly and
At first the customer seemed good
The people stopping on the street
Inquiring for bids
Were numerous and welcome
To the kind of work we did
But some time around noon that day
I noticed something change
As the job was near completion
The customer started acting strange
We were wrapping up the work
As the client visited with a friend
As I inquired about our payment
The outcome became in question then
The lady asked that I return
For payment at a later date
While addressing the contract terms
Then fell the tragic hand of fate
In the sky then flashed a silver light
The ladies screamed with opened eyes
As I turned to look to the northwest
A mushroom cloud climbed to the skies
Then a flash of arc light to the west
Cracked the silent cloudy heights
As another column to my disbelief
Shot skyward through bright bolts of light
"Oh come on, really?" I said to myself
Bearing out my first reaction
Could this of happened at a worse time?
Interrupting my business transaction?
Then the horror of what had just transpired
Woke me from the nightmare dream
Blasting full force the raw perspective
Of the present state and silent scream
Oft' times our world hangs in the balance
Threatened by malevolence so dark
Enslaved by all manner of retribution
Ours is no walk in the park
And are our dreams the harbingers
Of days to come and worlds on end?
Are they portents of the future
Or just letters that our hearts would send?
I found buried in the mail today
An unopened returned envelope
A letter I'd mailed once to someone
With best wishes and a prayer for hope
As I seek answer to my questions
More questions they just come to me
Like a Mad Hatter in a Wonderland
My own riddles never comfort me
As we worry for our future
Is there hope for us the human race?
In a world of such natural beauty
In all its grace might we find grace?
-bushman
11/17/2016
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Nov 17, 2016 - 11:37am PT
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Bushman, you're amazing!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 19, 2016 - 05:11am PT
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Sprock Is Back In Town
Long ago and in a faraway galaxy...
Or just the other day in Yosemite
A dude came looking to climb some rock
He goes by the name of Dr. Sprock.
His laurels are few but his name is great.
He seldom climbs much but it’s never too late.
His mind is keen and his tongue is, too.
But I doubt he can spell the word kletterschue.
He reeks of dank and his eyes are red.
He’s constantly feeding his swollen head.
He’s the life of the party with a lampshade on.
He’s not here often and he’s generally gone.
His rope’s nearly new and so is his gear
Maybe he’ll go climbing sometime next year.
I don’t care if he never climbs
Or if he secretly writes kids’ nursery rhymes.
He’s a Taco brother and that means much...
He seems hard-boiled but he’s a soft touch.
I enjoy his posts because it’s all in fun.
He means no harm, not to anyone.
Yes, Sprock is back in town
He’s just another Taco clown
He’s always up and never down
He’s just a scarier version of zBrown!
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Nov 19, 2016 - 05:36am PT
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Hilarious, Mouse ! Well said and well done!
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Nov 23, 2016 - 11:16am PT
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Religiopoliphilosotics
When we speak religiopoliphilosotic
We're like to make the heart grow sick
And those of us who act the dick
Shall feed upon and wet their wick
On arguing fervent points of view
With nothing changed and nothing new
When it comes to this it will not do
But to say goodbye and to bid adieu
As we tumble down the road of life
We are like as not to cause some strife
To those who follow like the fife
Or the children, husband, or the wife
So with religion, philosophy, or politics
It's like a game of pick up sticks
We have to take our victories and our licks
But what few deserve the 666
Letting differences go to our heads
To judge the world as either good or bad
To release the jinn, a route so sad
To that end we'd be as good as dead
When it comes to the religiopoliphilosotic
We're like to make all hearts grow sick
When life is so balanced upon the pick
Of buttons we were never meant to click
-bushman
11/23/2016
All that aside, may everyones thanksgiving be a time of joy.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Nov 26, 2016 - 01:42am PT
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Riding Strawberry Ponies through Candy Land Times
It's a simple kind of reason
When darkness and the fire grows cold
Or the things that that people tell us
Fed by hatred and mistrust
That any such information
About the godless or the feared
Be a knowledge and a history we deny
What we never would want to know
Erasing all un conforming history
Whenever it is displeasing to the mind
It's less challenging to our views
Regardless of what hard lessons we might find
Pulling the blankets over our eyes
To leave the world behind
Hoping dream upon dream
We won't awake to find
This place that we have come to
To stand there in the cold
And stoke the embers and go outside
Where the woodpile is empty
Our feet have become cold
And in the darkness we are blind
-bushman
11/26/2016
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Nov 26, 2016 - 08:29am PT
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The Rhyme Maker
Once long ago in brighter times
There lived the master king of rhymes
A jester who with humble heart
Did make the rhyme his sacred art
Using all manner as the gaffe
He worked to make his patrons laugh
But always thought to raise sublime
The melody of a clever rhyme
His name is lost among the rust
Of empires buried in the dust
He lived from hand to mouth in strife
He never married or took a wife
And every night misplaced his britches
Accounting for his lack of riches
To travel forth with every tryst
Lest jealous husbands raise their fist
The rhyme maker and poet king
Would find a troupe and often sing
'Till late at night he'd find his riff
Imparting drunkards with his gift
Eyeing the tavern owners maid
Or mistress better yet instead
Whom he might solicit for a coin
To purloin her purse whilst love enjoined
But alas he was wont to lose his grift
As easily as he gave his gift
From concert hall to country fair
He sought the damsel with flaxen hair
A muse to rouse his heart with words
Alighting like the the morning birds
Alike the long lost memory
Of a mothers love on bended knee
And therein lie his secret desire
From princely fop to lowly squire
To spark all hope with stealth and mirth
He played the house for all his worth
And gave to truth with what belies
The light of laughter in men's eyes
To seek in us what we're yet to know
Such joys that cause the heart to grow
Once long ago in brighter times
There lived the master king of rhymes
A jester who with humble heart
Did make the rhyme his sacred art
Using all manner as the gaffe
He worked to make his patrons laugh
But always thought to raise sublime
The message woven through a rhyme
-bushman
11/26/2016
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Nov 26, 2016 - 10:44am PT
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^^^^^^^^!!
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Nov 26, 2016 - 12:26pm PT
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We Were The Jewels
Yosemite’s Camp 4 in the sixties
We were the jewels on the walls of the valley,
The young and the beautiful, rebellion on granite.
Climbing our passion, our family camp 4
We loved and we trusted our lives to each other
On the end of a rope. A sexual high,
As is flying, rappeling with tinkling hardware,
Pitons and beeners chiming on stone,
Breathtaking slow motion, our music drifts down,
Ignoring Viet Nam, final exams, anxious mothers,
And more. We were poor, but we ate and we drank
Like the royalty we were.
The tourists in campers were our quarry for food.
Together we foraged our family’s meals
From their blanketed compounds complete with RVs
And TVs ignoring the glory around them.
Their steaks and wine were fine with us,
Just so long as they didn’t dine with us.
Hope Meek
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 26, 2016 - 01:01pm PT
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Bushman, I would not let my daughter out of my sight with that dude around.
He belongs in Camp 4.
Brilliant, my man. Just sparkles.
Jewel on the valley walls, like.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Nov 27, 2016 - 03:49am PT
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This Tin Foil Hat's A-kilter
Looking out the gas mask brain holes
From inside and through these great big skull holes
The inside plush green and leopard camo
Diamond tuck upholstered flannel
Like PJs cushioning my brain
You'd think I'm weird or quite insane
Hey I don't chose this stuff you know
The thought police they make it so
They've made it rough
But I am tough
So I'm prepared for all out war
Against conformity and more
And I'm prepared to make them suffer
For making us feel like the duffer
There's no waiting here in limbo
While others take a stance akimbo
Mocking and deriding that
Which some to wit decry all that
What once before is coming back
Socratic method out the door
Will I find what I am looking for?
This soliloquy is growing old
While embers flick, the feet grow cold
Desdemona falls once more
Manipulated with allure
Despicable this treachery
By false champions of misery
But I've made it no mystery
A world afire and on its side
It's easy for us to deride
The turmoil swirling all around
The many bounders that abound
As we the people swirl and writhe
Like maggot piles to stay alive
So staring out my comfy den
With brains at rest a 'snuggled in
This helmet fortress cranium
Built subconsciously by delirium
Battened down to weather the din
Of mankind's only mortal sin
Our hubris lying fast within
Incited, brandished by our pain
To shout we can be 'great again'
As though some cold and heartless slob
Culling diamonds from the angry mob
Their pockets picked and fortunes robbed
Unaware it's been an inside job
They don't know they don't need him at all
To inspire the heart or so enthrall
Our humanity to hear the call
To go about and make good works
Instead of acting like spoiled jerks
Entitled by our lineage
And self talk of our heritage
As though we're destined to nobility
Imperialists with inferiority
Complexes like Japan or Germany
Before World War Two
How'd they do?
Tell me how that worked out for them
Less tens of millions, they've borne the stain
So if human beings would have no worth
I ask what are we beyond all such dearth?
As I drive my helmet and protruding duckbill
On down the road to the next windmill
-bushman
11/27/2016
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Nov 27, 2016 - 02:32pm PT
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I thought I saw Tobin today
I was making morning coffee
Having slept in 'till past eight
The sun was out
It had been days
Since it came out to warm and stay
When something caught my eye
In the window to the east
High above and where the snow flies
Over Yosemite above the trees
Riding above the ridge tops over the western slopes
There was a cloud formation that looked just like heaven
As one imagines it might be
Majestic on the breeze
Mountains of golden clouds
A range below what must be starlight
I thought I saw his spirit climbing
With his axes and crampons still moving up
He would still be up there at sunset
Mists trailing off at his feet
Sparks of stardust glinting off of his breath
I thought I saw Tobin today
And do miss him and would still mourn him
But he's out there somewhere now
In whatever transformation he would need to be
So if you were to see him
Please give my love for me
-Tim Sorenson
11/27/2016
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Just a Natural Born Child
Strangely, as I listened to the lady
Conversing with voices in her head
Her illness was not so out of place
For perhaps her angels were there to grace
Her due to some tragic circumstance
For which she had not the will to face
Adrift, alone, a stranger to this foreign place
An affliction not for me to judge
To each their burden and path to trudge
Besides, I carried my own grudge
Personal, experienced, a witness let's just say
To acts most cruel and unkind
A man made calamity in childhood years
Remembering the scars within my mind
But I no longer feel the victim to
Or resentment for the unmasked fears
Not going so far as to be thankful for it
I would not be so bound as it turned out to be
So shredding the yoke I set myself free
But still carried my heart upon my sleeve
With my pain laid bare for all to see
So I stifled it with drugs and alcohol
Because all along I'd been deceived
For what man or religion should make the call?
Or tell me in which God I should believe?
For I had never truly heard such things
No voices or angels whispers ever spoke to me
Only the sounds of a mothers soft encouragement
Were at first that intimate or had meaning to me
Like my own voice of curiosity and reasoning
And so was set free the child in me
This natural born child of the universe
Evolved of mud, a wolf pack boy
Unshorn, unclothed, I swam the sea
And I saw the world of men's hypocrisy
We man beasts who once killed so wantonly
We're now hold claim to an advanced society
Such an elevated civilization have we
Cultured, sophisticated, as it were, ahem
All held together with the spit and phlegm
Of our prisons and wars and the dogs of men
The police state and nationalism
And our pious religious institutions
And last not least a mythological deity
To cast our souls in chains eternally
For the sins we commit so eagerly
As the self talking lady started up again
I agreed in thought, while I tried to eat quietly
And as the lunch counter traffic waned
It all made sense but seemed so inane
Beyond what we are told back when by whom
We are what we have told ourselves to be
For I was just a natural born child from the womb
And like the stars we can see with our naked eye
These objects of such enormous power and beauty
They live, they die, it's what they do
As we, like the sun, shall die someday too
-bushman
12/03/2016
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Sandals, Flies, and Winter Skies over Maui
Beneath the tall bananas trees
Along the waterfall trail
High above the bluffs
From on a bridge
We looked down through the mists
To calm waters below cascades
This island bliss
North of Hana on the way
Past the Seven Pools
Which we cautiously avoided
Due to tourist crowds
And traffic jams
Then we lingered in the afternoon
In an offbeat botanical garden
Beneath the banyan
By the orchid beds
Where we stayed until the fog arrived
And left to darkness on our way
Bushman
12/03/2016
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Dec 10, 2016 - 11:32am PT
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the Lonely Stance
Of what I know
Lost in the past
It sits upon the tarmac
Weighted, overloaded with the baggage of my heart
Of what I was
There is little value
Stories told to the young and interested
Uninformed, uneducated as to what true sacrifice
Was made by my compatriots
Better trained and more committed
To the life of the ax
Knowing well at times
The uselessness of the rope
Of mountains climbed
Were few I knew
Shasta, Moran, and of ice I climbed little
But made acquaintance with some true hardmen
And some alpinists of unusual grit
Of life I've lived
I chose marriage
And fealty to hearth and home
Over noble quiet death
On a cold north face
It would not be my fate
Nor hardly a sane choice
Though such quietude deserves respect
Of those who've found
Their end and peace
In the halls of mountain Kings
Having taken fight
Upon the wings of dedication
They have earned their stance
In our legend and in our mythology
-Tim Sorenson
12/10/2016
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Dec 10, 2016 - 09:00pm PT
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For the Birds
I might have written more poetry
More stories and more words
But I've wasted time and energy
With pablum for the birds
I've raised hell with life and folks I've loved
For no reason I can see
Beyond those selfish illusions
Of the man I used to be
Today I saw the sky grow dark
And ominous with clouds
So suited to this gloom of late
To which I am endowed
I even thought to leave myself
At the curb with all the refuse
But the lottery folks keep telling me
This time I cannot lose
So come what may I'll make the choice
To try another day
And take what life is offering
Though it might not go my way
And I don't agree with most things
But am willing to go along
Because the story is in the telling
And some music is in the song
Tonight I'll try to put down
A few more simple words
No matter what becomes of them
Or even if they're heard
Though thinking might be easier
If I tried to get some rest
I'll write some things down anyway
And add them to the rest
And though I've tried to understand
What others might go through
When loneliness and hopelessness
Is all there is for you
I'm guessing that the sadness
Is just more than some can bear
When no comfort can be found at all
Except when God is there
For what it's worth I've tried to endure
The emptiness and the cold
Though accepting what comforts others
Is just part of growing old
Though the evilest of all demons
Still resides in the minds of men
What we do with our own destinies
Of this we should defend
And writing of such platitudes
Elicits little hope
Especially when some are out there
At end of their own rope
It's a metaphor of such desperateness
Please forgive me if I smirk
But a place from which I've risen
With an immensity of work
Though I've witnessed death and pestilence
But never famine or war
The horsemen are still out riding
Yet to knock upon this door
So as sands still pour and days go by
Within this hourglass
I'll try harder now to dwell on things
Worth more than my own ass
For I might have written more poetry
More stories and more words
But it's hardly worth the time at all
If it's only for the birds
-bushman, tim, sorenman, something, something, that guy
12/10/2016
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Dec 11, 2016 - 08:56am PT
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Reading Bushman's poetry is always an adventure that brings new adventures to mind.
One of them this time was the four horsemen.
I saw them riding in a dream, Hell-bent upon their course,
And each one with a sickening scheme as he rode on his horse...
And so they moved, this world to claim with utmost misery,
With death and suffering as their aim, their shame and infamy!
I saw them riding coast-to-coast, on sturdy steeds at night
And evil had them all engrossed, as if they were held tight...
And so they moved, one thought in mind, to bring the world despair,
Until the time four horsemen find their victims unaware!
I saw them riding recklessly, regardless, side-by-side,
As if their perfect destiny, each smiled with stubborn pride...
And so they moved and cut to shreds the mortal flesh of Man,
While moonbeams shone upon their heads as all four horses ran!
I saw them riding to my town and to my very street
And there they cast their curses down upon men's hands and feet...
And so they moved, unmerciful, upon the young and old,
To fill up every hospital with fever and with cold!
I saw them riding from my home, to Europe, for a spell
And I beheld that even Rome was subject to their Hell...
And so they moved, unmoved by deeds, unspeakable and foul,
Men's lives to quench like choking weeds or wicked wolves that howl!
I saw them riding, north and south, and east and west in time,
With blasphemies to fill each mouth, as if their perfect crime...
And so they moved, sharp tiger-toothed, repentant, not at all...
Four horses and four horsemen proved that even the mighty fall...
Denis Martindale
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Dec 12, 2016 - 12:02pm PT
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dec 15, 2016 - 03:40pm PT
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Days
Swift and subtle
The flying shuttle
Crosses the web
And fills the loom,
Leaving for range
Of choice or change
No time, no room.
--Janet Lewis
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dec 16, 2016 - 04:31pm PT
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The sunlight pours unshaken through the wind...--Janet Lewis
After consulting the Rain Gods and feralfae,
I've decided to publish these lines from Janet Lewis,
but have no idea of the name of this work.
Call it what you want, I daresay.
Tsaile, Chinle,
Water flowing in, flowing out.
Slow water caught in a pool,
Caught in a gourd;
Water upon the lips, in the throat,
Falling upon long hair
Loosened in ceremony;
Fringes of rain sweeping darkly
From the dark side of a cloud.
Riding the air in sunlight,
Issuing cold from a rock,
Transparent as air, or darkened
With earth, bloodstained, grief-heavy.
In a country of no dew, snow
softly piled, or singing
in bitter wind...
The earth and the sky were constant,
But water,
How could they name it with one name?
[For DBK and DJ]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dec 19, 2016 - 12:13pm PT
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For Tran GarbleBase and friends ofthe diabase and Locker
Time Worships Language
innocence
wisdom
physical beauty
even longevity
are less precious
in Auden’s estimate
in McMurtry’s mind
and mine as well
(silence is golden, golden, golden, echoing down the ages)
no matter how innocently spoken
no matter the words of wisdom or the lack thereof
no matter their attraction
no matter their current value
Time will tell and re-tell them
simply because they are words
to be carried in care
encased in the quiver of our vocabularies
embedded in the body of our speeches
kindling for the bonfires of our vanities
(boughs of budding Holly abound, singing of love for Peggy Sue which rages)
sweet little haikus
temptingly succulent words
dangle out of reach
(sayonara oh my darling, for you I pen these loving pages)
I need no Boswell to carry my quiver of time arrows
my twenty-volume dictionary of speech parts
my missives to the yet-to-be-born
my definitive list of infinitives
I will use the future tense
strung tense as a bowstring
drinking my coffee with no cream
(while Ginger bakes, Eric sews, and Jack spins his tales of the braver ages)
striking up a conversation with myself
I speak to you and you and you
and yours and yours and yours
of scores and scores and scores
of topics from tuna to toothpicks
of Omegas and Omicrons
of bygones being bygones
but looking forward ever forward
to my words coming back to me in your words
in other words
ad-lib or on the monitor
on three-by-fives or cenotaphs
on a chalkboard loudly shrieking
or from the glossary shyly peeking
at the ending of this work
(Time is of the essence of love, or so write other sages)
What would happen should Nabokov appear at my door,
butterfly net in hand?
“I know where we can find some words with wings, Vlad.
Come, let me show you.”
How would I react to Yuri Gagarin standing at my front door,
in uniform bedecked with medals,
empty tea glass in hand?
“Let’s go stand on the high dive,
you can show me your tattoos,
but I’m sorry, I don’t know Cyrillic.”
Would I bother to send an RSVP
to the Molotovs,
who’ve invited me to cocktails.
“My regrets, comrades,
I have a book to finish reading,
called Martin Guerre.”
(have you read it, telling of sin’s wages?)
what’s right for today
could be wrong for tomorrow
but try anyway
and watch what you say
or it may come back to bite you
much to your sorrow
I beg, steal, and borrow
if the words don’t mind
why should you?
(kiss my copycat ass, I’ve penned nothing outrageous)
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Dec 20, 2016 - 05:03am PT
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Quietus on Mars
She had asked him to climb that day
Down in the Valles Marineris
It was well he was a Scorpio
For he knew she was an Aries
And the route was her new project
But he was otherwise enchanted
By her beautiful long black hair
Though she took it all for granite
She never saw his true feelings
And he never saw his fate
The rock fall was unexpected
Still, she named the new climb Nate
-bushman
12/19/2043
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Dec 20, 2016 - 08:02am PT
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When the Dahlias Bloom
You were perfect in my eyes
But your imperfections were the view
That someone long ago had given you
So there was nothing I could have said or done
To change your mind
I wanted more than you could give
But someone long ago had told you
That you weren't beautiful
And you weren't worth loving
When you first told me to go
I thought that I was broken
I didn't believe you
But it hurt so much more the second and the third time
So I searched for your replacement
And all those who never knew
That the pain that you had shared with me
Was still there in my mind
And turned to something strange I thought was lovely
But that was long ago
I really hope you are now happy
There is someone I'd like you to meet
Though the feeling might not be mutual
It took me many years to see
You were the reflection of my own heart
Of the beauty I did not want to see inside me
And sometimes in the garden
I'm reminded of you when the dahlias bloom
-bushman
12/20/2016
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Dec 27, 2016 - 02:56pm PT
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"With heart at rest I climbed the citadel's steep height
Looked down upon the city as from a tower
Hospital, brothel, prison and such hells
Where evil comes up softly like a flower."
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Dec 30, 2016 - 07:31am PT
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Pleased but, Not to say More
The highway track had no spirit
So I left the car
And walked off to the east to find it
Dirt, rocks, grass, trees,
It was here someplace on this earth
Out in the wind
Or over the ridge top
There beyond the cottonwoods
The unnameable essence of my freedom
Tied to my life by only a few short breaths
And the blood that flows through me
Back at the car
At eighty five miles an hour
Under my right foot was death
And at my left foot were taxes
Binding me to make my snake oil pitch in the marketplace
With words that whisked from me never touching down
Like the rank stench of hard work
Or the acrid smell of stale coffee
I slowed to forty five
Now thankful for the traffic
The bee or the wasp sting feels so sweet
Comparing to the spider's bite
Like those people whose grins always turn to dreadful words
Where the joy has long left them
And they've learned to fake the life that has enslaved them
Except for when their kids laugh it sounds so good
For they haven't learned yet
What becomes of wanting more and needing so much less
Later in my life on six am Sunday mornings
As with all tussles over blankets
When the queen bee sends me away
While I'm off to make more tea
As if her charms would turn to sapphires
That's when it always strikes me
That there's so much more I have yet to know
Walking away from the car
They key is under the seat
The door is unlocked and the windows are all open
I'll be the one who makes the getaway
Walking beyond the cactuses
Up the dry creek bed to stand and breathe low
Here in the wee hours of the morning
Where I have found my peace
I've set aside a world to calm me
To stray along my mind for once
To go beyond that voice of force and reason
To the dark and restless thoughts that I call home
-bushman
12/30/2016
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Potato Chips Lips
Restless thought
Tells me things are not
Always as the poets say
Verse store-bought
Very often is fraught
With words which do not convey
What is meant
And so they prevent
Me from having my say
Ecoutez Bill
Whose sentences will
Help make your new year gay
--MFM
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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The Strangeling Child
Descending from the forest rests
To an elvish lullaby of hope
The music of the woodland folk
Had lifted downturned spirits once
Their saw harps and armonicas
Did carry me to my home
Consoling and indemnifying
All lost to hardship and to woe
But this was just the prelude to
The looking glass into my dreams
More scurrilous than I would care
When I fell through the rabbit hole
Past book laden mahogany shelves
Where up was down and down was up
To first set eyes on the strangeling child
With his wild blue eyes and mane of brown
That door ajar to autumns breeze
Did let him enter as we slept
As he clipped a lock of puppies hair
Then out the door with stealth he slipped
Disappearing into the riverbank
To an earthen blind there made his bed
What wild and wolfish ways were his
When next I saw him in a dream
This strangeling child who was like me
Some wild and willful as they often are
Through blasted stone and furnace fire
Walking the labyrinthine scaffolds edge
The strangeling lived within me then
Yet the child long gone is still my friend
I'm not alone the spheres have spoken
Though I am grown the dream goes on
-bushman
01/05/2017
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jan 23, 2017 - 09:30pm PT
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The Arrow Direct
On one fine day as I hiked the falls trail
With a friend of mine by the name of Blair
The Arrow Direct was to be our goal
'Twas nineteen ninety six the year
We rapped to the notch to fix the lines
And jugged the rim by alpine light
To stumble by dusk the way back down
I dreamt of mists all through the night
Rest day we racked and packed the bag
Near Lower Falls lot in the dirt and sand
At dawn we groveled on up the slabs
To morning's light first tier was grand
But my old injuries had come to roost
Those barometer knees forecasted rain
The bad ankle hated the munge pad stairs
But starting the route then I felt no pain
About pitch four we had hit our groove
With bolts protecting an awkward offwidth
The aid was easy and the free to five eight
As the climbing was uneventful and swift
Second Error by dusk was a luxury bivy
The falls nearby swirled to the abyss
At dawn we scarfed and set to our work
As the mists rose up from the roar and hiss
The notch came along with a rude surprise
Where the water we stowed was MIA
We had hoped someone put it to good use
For our's was depleted the rest of the way
The spire was next and a lofty perch
As we worked our way to the outside face
The last pitch was airy with antique mank
O'er the falls that drifted out into space
Some Jolly Ranchers and a spot of cheese
Two sips of agua served to toast success
We set our ropes taught across to the rim
As my partner cast off I turned to the west
Taking in with reverence this time suspended
As the Valley shone bright in the August light
A moment transfixed there in paradise
The falls crashing down with thunderous might
I set off to tyrolean and halfway there
A raven cried out as it flew below
Through that notch and out of my life
As I knew my climbing days would go
Somber at the thought of it
This wreckless lifestyle had taken its toll
No longer the bright eyed dreamer
We packed up and hit the trail to go
Twenty some years ago I hung up my rack
'Twas to be my last wall since when you know
With a special place inside my minds eye
In what some might say is a part of my soul
Epilogue,
I hope if you are a climber
The Arrow is on your list to go
I climbed twenty four years to get there
It was worth the wait I'll have you know
-bushman
01/23/2016
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jan 24, 2017 - 12:10am PT
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Lynne Leichtfuss, Trad climber, Will know soon, Jan 22, 2017 - 02:44pm PT
ST, land of the best one liners I've ever heard. :) As well as some pretty darn good, solid advice.
So,
Sitting here watching the rain whip the trees; dark clouds outlining the rocky hills and thinking about life and why Cosmic started his original thread.
I have my health, but will never be the climber Cosmic is (not enough time left on the planet for that). Dwain has a bum back and knee but has a wonderful lifetime of climbing memories and friends to match those memories....and perhaps a few climbs left in you my friend.
Cosmic has a wonderful wife, I have no husband.
Having a life partner can be a blessing; aloneness can be a different kind of blessing.
I guess sometimes we wish things could be better or different, I sure have. But the trick is to make the most out of what we have. To love hugely, to enjoy to the brim the day and to share it all with others. Jess sayin'.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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In Memory of Demons, the Mountain Cabin, and I
'Twas to unfurl
To the spiraling world
There something concealed
A thing too unreal
Up a rustic stair
To a place up there
On the mountainside
This memory of old demons and I
On aching knees which did assail
Above the mossy rocky trail
Through icy gullies straddled
And up a wet and snowy saddle
Sheltered by the crags a meadow shone
Where an old cabin stood alone
Wherein I found some shelter
Amongst the old furniture a 'kilter
I started a fire in the stony hearth
With trembling hands and beating heart
As steam rose from my dampened clothes
An old armoire rattled and voices rose
From the lineage of those who'd lived therein
Ancestral faces spoke of when
They amassed such wealth unto their purse
When came to them their family curse
Their mining claim in their defense
Was paltry and of great expense
But as cattle did better and profits came
Expanding they were and without any shame
All the claim jumpers would get their due
The Shoshone and the Mono too
All to heaven were sent by way of the rope
Or to purgatories rocky slope
The voices swirled and did bemoan
Their suffering there to make a home
Rattling on about times of old
The ventures lost and deeds so bold
The Great War that came and went
Off to the trenches the young men were sent
The oldest was married and there remained
In Germany 'till the nazis reigned
The Wehrmacht billeted beneath his roof
While his children joined the Hitler Youth
Misguided by hubris and racial pride
He lived long after his offspring died
From Soviet bullets and Allied bombs
And he lies now in an unmarked tomb
Cursing the land where his spirit roams
So near to eternity but so far from home
So I stayed up and listened to angry ghosts
Like a witness to hell or the heavenly hosts
With a wooden face and a lifeless heart
But n'er could I bring myself to part
With those agonized specters in all their pain
With their killer's instincts where they would remain
Swirling and telling their tales of their past
As those ghosts never rested 'till I slept at last
It all seemed so familiar and struck to the bone
In that old mountain cabin so far from my home
What in most every boy must be stifled and curbed
Was to those folks a trait that I judged as disturbed
So in the morning when I packed up my gear
I set fire to the place and hiked far from there
Over peaks and down canyons to the rivers edge
Where I held up a bundle of burning sage
Then I prayed to the north, to the east, south, and west
And asked of them all that such spirits they'd bless
For those who'd fallen to another man's sword
For the innocents who died without speaking a word
And took out some tokens from the specter's abode
A toy boat made from wood and a newspaper rolled
All secreted from the old armoire
And flung them away to the water afar
As I drove back home on the mountain road
So sure of my past and my future untold
With our own family's morbid ancestral tales
We had our own demons with stories to tell
In an old shed with cobwebs our memories were stored
Behind dirty cracked windows and peeling boards
When I put my hand there to the rusty door
Like a smallish thing, 'twas a shudder, no more
-bushman
02/01/2017
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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UP CHUCK RISING
Screw corks,
And corkscrews!
Drink some more,
We shall abuse.
And screw the label,
Then the cork,
Drink Mountain Red
And eat my pork.
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Bushman, that Arrow ballad was wonderful!
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Feb 10, 2017 - 05:38am PT
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Thank you Wayne,
That means a lot to me.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Feb 10, 2017 - 05:42am PT
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The Captain
El Capitan
So wide
And so majestic
Towering so mighty
With such grandeur
So fantastic
Would that I were
To climb you again
But am grateful
To just behold
Your ever present massif
With your power
And mystique
Some would be
So bold
To free you
While
Others dare
To hang by beak
-bushman
02/10/2017
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Feb 11, 2017 - 08:12am PT
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Transcending the Banana Republic of these United States
Intrepid by degrees
With baby steps aspiring to competence
Not bold like some who walk on moons
Or summit first
I've glanced across at excellence
A single trophy or a snapshot
This I draw upon for a stair step
While malcontents dabble in their basements
Or from false seats of power
Never knowing what hard work
And dedication to purpose
Is required of those who've seen the heights
From the foot of mount Olympus
While the philosophers discuss
-bushman
02/11/2017
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Leggs
Sport climber
Made in California, living in The Old Pueblo
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Feb 12, 2017 - 03:25pm PT
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There are times
I look up at night
And see you,
And you
And you.
Did I walk
out of my house
too soon
or at the perfect time?
Did the sun set and the
moon rise, right before my eyes
As Walls surrounded me
With delight?
Did I leave my key
In the front door, or on the gate
just in case we both arrived late?
I’m not sure
And choose not to remember…
That moment of my life.
My shoes touch dirt
Once run by us
Or skipped along
Like that one summer
I always wore boots
and dresses
and ran
non-stop.
My hands run over rock
once unafraid of
of challenges presented
distinct cracks on the Face
reminding me
of granddad’s war
tattoo...
And how often
I’d run childish hands up and down his arms
taking in the smell
of his bald head and granddad aftershave…
My personal hero.
Why am I so afraid
of heights conquered
and others crossing streets
in the dark?
I don’t want
to use crosswalks
when I run across Campbell
I want to float like a girl
attached to her kite.
lmr 2016
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Feb 14, 2017 - 03:39pm PT
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Wow - lots of talent on ST! Beautiful, Leggs!
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Leggs
Sport climber
Made in California, living in The Old Pueblo
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Feb 16, 2017 - 07:40am PT
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F.C., thanks! I love to write. I am trying, with a local musician, to transform this piece into an original song. Wish me luck!
Be peaceful and Enjoy Life!
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Feb 16, 2017 - 07:11pm PT
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The Lake Isle of Innisfree
BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
Source: The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats (1989)
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Leggs
Sport climber
Made in California, living in The Old Pueblo
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Feb 16, 2017 - 08:46pm PT
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Excellent writing and sharing, original or otherwise.
Be peaceful!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Feb 19, 2017 - 03:42pm PT
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Pindar was the first Greek poet to reflect on the nature of poetry and on the poet's role.
Like other poets of the Archaic Age, he has a profound sense of the vicissitudes of life,
but he also articulates a passionate faith in what men can achieve by the grace of the gods,
most famously expressed in the conclusion to one of his Victory Odes:
Creatures for a day! What is a man?
What is he not? A dream of a shadow
Is our mortal being. But when there comes to men
A gleam of splendour given of heaven,
Then rests on them a light of glory
And blessed are their days.
His poetry illustrates the beliefs and values of Archaic Greece at the dawn of the classical period.
Then there is the poetry of Nature, as well, but that's for another day.
And then there is the performance verse of the late inspired genius, WB Yates (no relation to the harness maker).
William Buttbag Yates harnessed his energies, wrote some odes, mostly, then headed to Newhattan, where he later became famous as Rockslide Slim, performing on the lute, the Jew's harp, and the tin drum while reciting his rappelling poems.
Electric Trapps is his most famous work, for good reason. He was electrocuted in the middle of the third canto and the premiere and last performance kind of fizzled.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Feb 19, 2017 - 05:50pm PT
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Belay Chant Of The Freezing Quicker Monkey
At Moon-set, Having to Wait For 1 Before Getting To Link 2 & 3
Oo-ta-Cuhuta - heet-ah-hoo
Oo-ta-cuhta-heet-a-hoo
Rata noo-tah-kee-ta-sloo
Perta-blee preeta-blew
Ooma-Ooma gaga
Oo-ta-Cuhuta - heet-ah-hoo
Oo-ta-cuhta-heet-a-hoo
Rata neeta keyta poo
Rata nata kata grew
Rata noo tah kee ta ha
Rata nee toh ooloola
IsmA Fay trax berda zap
Zap vox bee Zap lox cee
Oya-tota frame bing frame Bing oyta
Rata noo-tah-kee-ta-sloo
Perta-blee preeta-blew
Ooma-Ooma gaga
Oo-ta-Cuhuta - heet-ah-hoo
Oo-ta-cuhta-heet-a-hoo
Rata Rata Rata wee ha hoo
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Feb 20, 2017 - 02:46am PT
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Last of the Golden Eyed One
As the moon came up over the mountains
Shrouded in cloud with a grayish light
I thought only shadows followed me
As I hiked along alone in the night
Whispering the wind was cold
But the fire in me once burned bright
And casting my eyes up ahead again
I followed the road to the right
Then looming in the darkness
Beneath a huge and gnarled tree
Brooding like the Beowulf
Two golden eyes appeared to be
There stalking and watching as
I walked and kept one eye on he
As I quickened my stride silently
And puffed myself to a larger me
'Twas as if he were never there
'Till 'round came the night again
I heard him make a lonesome cry
'Till 'round came the night again
Inside my head I howled like he
'Till 'round came the night again
I was once a lot like he
'Till 'round came the night again
But the one I am most cautious of
Walks on two legs and cannot wait
For all the world to belong to he
With providence soured by hate
Now I'm much older and walk much slower
And have come upon that place of late
But never have seen those golden eyes
Although I move at a slower gait
'Twas as if he were never there
'Till 'round came the night again
I heard him make a lonesome cry
'Till 'round came the night again
Inside my head I howled like he
'Till 'round came the night again
I was once a lot like he
'Till 'round came the night again
-bushman
02/20/2017
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Feb 20, 2017 - 05:43am PT
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In the Golden State
Once it was an empty spot
Horses passed by at a trot
Now it's just a parking lot
In the heat it's very hot
No more trilling of a brook
It once was a shady nook
This small Eden we forsook
When to the roads en masse we took
--MFM
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 21, 2017 - 08:47am PT
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 21, 2017 - 08:43am PT
Channels of Communication
Did you hear about what Dingus McGee
said to Dingus Milktoast
about Bowser
and jstan
(who got it from TARBUSTER)?
I got it straight from Chris McNamara
that chrisxc
and deuce4
and St. Steven G
are planning to have zachh85
find Nick Danger
so he can tell Standing Strong
(if he can find him still standing)
that wilbeer
Avery
and Don Lauria
want thebravecowboy
to ask guido
about the possibility of Bushman
writing to Grippa
Agrippa
and Agrippina
to have their buddy Patrick Oliver
mention to Russ Walling
that Fritz
and Dick Erb
lost bluering
in Shanghai.
No sh#t.
But you didn't hear this from me.
--MFM
http://www.supertopo.com/climbing/forum.php?tz=1490111264
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Mtnmun
Trad climber
Top of the Mountain Mun
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 21, 2017 - 09:33am PT
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This is a poem from our book, Coyote and Bear Discuss Modern Art. Professor Gerard Donnelly Smith has written poems to my paintings. He writes the poems just like I paint. There are no preliminary drawings, the muse directs my brush as I go.
Party Buffalo
I have two party-hats because today is my birthday
And I will have chocolate donuts without candles;
I do not like dripping paraffin or fire of any kind.
Although I am an herbivore, wings might be nice,
But no buffalo wings for I am no cannibal; still
A flying buffalo would be entertaining,
Much better than a juggling clown with orange hair.
Yes, I am an old buffalo, but I still remember:
That my relatives once covered the plains,
The chorus of our songs shook the earth,
Dust from our dancing obscured the sun;
We gave you many gifts then: fire from our dung,
Knives from our small bones, houses from our skin,
Warm mittens, moccasins and blankets from our hair.
I have two party-hats because today is my birthday;
What gifts do you bear me this year old-friend?
Did you bring the sweet-grass and the sage?
Do you mix the yellow-paint for forked-lightning?
Did you bring sinew to bind my misshapen form,
To draw your icons into an animal semblance?
Did you remember to bring back my tongue?
I have two party-hats because today is my birthday;
One of the hats is for you, my dear, old-friend.
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Mtnmun
Trad climber
Top of the Mountain Mun
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 21, 2017 - 09:36am PT
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Apple
If these were elephants, then no problem,
But no, these are jack-asses, sharing the red-delicious,
But not with me; only a bit of skin, or a seed for me,
Tailings from the mine, crumbs from an orchard.
I could eat on that for days; they gobble it down,
Hardly even tasting, and still want for more.
Greedy sods!
I see you, feeling sorry for the mouse,
I can only smile for your empathetic heart:
You are the mouse, longing for red fruit,
Fruit just out of your reach, fruit others enjoy;
You see them nibble at voluptuous red-edges,
Almost taste the crispness, the juiciness.
Envious sods!
Yes, the apple, we’ll always be almost eating,
And the mouse, he will be always waiting,
But you can go to the store, buy a pound
Of Ambrosia, Honey-crisp, Maiden’s Blush.
Eat an entire Lady Alice, McIntosh or Pixie.
Go on now, we’ll still be here next time;
You lucky sods!
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pocoloco1
Social climber
The Chihuahua Desert
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Mar 21, 2017 - 03:13pm PT
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I dig the Party Buffalo.
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Mar 21, 2017 - 04:30pm PT
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Love those paintings!
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Leggs
Sport climber
Made in California, living in The Old Pueblo
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Apr 30, 2017 - 05:22pm PT
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I just woke from a dream
long curls
piled on pillows
danced upon
by tiny feet
In my dream
you looked the same
perhaps taller
because
that’s how dreams work
Your scent was familiar
after one hug
in real life
body pressed to mine
tentatively
just for a moment
in case we gave up secrets
far too soon
strangers in a crowded room
You looked the same
except you looked in me
eyes locked together
for a split second
giving up secrets
that only we knew
We danced
around each other
without touching
our bodies drawn
together
losing the fight
no longer strangers
tonight.
I had a dream
I hated to see end
As a phone rang in the distance
long curls off white pillows
in an instant
eyes squinting in protest...
Until I felt your soft skin.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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May 18, 2017 - 09:10am PT
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In the Heart of a Poet
In the heart of a poet
Goes a song with music heard
By only the muse and the birds
Hanging in the air
And hinging on a word
There is more to this life
Than the myriad things we've done
When feeling kind of blue
Of those things we haven't tried
We can chose and let it run
On the page of a novel reads
Unfinished sentences and words
Like the turning of a page
The language unwritten
With thoughts yet unheard
In heart of a writer
Some long to tell a tale
Of adventures that unfold
Accounts of grave misdeeds
Or heroes conquering hell
In the heart of a poet
Comes a thought like a seed
Unexplained and or unquestioned
That would cause the heart to sing
Or to fill a simple need
Oft' in the hour of despair
One finds voice of lilting solace
Or echoes of bravado
Weaving intricate mystic themes
Inherent beyond free choice
Beyond yearning of it's author
In the heart of every story
The heroine often falters
Which belies a greater challenge
Contributing to it's history
What was written was a word
In truth or in fiction
Of passion or reconciliation
The reader must decide
Where they find a connection
In the heart of a poet
Plays a symphony of rhythm
Like the crickets and the birds
Building in the air
Illuminating like a prism
There are feelings underlying
Every thought and every action
Though in the heart of a poet
With the final draft
There is rarely satisfaction
-bushman
05/18/2017
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jun 10, 2017 - 08:55am PT
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Soundings of Defeat
I've been trying to see the good side
Of society as a whole
But the void that beckons darkly
Falls away to the unknown
I am shouting into the darkness
And wonder what the owl knows
Beyond a lonely echo
There is no redeeming spirit
Guiding o'er some shining path
There is nothing I have seen so far
Beyond the grave and death
Nothing spurs my inspiration
Like the tidbits I have found
Of endeavors cheating death
What electrifies the rare air
Of a life of risk and dare
Isn't recklessness or drama
Or a lack of love or care
But a knowledge of the fine line
Shared by people everywhere
For most are unaware
To inspire a heart that's empty
When the answer is at my feet
Requires an x equation
Some connection to complete
There is nothing to really complain about
For one as lucky as me
Only soundings of defeat
I've been trying to see the good side
Of society as a whole
But the void that beckons darkly
Falls away to the unknown
I am shouting into the darkness
And wonder what the owl knows
Beyond a lonely echo
-Bushman
06/09/2017
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Jun 12, 2017 - 12:33pm PT
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Lord Byron
The Witch of the Alps
(Manfred, Act ii. Scene 2.)
A lower Valley in the Alps.—A Cataract.
Enter MANFRED.
IT is not noon—the sunbow’s rays still arch
The torrent with the many hues of heaven,
And roll the sheeted silver’s waving column
O’er the crag’s headlong perpendicular,
And fling its lines of foaming light along, 5
And to and fro, like the pale courser’s tail,
The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death,
As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes
But mine now drink this sight of loveliness;
I should be sole in this sweet solitude, 10
And with the Spirit of the place divide
The homage of these waters.—I will call her.
[MANFRED takes some of the water into the palm of his hand, and flings it into the air, muttering the adjuration. After a pause, the WITCH OF THE ALPS rises beneath the arch of the sunbow of the torrent.
Beautiful Spirit! with thy hair of light,
And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form
The charms of earth’s least mortal daughters grow 15
To an unearthly stature, in an essence
Of purer elements; while the hues of youth,—
Carnation’d like a sleeping infant’s cheek,
Rock’d by the beating of her mother’s heart,
Or the rose tints, which summer’s twilight leaves 20
Upon the lofty glacier’s virgin snow,
The blush of earth embracing with her heaven,—
Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame
The beauties of the sunbow which bends o’er thee.
Beautiful Spirit! in thy calm clear brow, 25
Wherein is glass’d serenity of soul,
Which of itself shows immortality,
I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son
Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit
At times to commune with them—if that he 30
Avail him of his spells—to call thee thus,
And gaze on thee a moment.
Witch. Son of Earth!
I know thee, and the powers which give thee power;
I know thee for a man of many thoughts,
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both, 35
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings.
I have expected this—what would’st thou with me?
Man. To look upon thy beauty—nothing further.
The face of the earth hath madden’d me, and I
Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 40
To the abodes of those who govern her—
But they can nothing aid me. I have sought
From them what they could not bestow, and now
I search no further.
Witch. What could be the quest 45
Which is not in the power of the most powerful,
The rulers of the invisible?
Man. A boon;
But why should I repeat it? ’twere in vain.
Witch. I know not that; let thy lips utter it.
Man. Well, though it torture me, ’tis but the same; 50
My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards
My spirit walk’d not with the souls of men,
Nor look’d upon the earth with human eyes;
The thirst of their ambition was not mine,
The aim of their existence was not mine; 55
My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers,
Made me a stranger; though I wore the form,
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh,
Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me
Was there but one who——but of her anon. 60
I said with men, and with the thoughts of men,
I held but slight communion; but instead,
My joy was in the Wilderness, to breathe
The difficult air of the iced mountain’s top,
Where the birds dare not build, nor insect’s wing 65
Flit o’er the herbless granite; or to plunge
Into the torrent, and to roll along
On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave
Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow.
In these my early strength exulted; or 70
To follow through the night the moving moon,
The stars and their development; or catch
The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim;
Or to look, list’ning, on the scatter’d leaves,
While Autumn winds were at their evening song. 75
These were my pastimes, and to be alone;
For if the beings, of whom I was one,—
Hating to be so,—cross’d me in my path,
I felt myself degraded back to them,
And was all clay again. And then I dived, 80
In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death,
Searching its cause in its effect; and drew
From wither’d bones, and skulls, and heap’d up dust,
Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass’d
The nights of years in sciences untaught, 85
Save in the old time; and with time and toil,
And terrible ordeal, and such penance
As in itself hath power upon the air,
And spirits that do compass air and earth,
Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 90
Mine eyes familiar with Eternity,
Such as, before me, did the Magi, and
He who from out their fountain-dwellings raised
Eros and Anteros, at Gadara,
As I do thee;—and with my knowledge grew 95
The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy
Of this most bright intelligence, until—
Witch. Proceed.
Man. Oh! I but thus prolong’d my words,
Boasting these idle attributes, because
As I approach the core of my heart’s grief— 100
But to my task. I have not named to thee
Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being,
With whom I wore the chain of human ties;
If I had such, they seem’d not such to me—
Yet there was one——
Witch. Spare not thyself—proceed. 105
Man. She was like me in lineaments—her eyes,
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone
Even of her voice, they said were like to mine;
But soften’d all, and temper’d into beauty;
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, 110
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind
To comprehend the universe: nor these
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine,
Pity, and smiles, and tears—which I had not;
And tenderness—but that I had for her; 115
Humility—and that I never had.
Her faults were mine—her virtues were her own—
I loved her, and destroy’d her!
Witch. With thy hand?
Man. Not with my hand, but heart—which broke her heart—
It gazed on mine, and wither’d. I have shed 120
Blood, but not hers—and yet her blood was shed—
I saw—and could not stanch it.
Witch. And for this—
A being of the race thou dost despise,
The order which thine own would rise above,
Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 125
The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink’st back
To recreant mortality——Away!
Man. Daughter of Air! I tell thee, since that hour—
But words are breath—look on me in my sleep,
Or watch my watchings—Come and sit by me! 130
My solitude is solitude no more,
But peopled with the Furies;—I have gnash’d
My teeth in darkness till returning morn,
Then cursed myself till sunset;—I have pray’d
For madness as a blessing—’tis denied me. 135
I have affronted death—but in the war
Of elements the waters shrunk from me,
And fatal things pass’d harmless—the cold hand
Of an all-pitiless demon held me back,
Back by a single hair, which would not break. 140
In fantasy, imagination, all
The affluence of my soul—which one day was
A Crœsus in creation—I plunged deep,
But, like an ebbing wave, it dash’d me back
Into the gulf of my unfathom’d thought. 145
I plunged amidst mankind—Forgetfulness
I sought in all, save where ’tis to be found,
And that I have to learn;—my sciences,
My long-pursued and superhuman art,
Is mortal here—I dwell in my despair— 150
And live—and live for ever.
Witch. It may be
That I can aid thee.
Man. To do this thy power
Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them.
Do so—in any shape—in any hour— 155
With any torture—so it be the last.
Witch. That is not in my province; but if thou
Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do
My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes.
Man. I will not swear—Obey! and whom? the spirits 160
Whose presence I command, and be the slave
Of those who served me—Never!
Witch. Is this all?
Hast thou no gentler answer?—Yet bethink thee,
And pause ere thou rejectest.
Man. I have said it.
Witch. Enough!—I may retire then—say!
Man. Retire!
[The WITCH disappears.
165
Man. (alone.) We are the fools of time and terror: Days
Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live,
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.
In all the days of this detested yoke—
This vital weight upon the struggling heart, 170
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain,
Or joy that ends in agony or faintness—
In all the days of past and future, for
In life there is no present, we can number
How few—how less than few—wherein the soul 175
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back
As from a stream in winter, though the chill
Be but a moment’s. I have one resource
Still in my science—I can call the dead,
And ask them what it is we dread to be: 180
The sternest answer can but be the Grave,
And that is nothing;—if they answer not—
The buried Prophet answered to the Hag
Of Endor; and the Spartan Monarch drew
From the Byzantine maid’s unsleeping spirit 185
An answer and his destiny—he slew
That which he loved, unknowing what he slew,
And died unpardon’d—though he call’d in aid
The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused
The Arcadian Evocators to compel 190
The indignant shadow to depose her wrath,
Or fix her term of vengeance—she replied
In words of dubious import, but fulfill’d.
If I had never lived, that which I love
Had still been living; had I never loved, 195
That which I love would still be beautiful—
Happy and giving happiness. What is she?
What is she now?—a sufferer for my sins—
A thing I dare not think upon—or nothing.
Within few hours I shall not call in vain— 200
Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare:
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze
On spirit, good or evil—now I tremble,
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart.
But I can act even what I most abhor, 205
And champion human fears.—The night approaches.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Sep 18, 2017 - 06:27am PT
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Funny about mortality. We don't know when our our expiration date will come due but we get notices almost every day about all the others.
The Trial
(with edits)
I once dreamed I sat in on
The trial of the century
The earth was accused
Of plotting to abandon us and go away
It lasted for weeks
Protesters came and went
The judge never ruled
The hubbub died and went away
I felt awakened
With a new lease on life
All hope restored
And found new energy from that day
But now the kids have grown
Our hair's turned grey
But for the dogs
There's no one home most of the day
The sink that drips
Needs fixing but
Like so many things
Who knows how long it's been that way?
Our loved ones near or far away
Deep down inside
The truth is that
We're all alone and know it's just that way
My two old dogs
Read how I am
And know me like
I know the sun will rise and set each day
As our life goes on
Eventually it goes away
We don't have to accept it
Until the threshold of our dying day
I wake before dawn
Most every day
And go out with the dogs
We listen to what the owl has to say
The owl just speaks
The truth to me
About who must deal
And so work with what I have each day
Though the darkest night
Remains perpetually dark
Far out beyond the stars
No light ever reaches there or finds it's way
But for now on earth
Where sunlight falls
Life begins anew
With every sunrise somewhere every day
I dreamt I stood
Greeting one by one
All the people I've ever known
But never gave a thought to what the last one would say
-bushman
09/17/2017
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 20, 2017 - 10:14pm PT
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Plan Gone A-gley
In planning for our latest Climb of Climbs
We demonstrate moves using pantomimes
You crimp this nub to move up to there
Stepping on that block using utmost care
You Gaston this then you Levitate that
Easy it’s not--you can lose your hat
No one’s done it-—we could grab a first ascent
It’s been tried by several even Pat Ament
Old Bushy tried it twice once back in the day
I’ve heard that young Vitaliy even said No Way
It haired out Schmitzy and it freaked him so
He came back to camp saying No No No
No one’s tried the line in quite a long while
And we’re just the ones needed to do it in style
We won’t take all day like we did on The Nose
We’ll be sitting in Degnan’s before they close
The only thing we gotta do--the only thing we need
Is to roshambo for that nasty last lead
I know you won't try paper before you try rock
So I’ll just try scissors to give you a shock
You’ve fooled me with paper and that’s not right
But I feel I’m getting sick from that bacon last night
--Wee Beastie
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 24, 2017 - 01:27pm PT
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Pass The Piano, Pete
Good boogie woogie is hard to find
When you hear good boogie it will blow your mind
We heard some playing on The Captain one night
Some cats were wailing (but they were out of sight)
They were rockin' the Captain all night through
I couldn't stop tapping with my old tennis shoe
One big problem, though (and this wasn't all)
The boogie vibrations caused a giant rockfall!
--MFM
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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I hope it's not too soon for this one...
The Razor of the Great Heart Flake
Many walls ago
There once was a man
Who came from way south of Yucatán
The mightiest chieftain
Of his great clan
To bag the big walls was his goal and his plan
Well he almost bailed
From old Mt Conness
But finished with style and the greatest finesse
And was first to nail
With style and grace
A route missing now on Half Dome's Northwest Face
'Twas long before
The age of steel
When the men ate nettles for their every meal
They climbed the cliffs
With wooden spikes
Rotted with termites to their dislike
Their ropes were all woven
From maidens hair
And they climbed mostly free with the utmost of care
And they dared not to fall
For the pro was all bad
And their iron grip was most ironclad
But the El Cap routes
Though none went free
Were expanding and dangerous as they could be
And the southwest face
Had the boldest lines
Where a first ascent might prove most sublime
Here sat the fiercest
Down hanging flake
From Mammoth on up with no ledge to make
For eight hundred feet
A continuous test
Of expanding bombay without any rest
Above this great cleaver
The cracks looked quite sound
Where keys to the summit might surely be found
But the huge expander
Named the Great Heart Flake
Was a perilous difficult route to take
So the Chieftain trained
For many months on end
When the route became dry then the climb began
The lower slabs
Went with minimal aid
Arriving at Mammoth without accolade
His good partner by
The name of Crag
Had their secret weapon in a big haul bag
Two fine spun lengths of
Nine hundred foot rope
Were flaked out on Mammoth with all faith and hope
A continuous lead
With minimal pro
Up the the perilous flake if it ever would go
At five eleven plus
It would be the only way
Making all other routes like a leisure holiday
The Chieftain set out
With the mightiest of racks
Of many wooden pegs slung below his back
With fifty foot run outs
Between every peg
He was loath then to suffer with the Elvis Leg
On the lead of his life
He did the chicken wing hop
'Twas slickest technique to avoid the great chop
As he tapped in each peg
As if on a dare
In the massive expander with most loving care
The chimney narrowed down
To an offwidth hang
And was finally barred by a loose granite fang
Where the Chieftain swung out
And he layed it away
As the story now goes many years to the day
At that greasy lieback
On a quivering shard
At forty feet out the climb got way hard
The Chieftain freed higher
'Till his strength gave out
And he tapped in a peg as he started to shout
The flake quivered once
Then it settled to a groan
So he slotted his pegs just to quiet the moan
The last forty feet
Went aid five to a ledge
Where the towering flake hung by only a wedge
The haul line hung free
And when Chief hauled the bag
It nary would touch and it nary would drag
Pulling pegs with a tug
Crag cleaned the whole pitch
And swung ever so gently o'er Yosemite ditch
The Chieftain was nervous
And took the next lead
Deciding to bivvy he fired up some weed
As Crag cleaned away
The chief quenched his thirst
As he tapped a cold lager now only his first
As the bottle cap fell
It hit once and twirled
With the oddest vibration it arced and it curled
And just below Crag
As he carefully cleaned
The bottle cap struck as it wildly careened
A strange echoing noise
Sounded off the Cathedrals
As the party hung high in their airy dihedral
Then a small crack appeared
Atop the huge flake
With an audible grinding it started to break
The climbers looked down
Their mouths all agape
Both faces affixed in a silent scream shape
Below the flake pivoted
Slow-mo like a dream
Building momentum it fell and gained steam
The massive flake dropped
With a thunderous clap
Exploding in clouds on the slabs of El Cap
Thirty five million tons
Of boulderous debri
Plummeting out as it once more fell free
And it peppered the ground
It mowed down great trees
With nowhere to go people dropped to their knees
But the meadow was spared
As the clouds of dust cleared
No folks were below nor was anyone near
But two climbers in shock
Hung two thousand feet up
Their retreat was now missing and full was their cup
They climbed through the nights
And slept in short fits
Hanging in their slings with no option to quit
They topped out in a storm
At the end of day five
Hiking to Tamarack still glad to be alive
On return to the valley
To Camp Four in the dark
All the campers were missing not even a lark
In the morning they rose
And packed up their canoe
With no mojo left it was all they could do
As they rowed the Merced
Through that valley of bliss
Any climbers who saw them would let out a hiss
And they paused by the meadow
Seeing they never could brag
For the greatest disservice to the mightiest of crags
Once the loveliest of flakes
Formed the shape of a heart
'Twas now rendered asunder and ruptured apart
So the Chieftain and Crag
Slunk on back to their craft
No climbers bade farewell nor stifled a laugh
Though they might have been famous
And proud to a man
When the Great Heart Flake fell out of El Capitan
-Tim Sorenson
11/05/2015
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oodles of Poodles
Known far and away and round the world
Clever and talented and looking spit-curled
The dogs who search ways for us climbers to cross
Unspeakable patches of avalanche-prone choss
Are mocked and vilified and even abused
So that stoopid climbers will be highly amused
But the Canadian Miss had to pick and to choose
The canine heroes who must pay for our dues
I sit and I laugh at the cartoons she draws
The results echoing like thunderous guffaws
The last thing a poodle hears are his claws
Scritching and scratching now let's take a pause
To honor the Dead Poodles Society.
--Walt Singlemalt
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Out Of the Mouth Of One Of My Champs
In the light of Coleman lamps
With a case of sudden cramps
From the lips of young Bob Kamps
Poured a solid stream of some of the vilest invective ever to have been heard in Yosemite’s camps.
--Big Fan In Little Yosemite
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 23, 2017 - 03:11pm PT
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After Turkey
Look at all those
Swelling bellies
Full of turkey
Ham and jellies
Stuffed with stuffing
Dressed with care
You’ve been a piggie
Slide back your chair
Cut loose a burp
Forget dessert
Just loose your belt
Un-tuck your shirt
--MFM, Thanksgiving 2017
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Nov 23, 2017 - 07:57pm PT
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Mouse - glad you're still in the rhyming game! And Bushman - missed that last one, but love it.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 23, 2017 - 09:10pm PT
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Wayne, thank you.
As Old Lodge Skins would suggest, let us go and eat our fill.
My new Ute wife, Loves Turkey Neck, has a meal ready for us over the hill.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Nov 25, 2017 - 01:17am PT
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Kind words from a Merry old soul, always welcome...
The Wild Norwegian
A few years back in Idaho
as I walked along
the rocky scree
under cloudy skies on a mountain flank
I happened across a bighorn herd
moving swiftly down the landscape
or they happened on me
then I should say
Staring down at wildflowers
I looked up to see them trotting by
not more than twenty yards away
Effortlessly they moved on by
like gentle waves upon the sea
And someone followed at a distance
in the misted gray
A man in many layered coats
appeared afar
as the wind picked up
I raised my arm to greet him
But he disappeared
on the distant mountainside
Out west in the Sierras
on Shadow Lake at dawn
I pulled another golden trout
from below the frigid algae murk
And there across the way
another angler looked east on morning clouds
the golden light of sunrise
reflecting off his ruddy cheeks
He looked familiar
as I thought to speak
He turned and climbed the other bank
and as I looked again his way
only silence stared back at me
I haven’t fished there for awhile now
A cacophonous din wracked hard
on my headache
My eyes bloodshot as I stared
The nightclub rang with laughter
as a crumpled soul stood quietly
then began his act
This poet in leu of a comic
met taunting words
and angry scowls
Then the raucous tribe
met face to face with this man’s tale
as words flowed out his face
onto the crowd
Taken aback the customers fell silent
until
It dawned on them
how the poets words
described in crude detail
the empty cold half dead remains
of an alcoholic’s life
Though I’d heard his work someplace before
Some pissed off drunks in that crowd
stymied his rhythm
and he was out the door
I took my dogs
down to the beach one day
near Carmet north of Bodega way
Ate my baguette with some gouda
and salami in the sun as
the crisp wind blew my face
My male dog ran ahead
as a stranger knelt to greet him
The surf and ocean spray
hit my feet and wet my sneakers
And my dog charged back to me
The man was gone and to this day
I would swear I thought I’d seen him
somewhere else before
-bushman
11/25/2017
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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Nov 25, 2017 - 08:51am PT
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Let It Be Recorded
Let it be recorded
my wish to live
where I can sleep
in good weather or bad
upon a beach festooned
in the bric-a-brac
of the ages.
Perhaps a vanishing glow
far to the south
all that is left
of that common pestilence
known intimately
as a lifetime
of earthly dues
Now I am leaning with shoulders leeward
a ship's pilot
eyeing the reef submerged
steering his vessel
beyond the shoals
victorious
to the open sea
From breath to breath
I exhale the plague
once tyrannical
against every stemming cell
once dominant
over every
pulsing heartbeat.
The sea now
lives inside my cells
where time itself
tunnels the sun
through woven matrixes
a surface below
tethered skin
I can only hope
as I fall into sleep
that I soon be awakened
by sea birds squawking
at something of interest
in the tumbling
surf
WT
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 27, 2017 - 04:31am PT
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No Success
I recall when I met The Legend.
I was hoping to create my own and he was living his.
There was a spark in each of us with which we were born,
one common to all men in all places who perform athletic maneuvers high above the ground.
He gave me willingly what I thought I needed then
and I was grateful for his generosity and the small amount of time we spent talking.
But in the years following our meeting I met with little success and saw much failure.
I was willing to settle for what I’d done and then other things got in my way
and the dream faded to almost nothing.
Meantime, his legend grew and flourished, his brand became known internationally, as well.
The difference between The Legend and myself became clear to me, eventually.
He had the ability to remain fixed on his goals while I was willing to accept failure.
When The Legend died and the whole world cried I cried for myself as well.
My Main Chance never came again until later, but in a different discipline entirely.
I would like to say I will never cry for myself again.
For now that the lesson’s learned the hard way,
“I’ll never take the easy way again,” I tell myself.
But of course, like when making a New Year resolution, I’m only hoping that this will be so.
Wish me luck, for it takes some of that to become legendary.
Sometimes things are not in our hands, but that of Fate.
And she’s a fickle one.
The only thing about her which we can trust is her fickleness.
So let me tell you that I will try my best when I sit down to the desk,
quill sharpened, ink bottle full, and parchment scraped clean,
mind awake and waiting patiently for the Muse to come to my aid.
I still need all the help which I can find
but most of all from my own mind.
--MFM
Rest in peace, Royal. Thanks for everything.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Skittering STones
Slung with skill,
slick flat river rocks can kill
--just ask Golitath.
He won't dispute this, guaranteed.
In shallow leaps,
one-after-another
and leaving ripples
in a parabolic path,
a lith lain dormant for centuries
now seems like it is walking on water.
Banished to the deeps
of the river,
it has been there before
and will rise again someday
on a beach further on down
this river of no return.
And some day yet more distant
it will, like its cousins
on Mickey's Beach,
Waikiki, and North,
or its long-long-long-lost shirt-tail relation in Carpinteria
--the world's safest beach--
it will come to my hand once again
and maybe I will decide to take it home,
not throw it out to sea,
and put it in a jar with others like it.
Shelf-life expectancy:
up to one hundred million years
without refrigeration.
--MFM
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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A Poem For Royal
by Peter Stavrianoudakis
Up the mountain, down the river.
Touch a rock he hasn’t touched.
Find a rock he hasn’t touched much.
I dare you.
Train jumper, law breaker, self namer, mountain tamer.
Upright man in a vertical world.
Up the mountain, down the river.
Beware the flat ground.
Prospect’n, no regret’n, find a rock he hasn’t touched.
Find a river he hasn’t run.
Up the mountain, down the river.
Lord of the rings, lord of the rocks.
Swapped his pitons for a sling with chocks.
Renegade boyscout on the loose.
Glad that this one slipped the noose.
Up the mountain, down the river.
Name a tree, a flower, a rock.
Name a crack, a face, a route.
Up the chimney, down the shoot.
Pointy end of the rope.
Envy of every mountain goat.
El Cap, North Face, name a buttress, a pinnacle.
Camp 4 saver, Yosemite Fund raiser, never nay sayer.
Bolt cutt’n, head butt’n, fast climber, slow driver.
Beware the flat ground.
NOTE: Published in the event guide for the Oakdale Climbers Festival, 10/26-28, 2012.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Green Mountain
By Li Bai
You ask me why I dwell in the green mountain;
I smile and make no reply for my heart is free of care.
As the peach-blossom flows downstream and is gone into the unknown,
I have a world apart that is not among men.
Li Bai and Du Fu: http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-19884020
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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A charming story of the love of poetry, Marlow. Thank you.
It is similar in many ways to the philosophy of the sage Epicurus from Greek antiquity.
from
"On the Nature of Things"
by Lucretius, 1st century BCE Roman poet who subscribed to Epicurus' ideas
What then has death, if death be mere repose, 940
And quiet only in a peaceful grave.
What has it thus to mar this life of man ?
Yet mar it does. E'en o'er the festive board.
The glass while grasping, and with garlands crowned.
The thoughtless maniacs oft indignant roar, 945
" How short the joys of wine ! — e'en while we drink
Life ceases, and to-morrow ne'er returns ! "
As if, in death, the worst such wretches feared
Were thirst unquenched, parching every nerve,
Or deemed their passions would pursue them still. 950
https://archive.org/stream/onnaturethingsd00carugoog/onnaturethingsd00carugoog_djvu.txt
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Dec 11, 2017 - 04:43pm PT
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Little Loch Broom
When the sun sets down over Little Loch Broom
You know I’ll be waiting for you
On the path above the cliff I’ll stand
Looking out to the ocean soon
Where once I tried to followed the moon
A boy who once stood trembling
Ran away from his ma and da that day
By the mouth of Little Loch Broom
For the world and the water horse
Are at odds whatever they do
When our journey has gone full circle
It is liken you’ll call for him too
When the water horse comes a ‘calling
You know I’ll be waiting there too
On the path above the shore I’ll stand
At the mouth of Little Loch Broom
-bushman
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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Dec 20, 2017 - 10:04am PT
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Great Horned Owls
Many many moons ago
leaving the porch
of a south-facing canyon,
I hiked to a place
where the foothills
narrowed,
Where the asphalt road
ran astride the reservoir lake
into which kingfishers
dived at will,
and Great Horned owls
hooted at passerby,
And crickets chirped
in the castor bean
in the broom grass,
in the sumac and sorrel
and the scrub oak
and the sage,
I walked with gathering dusk
upslope to the ridge
where one lone bat
in diving approach,
plunged to air
as kingfisher to lake,
As owl to moon
or as moon to owl
or as owl to owl,
two owls upon the perch
fated couple
to a lifelong mate.
At this very place
I saw my mission unfold
in ceremony of solemn joining
in deepest respect
this wedded pair
framed aside starlight,
Framed within angles
of better aspect
placing male to left
female to right,
then married them there
till death do they part,
He in a cassock of feathers
all attention to duty
she with a blink
of a solitary eye,
I with a wave
of the official hand,
"I decree thee man and wife"
I the chaparral poet of authority
captain on this ship
I do wed thee,
witnessed by bat and kingfisher
cricket and castor bean.
And so my sudden voice
startled both to flight
he with wings to eclipse
the moon, the sky
she in silence
winged forever to his side.
W.T.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Dec 21, 2017 - 07:13am PT
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^^^^^
Ward, that was excellent in my view...
The Reverend of the Field
(For the Right Reverend Trotter)
When he wed the two owls
Unlike domestic fowl
They both startled to flight
And they soiled his new cowl
Now he only enjoins
Goats and pigs for a coin
On occasion he’s married
Some chickens less harried
By such ceremony and pomp
Though they’d like a good romp
Or a roll in zee hay
Much to some folks dismay
For the reverend of the field
The fornicators must yield
And delay all their furgling
‘Till their union’s been sealed
-bushman
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Dec 21, 2017 - 09:50am PT
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Things just keep getting better around here!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dec 21, 2017 - 10:51am PT
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It's now your turn, FC...post'em if ya got'em.
Merry Christmas to you & Cindy!
--MFM
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dec 23, 2017 - 09:04am PT
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nothing too profound
it’s neither here not there
it’s vanished to thin air
it’s not where i’d thought it left
perhaps there’s been some petty theft
like the loom and warp and weft
it’s all a mystery to me
furthermore
like when is it too much
to ask you not to touch
my toys and tools and such
i thank you very much
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Dec 23, 2017 - 10:51pm PT
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It’s Just the Oread Again
By the firelight I noticed it
Such things I thought most clear to me
Not conflicting
Nor uncertain
Referenced only in mythology
But oh what other could it be?
In the darkness through the window
‘Twas the Oread who came to me
The Oread she beckoned
And through the glass she whispered
Directly to my inner mind
Drawing every inner thought from me
She communicated wordlessly
And struck me with a viral seed
Of nightshades otherworldly
To my knees I crumpled feebly
By the firelight I then wept
Fearing loss and painful death
So pitiful
So fruitless
So open and so shamelessly
Though I knew that she was watching
I stepped out to the night
Where she hovered there ethereally
Whatever did she want I asked?
Whatever would she take from me?
I implored from her this shimmering form
Though she returned an empty stare
And turned her back as if I’d know
For many days she did not return
Until one evening by the grotto
There beneath the weeping willow
When I approached near to the shore
She was waiting by the water
A flickering
A hovering
In silence as I met her gaze
Those burning eyes pierced through mine
There were no secrets left to share
As she diminished in the haze
That evening by the firelight
She brushed by me and appeared
A shimmering the same as last
Like memories once lost it came
The recent trip to windswept slopes
On a mountain high o’er my abode
That’s when I first had noticed
An aberration I could only hope
Stepping across a snow bridge
I had fallen to an icy creek
Then a flickering
And Shimmering
What injury did befall me?
The assault upon my senses rang
Only ankle deep the water ran
You’d think I’d gotten off Scot free
And I never gave a thought to it
That day out in the wilderness
When something brushed beside me
Stalking me for some reason
Haunting me so unaware
A brick might land upon my head
Several stitches more or less I’d say
And shrug it off without care
Now the Oread hovered near me
Assessing me as was her way
Not judging me
I’m guessing
But waiting there for my next move
I was tiring of this standoff
Rising suddenly I pushed past her
Not caring if she’d disapprove
I struck out for the mountain
Donning boots and overcoat
And hiked the trail by moonlight
As the sweat poured from my brow
And hoping she would follow
With naught but dread anticipation
Of the outcome or the cost
Of abandonment and sorrow
There upon the snowy bank
I trudged to a depression where
That flickering
And Shimmering
Transcended to crescendo
And I cried out to the night
That she finally take her leave of me
But I heard nothing but the wind blow
Many years have come and gone
Since the Oread first appeared to me
And I sit beside the fire at night
With reverie and some solitude
Wondering at how it might’ve been
And hear a rapping on the window pane
It’s just the Oread returning home
Oh how it’s nice to have a friend
-bushman
12/23/2017
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dec 24, 2017 - 04:33am PT
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Stepjack
Young Stepjack was a climbing lad who ran the Highland glens
He tore it up in the land of lochs on tor and fell and fens
He’d climb any thing that was taller than him and do it quite handily
He’d shove projectors aside and then he would glide to the top--so effortlessly
No one was better than this eager go-getter at speedy ascents in a day
But once word got out there were others no doubt who did not see things that way
It led to a series of climb-offs that did the Old School not much good
Folks did not care who they saw in the air they simply were there to see blood
Old Stepjack stepped away clean in each race he was in--a marvelous sight to take in
The others all lagged and became sorely fagged and Stepjack kept on for the win
His streak it got long and just like this song it one day came to its end
He parted the crowd as he walked away proud and that was that. The End.
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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Dec 24, 2017 - 12:27pm PT
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Thank you kindly, Bushman. My ears easily detect good rhythms in your poem as well. Keep up the good work.
Quote from The Nature Conservancy : "Great Horned owls take life-long mates."
Clearly I've deliberately picked an animal requiring less marrying work.
Seaweed
All along the bent and angling coast
seaweed strands in sunken coves
abandon their beached forms
from wave to wave
I always chase after them
their strewn bobbing heads
roll as dead bodies
from wave to wave
What seaweed does not hide
short stories of unknown depths?
submarine worlds where time itself
folds into layered shelves
Under every rubbery leaf
striped then strung to tether in running bands
veins on my father's arm
long long ago
An unseen drift marks the sea's closing line
to leeward straits where I now stand
feet in the sodden growth soil
hand against the shaded bulb
A frothing whirlpool gathers all the seaweed
roped and braided in dulsing patterns
soft crests fall soundless into outstretched arms
then slap against the burying stone
W.T.
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unlocked gait
Gym climber
the range
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Dec 25, 2017 - 09:18am PT
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i was asleep.
and then i wasn't.
and then i was.
and then i wasn't.
and now i'm wasn't.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 15, 2018 - 04:56pm PT
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The Ballad of Billy Bominalong
Walking down the street was Billy Bombinalong
who had a head full of visions about Miss Suzy Wong
a virgin according to the Chinese tong
He muttered in his beard in a mild sing-song
all buzzed on some tea we know as "Dan Cong" *
a very high grade of Guangdong oolong
The time was pretty close to Evensong
and he heard the sounds of a gamelan gong
not too distant maybe one furlong
From the other way came walking along
the famous dwarf ape they call Little King Kong
strolling with the character actor named James Hong
They were trying to sing an old love song
but the ape got tripped up by a tough diphthong
that came out like some kind of raucous birdsong
He was reminded of the time he met Erica Jong
whose zipless f*#k needed something one foot long
maybe like the one on old John Long :0)
Then he stopped to see the gang at the Cafe Hussong
who were celebrating new years with a crowd of Hmong
and they were eating what was left of a roadkill dugong
He didn’t stop though and kept going along
because he felt he didn’t really belong
so he took out his cell to call Kaholatingtong
Hello there, son, he said in a voice of sing-song
have you decided to buy this 4 inch bong-bong
or are you gonna just keep trying to string me along?
No sir not at all and don’t get me wrong
I wanted it but then I’m headstrong
Just give me more time, it won’t be overlong
How about we meet up for some games of Mah Jong
or maybe we could play some of that Donkey Kong
or some other competition like maybe ping pong?
Oh that might be cool like a sesh of quigong
I know a devotee who calls himself Fong
He wears no top but has a sarong
Sometimes he’ll dress in a blue bikini thong
like some soldier of the Viet Cong
and he’s willing to work for a Hostess Ding Dong
Billy hung up after saying “So Long”
and stuck his right eye with an antelope prong
and he proceeded with singing his swan song
The tune was one by the virtuoso Lang Lang
and was neither too short nor was it too long
and involved several forms of a Chinese triphthong
He passed into the state known as b’donkadonkdong
And he assumed a shape like a short oblong
And was reborn to the tune of a cradle song
--Ching & Chong & MFM
* Dan Cong is the champagne of Oolongs and the higher grades can fetch fantastic prices.
Picked from old trees grown around the town of Chao Zhou in Guangdong,
it produces a rich, orange-brown liquor that can explode on the palate
with intense flavors of apricot and honey
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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The Fisherman
Lowering down he would not swear
But wore his grimace silently
Pulling EB’s from his blistered feet
He wiped the sweat off of his brow
And tears away from sunburnt cheeks
I’ll get it next time he’d say
Bowing his head in a quiet prayer
Mumbling a psalm or favorite verse
His eyes lit up while he looked down
With a jubilance so unrehearsed
Years gone by and memories fade
But not so those of he and I
The blueness of two eyes like mine
Blood to blood and soulful sighs
I miss him still I would not lie
Do you know Christ the savior he
Was seldom ever heard to say
A message carried by his work
Firsts and far away pursuits
I still remember to this day
Friends who showed up from afar
Still wanting near though he was gone
Swapping stories of the fisherman
Held something of him in their hearts
But most a joyous young man’s song
-Tim Sorenson
03/02/2018
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Mar 14, 2018 - 03:45am PT
|
Don’t Call Yourself a Job Creator
When I was just a boy
We went to church
And went to school
On Saturday there was fishing
And the fireworks were cool
We weren’t wealthy
And we had plenty
At least my grand folks did
All the poor folks smiled
When we came around
Though just a child
I was not so easily fooled
When we worked we worked
And when we played
Or rested up
No one spoke
About catching up
Debt was debt
That’s all it was
But when the bosses came around
Reminding us what work we had
As if we owed them for our jobs
I hated them
The heartless slobs
And when full circle
Came around
I started my own business
No more working for crumbs
Having lived on less
I tried fair play
With those I hired
Never lording over them
And I rarely fired
Remembering those days
I’d been abused
By some arrogant employer’s ways
So when I hear those
Political speeches
There on the news
All their corporate bosses
And the terms they use
Claiming they are the job creators
Emphasis on creator
It’s just theatre
The bottom line is
It’s their only concern
Their profits they’ll take
While your future burns
The men in the suits
The conceited bastards
They’ll haul in the bread
While you toil and sweat
Or they’ll have your head
The workers are the true job creators
For selling the product
Is all they’re after
Those capitol men have it figured out
You’ll be just a pawn
Or you’ll do without
Then you’ll be gone
If you own a business
That you’ve built from scratch
Don’t ever forget
Who deserves the credit
Or you’ll come to regret
And rue the day
When retribution comes
Because you’ll be next
So don’t lie and say
Like a loathsome jerk
That you’re a job creator
Like you’ve done all the work
-bushman
03/13/2018
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
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Mar 14, 2018 - 03:47am PT
|
Bowinkle’s Drive-Thru
Coming soon
to a neighborhood near you
You won’t have to wait
and even if you do
They don’t serve them dogs
they don’t serve up fries
They won’t even serve you
a cockroach no lies
So come on down
to Bowinkle’s Drive-Thru
And get you a selfie
with Suzie Wazoo
A close confidant
to the man with the doo
You can drive-thru today
at Bowinkle’s Drive-Thru
The pizza ice cream
now the flavor of the day
And you’ll just have to taste
the fish yogurt soufflé
The sea urchin pudding
is featured all week
And those tree moss smoothies
to die for you’ll shriek
So come on down
to Bowinkle’s Drive-Thru
And get you a selfie
with Suzie Wazoo
A close confidant
to the man with the doo
You can drive-thru today
at Bowinkle’s Drive-Thru
-squeezeman
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Mar 15, 2018 - 11:15pm PT
|
Space Force
Taking a queue
from the idiot in chief
It’s another lame idea
that’s beyond all belief
In his newest endeavor
if you believe the hype
He’ll declare war in space
while the cheddar is ripe
His ‘Space Force’ idea
don’t blink they’ll be more
The latest from one who
can’t spell ‘Marine Corps’
Don’t blink or you’ll miss
What this pompous moron
Has next on his plate”
Oh god I can’t go on...
-bushman
03/15/2018
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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Mar 16, 2018 - 11:11am PT
|
As Little Boys
As little boys
we rode bikes
fast down the dunes,
on the vertical side
of Sand City
Big tires creased
deep furrows
in the down-slope,
same as boats trailing
wakes upon the swell
At the leeward portion
of the great sand hills
the long bronze
shadows of late noon
stretched to east
Meeting low pines
over ice plants
just as early suppers
smoked the spice
into mists above
Under which boys grew hungry
and boys grew weary
when drawn on-shore,
but grew bold again
when looking back to sea
Then fortified, soon returned
astride soft summits
as if to challenge
the long leading
boundary of night
A boundary against which
little boys are forbidden,
because bay breakers
rage half-seen
against the land
Because the turnstiles
of time get sand
in the gears and
the rising moon
comes fully into its own
Because the dusk sea
compresses foggy dimensions
into the unlearned territory
of young hearts
with full moon in the eyes
Of four-foot warriors
solemn in afterthought
huddled in a circle
as night overtook
a long day of handiwork
And even the bike furrows
grew silent at last
their contours to vanish
in darkening flatness
somewhere below our feet
WT
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Mar 16, 2018 - 07:01pm PT
|
^^^^^
That's beautiful, Ward.
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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Mar 17, 2018 - 12:54pm PT
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Thank you, Bushman.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Mar 20, 2018 - 11:18am PT
|
Rain will fall again
on your smooth pavement,
a light rain like
a breath or a step...
The breeze and the dawn
will flourish again
when you return,
as if beneath your step.
Between flowers and sills
the cats will know.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 20, 2018 - 12:43pm PT
|
The Burning Of the Animals In America
The sacrificial smoke lies thick in the skies above the suburbs
As the sun begins to set and the smells of spices and herbs
And cooking meat all contend for our attention,
making my stomach rumble.
At this end of the block we have three grills devoted solely to burgers.
Down at the other end is a large fire with twenty chickens broiling.
And interspersed here and there, some fine steaks are grilling,
alongside various ribs, brats, roasts and fillets.
Not to mention all the corn, baking potatoes, beans and salads.
And in due course the fireworks will begin, celebrating the deaths of these animals,
congratulating ourselves on how well we eat in this country.
How’s dessert coming? Need a hand? 'nother beer?
--MFM
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Mar 31, 2018 - 09:01am PT
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The Vessel
Now such is our story as stories go
One Saturday eve when we had to go
With tickets to Verdi’s sad Rigoletto
While parking there before the show
The last garage was almost closed
So down and down and down we drove
To what level we did not know
Where deeper down my patience slowed
As several parking cones were mowed
God knows who else was indisposed
While swerving down those endless rows
To finally pull in by a nose
We parked somewhat all juxtaposed
Between the stairs and a firehose
We saw the elevator sign
Approaching as though by design
The light flickered just once then died
Which startled me I will not lie
As much as when a rat ran by
We found our way by cellphone light
To a stairwell chained and locked nearby
Where the elevator door was pried
All exit there on foot denied
Returning to our car to split
The engine stumbled once then quit
A single exclamation sh#t
Issued from my angry lips
As we resigned to wait and sit
Locked in our car as we took small sips
From a water bottle and ate some chips
With no cel transmission to emit
We settled down in our sunken ship
Discussing how we’d come to grips
With a war or zombie apocalypse
I did not know how long we’d slept
But the air was stale as a chill then crept
Suggesting I’d go search a bit
From the car door to my feet I leapt
In the silent darkness of that crypt
My feeble plan of action yet
To look for others in a similar fix
Her sigh prolonged then she let slip
Inquiring if I was so inept
To venture on out so ill equipped
With a dead cellphone and money clip
I bent the money clip around
Into a crude blade lest I found
Some conflict as I slunk around
Tip-toeing there without a sound
As darkness weighed upon my brow
Carefully as not to fall down
Where rats were likely to abound
In silence forward I made ground
From car to car I slowly prowled
But no-one coughed nor child howled
Reporting back to my curious wife
We talked about our new found strife
Adjusting to catacombs dark as night
How to adapt to the mole folk’s life
Regardless of outcome luck or tripe
Accepting whatever came down the pipe
We’d not resign as neophytes
But learn to live deprived of light
And not give in but fight the fight
And stepping out there from our car
We search the darkness near and far
Prying at car doors with a tire bar
We pilfered one old kit-kat bar
And three green olives in a jar
Two water bottles and a burnt cigar
Through silence as their shrieks did mar
I fought two rats with an old guitar
Until something cried out from afar
In an eerie timbre most bizarre
Like the mournful wail of big jaguar
In this loathsome pit as our last memoir
We’d declared our own little private war
Defended by keys and a lone crowbar
As exhaustion came in the endless depth
We retreated back to the car and slept
The eternal night had its own precepts
By such darkness we had come to accept
Old wrappers strewn in our unkempt mess
A garbage pit where we couldn’t care less
What belied our base inmost essence
Our wretchedness would describe it best
Night creatures abandoned to the crypt
As our dreams described us as much less
Now finding our way by torch pell mell
On another of forays around that hell
Going on three days we’d begun to smell
A condition we’d slunk to I’m loathe to tell
The heat requiring less clothing as well
As our grimy faces alone would dispel
The luckless monsieur or mademoiselle
As now we’d become more prone to excel
At car burglaries as one might foretell
This larceny drove our primitive selves
More than our common sense would allow
And our purpose once to exit this vessel
Abandoned for mayhem the final knell
At three days forsaken to this pit
I thought we dreamed a dream to wit
Around a bonfire of trash we sat
Roasting a can of cured ham on a spit
We sang out of tune ‘till our voices quit
After eating in silence we put on our hats
And got up to stare at the fire for a bit
Her dress a ‘tatter as no words were said
An old bandanna adorned my head
We wildly waltzed to songs in our heads
Then to and fro we do-si-doed
Between burning rows of trash we’d lit
As dreams are dreamt we’d never know it
So we danced awhile then slept a bit
So as not to bore let our fates be known
Lest yawns do stifle a wearisome moan
In furtherance of a loathsome groan
My story lambasted or harpooned
A dreadful tale sorely impugned
Or the very least mocked and lampooned
For so it was in the dark marooned
We found our second honeymoon
Awaking there in an amorous mood
With fumbling furtive and less crude
Than that first coupling of our youth
Where afterwards as things would go
We slept the sleep of angels woah
And did not wake for hours although
A light then shone upon us yo
A rap on the glass and a bright white light
Did pierce our near eternal night
As I saw out through sheltered eyes
A security guard of considerable size
Discovering us most compromised
Our sweat soaked nakedness unwise
As my spouse woke up and realized
Like teenagers caught out date night
Our awkward state most ill advised
She glared at me with nostrils wide
Assigning with fault who to despise
As I signaled we’d vacate our site
And the guard moved on without a fight
Well the engine started don’t you know
As we eased out of there nice and slow
With sunglasses and our hat brims low
In the bright sunshine and a blinding glow
Two moles at daybreak timid and slow
Squinting our eyes all the way back home
We slunk to the house at just past nine
And slept all day with the curtains down
Never rose ‘till night beyond supine
We dwelled indoors for a week or so
Only venturing out in the evening time
Well so it happened not so long ago
As date nights go a near fiasco
The opera comes and the opera goes
Still we haven’t gone back for Rigoletto
But to this day we still don’t know
If ever to a parking garage we’ll go
-bushman
03/30/2018
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 31, 2018 - 10:44am PT
|
Submarine races are cheaper than opera, son.
You're giving Dante a run for his florins with this one. Enjoyed the tale.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 13, 2018 - 02:57pm PT
|
Out, Out, Out!!!!!!!! Go!!!!!!!
(in memory of RIP Locker)
Locker, his glassy eyes blinking
Like a pair of crystal clear marbles in ultraviolet light,
Visions filling his vision,
Turning his thoughts to ones and zeros
And his dick to stone.
Bold faced and crude, hard not to like
Out in the sun but not wearing da Brim
While sitting next to the warm glue pot
Watching a hard-on develop between his legs
Made me violently sick
And ruin my newly resoled shoes.
Woe! I am crushed to bits
And my posts are all deleted
Dirt is cast in my face
Even the pariahs chase me off
I see you from a few dimensions removed now:
The empty room here is filling with nobodies.
I later canvassed the area,
Only to find pale ghosts of norwegian and fattrad and gnome,
But Pena's shade was nowhere to be found
With her sore toe.
And, probably still hearing sounds not there
But still too loud to be ignored,
Locker was there, complaining,
"I’m fukking tired of working, man!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
With toilet tissue stuck to one of my newly resoled shoes,
I carefully leave the toilet stall,
Now filled with greenish blobs
That move in jellied heaves and rolls
And fart just like fat people making whoopie.
A few people hang around in the lobby of the Extravaganza Casino,
Breathing normally and enjoying the scene.
But Pena exclaims, limping in with a sore toe,
"That’s the same damned raspberry smell I smelled before!"
--UR Gunnadye
Edit: Apologies to die-hard Captain Beefheart fans, both bulbous and tapered. And fast, too.
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Roadie
Trad climber
Bishop, Ca
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Apr 29, 2018 - 01:42pm PT
|
I think over again my small adventures, my fears,
These small ones that seemed so big.
For all the vital things I had to get and to reach.
And yet there is only one great thing,
The only thing.
To live to see the great day that dawns
And the light that fills the world
unknown
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Apr 29, 2018 - 01:56pm PT
|
Ungnown-un lost but wadering still
( to do it - but only If'n when,
thats the thing with moving
Most likely others would pitch in If pitchin' in will do?
but where, are things
Z will g
now
and
make sense, then the ban hammer came down, I had forgotten
Standplatz !
Erfahren Sie, wo Sie einen Clip ,
auf Ihre Hip legen können!
Was ist das für eine funky Wendung, die du sagst?
Es heißt der Munter, der beste Standplatz.
Learn where to put one clip on yer Hip! and Whats that funky twist you say? Its called the Munter, the best belay.
are all things I was told by a certain set of rusty crusties,
Now what Rgold says is what you hear today
Just remember the AdHD version of KISS
Keep It Stupid Simple
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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“The problem with being born, is dying.”
-unknown
An Homage to Death
Wrapped in all
it’s metaphors
death
A bramble with thorns
intertwined in a thicket
A briarpatch out of which
overripe figs grow
with blossoms so fatal
their venom as sweet
as the new melted snow
Turned bitter upon the lips
followed
by visitations of vixens
Pale white their skin
dancing over corpses
bleeding rose petals
from
their final impalements
Lacerated to white bone
cleaved and hacked
Wearing a hooded black garment
the specter approaches
Opens
a green sepulcher
adorned by a maroon cross
Dry bones fall
and litter the soil
where scorpions and centipedes
crawl sweet and sad
in knife piercing darkness
Many voices there go
A window opens
slowly
I see gossamer webs
floating icily
Drifting down
now veiled in white
A soothing voice
like the complete warmth of her
my mother’s embrace
Black shadows hang
from vines so strangely
as cat mewling and howls
break the silence
Wait...
Returning to this life
I have known or imagined
Staying yet death
with her luring seductions
lurking within my animal self
-bushman
06/01/2018
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Jun 24, 2018 - 12:35pm PT
|
The Swan (Charles Baudelaire)
To Victor Hugo
I
Andromache, I think of you! — That little stream,
That mirror, poor and sad, which glittered long ago
With the vast majesty of your widow's grieving,
That false Simois swollen by your tears,
Suddenly made fruitful my teeming memory,
As I walked across the new Carrousel.
— Old Paris is no more (the form of a city
Changes more quickly, alas! than the human heart);
I see only in memory that camp of stalls,
Those piles of shafts, of rough hewn cornices, the grass,
The huge stone blocks stained green in puddles of water,
And in the windows shine the jumbled bric-a-brac.
Once a menagerie was set up there;
There, one morning, at the hour when Labor awakens,
Beneath the clear, cold sky when the dismal hubbub
Of street-cleaners and scavengers breaks the silence,
I saw a swan that had escaped from his cage,
That stroked the dry pavement with his webbed feet
And dragged his white plumage over the uneven ground.
Beside a dry gutter the bird opened his beak,
Restlessly bathed his wings in the dust
And cried, homesick for his fair native lake:
"Rain, when will you fall? Thunder, when will you roll?"
I see that hapless bird, that strange and fatal myth,
Toward the sky at times, like the man in Ovid,
Toward the ironic, cruelly blue sky,
Stretch his avid head upon his quivering neck,
As if he were reproaching God!
II
Paris changes! but naught in my melancholy
Has stirred! New palaces, scaffolding, blocks of stone,
Old quarters, all become for me an allegory,
And my dear memories are heavier than rocks.
So, before the Louvre, an image oppresses me:
I think of my great swan with his crazy motions,
Ridiculous, sublime, like a man in exile,
Relentlessly gnawed by longing! and then of you,
Andromache, base chattel, fallen from the embrace
Of a mighty husband into the hands of proud Pyrrhus,
Standing bowed in rapture before an empty tomb,
Widow of Hector, alas! and wife of Helenus!
I think of the negress, wasted and consumptive,
Trudging through muddy streets, seeking with a fixed gaze
The absent coco-palms of splendid Africa
Behind the immense wall of mist;
Of whoever has lost that which is never found
Again! Never! Of those who deeply drink of tears
And suckle Pain as they would suck the good she-wolf!
Of the puny orphans withering like flowers!
Thus in the dim forest to which my soul withdraws,
An ancient memory sounds loud the hunting horn!
I think of the sailors forgotten on some isle,
— Of the captives, of the vanquished!...of many others too!
— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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PHOOK YA' sayin'?
just plyin'?
phuk 're ya?
real fire is at
but just 'Moke here.
ON TOPIC BREAK,(CAN you HEAR THE TUNE?)
Riggers regrets! .11d? (im hoping)
in honor
COZ
not wearing to tethers
then here it belongs
I dare you to
Hear?
trice time two
Who da phook?
if itz oo R then harlow ya been? I;ve given ore' da sleen
theres no use
trhen there is this abuse
wqho now did you claim
ToBe
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allapah
climber
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Jul 16, 2018 - 04:05am PT
|
WOTEML
Stupendous overhanging Beatles of fear,
Scalloping my horizon,
Scalloping my horizon,
Inserting precious holds
Between the now and the here,
Between the now and the here,
This time my hold upon the coincidence of space and time will not fail,
A spreading interference pattern that seems like a line,
But is really the angular coincidence
Of all the coincidences residing within,
The interference pattern between the here and the now,
The here and the now,
My gravity’s influencing it now, I’m praying for the line to not fail,
But it’s not a line, it’s space and time,
This life can’t go on forever.
If happenstance should plummet our life trajectory into space,
Piton pop,
Piton pop,
A clatter of technology blowing,
These fragile webs of metal are non entropy mixed with life,
Your unfolding decisions,
Your unfolding decisions,
The decisions you made today will last the rest of your life,
The leptons and quarks were manipulated by the cortex in your brain,
The anti-nodal lines were within the range of your interference,
What you found on the ground was the tail end of the fall,
Then live your life better,
Live your life better.
The resonance between
The here and the have been,
Better tie yourself off,
Better tie yourself off,
“What is Mind?” you ask and you wish that it might have been,
All of one thing,
All of one thing,
But dimensions are clashing and rubbing off in a line,
All the scientists are mistaking it for the phenomenon of time,
Blowing down to the interference pattern scrawling horizontal across the wall,
The Wall of the early morning light,
Wall of the Morning Light…
Was it a line, do we call it a hike?
It’s been years since the sound of a Sierra Club cup clattering down the wall.
Or was it a Penrose diagram with vectors in opposite directions?
There’s a rock coming down the wall,
Oh!, a coming down the wall—
Two domains of your life are subducting like continental plates of meaning,
You’re hanging from the A4 blade and praying for the noun of staying,
There’s not too many things that I’d have lived life differently,
Except for that thing about you and me,
Except for that thing about you and me,
Always the Beatles of fear layering up like successive challenges,
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
A-hanging over me.
Overhangs of blade and hook and mank of knowledge,
Of how you lived your life,
Of how you lived your life,
It matters now that you cheated and lied,
Cause there’s nothing much now, and you’re gonna die,
Gonna die, Gonna die,
Yer gonna die.
Quiet now the Arno leaks in your hypothalamus,
My pre-frontal is quaking and I can’t quiet the hallucinations,
Blind Faith override won’t quiet the Cake,
That’s no way way to dangle from an overhang in the sun,
I thumb the cool blade,
Though it’s a sunny day,
You’re ready to lead away,
I’m going back to Talkeetna in the morning.
Do not attempt to adjust the picture,
Stop time and don’t think about the adhesion,
You are arrogance personified,
Icarus not fallen,
Your penis is so large this day cannot end in tragedy,
You’ve seen that the line
Between space and time
Has thrown a green light,
Has thrown a green light,
You’ll climb through the night without fear the sun has fallen,
We carried no devices, no way to talk to home,
Only the memory of how we got it on were the things we carried,
No paranoia at the rosing of the Dawn.
Space and time,
Unfolding line,
I should have sent the letter,
Gonna die, try to try,
I should have done you better,
Done you better,
These insertions into the moment have got me greatly vexed,
There’s vectors out of my control and my mind is a settling hex,
If only I hadda seen all the vectors of what might have been,
I would have opened up my heart,
I would have opened up my heart,
But war is upon us and the Moment comes flooding in,
The line between here and now is propagating really thin,
Wished I could talk to you to ease my aching mind,
But I’ve been trying to call for hours and I just can’t get a line.
Off, leave it there,
F*#king fling this present moment,
It’s very clear there’s no reason here,
No end to the fall,
No end to the fall,
If I’d have lived it better we would hadda better weather,
It was the things we did,
All the things we did,
Fog going down and a zippering chord,
A tinkle of now coming up against metal,
Off, leave it there,
Sound of a human voice,
Without thinking,
The old man in the nursing home draws back on his belay hand.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
|
|
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Jul 16, 2018 - 06:05pm PT
|
haha,no lists ?
a place Artificial Intelligence wont help?
1st there was fix'd then, there was no fix'd,
it was A Running Man who got piss'd
& swooped,
by the sprite from Cali,
that wern't right
yeah?
She hit it,so FA by her
Bolts, came & went & came & went?
"Work"Chains add'd by the NowWestPTpinhead,
&
Now?
the whole, patrolled by a gun totting owner!!
That is pretty much the most historic especially
now that Lanman's is gone,may you find peace in rest)
PiR Dave
From the top of Ski Minne you would be looking at Sky Writing,
but you might as well drink Hemlock with your Pilsner Urquell.
This, Of course, Like a lead of the Vampire, more like Insomnia,
& best climb'd at just before dawn it was a right of passage
What is it you want to know?
Remakably clean, Cleaved, seam'd, cleaved,
stacked, like an upside down set of stairs
I know You Know,
that Fritz was the 1st to see the cliffs
on a remarkably clear moment,
from a perch high on Breakneck Ridge,
after a thunderstorm clear'd the atmosphere.
When there were people living under and at the ridge
for a century or more....... Stop asking in public,
there are books by Mark Fink......
As far from & different from Mike Fink & Karen Parddini,
as a military reform school is from a pajama Waldorf program.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Sep 10, 2018 - 08:19am PT
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Betelgeuse
I walked out this morning at three am
with the two dogs
some coffee and flip flops
I looked to the east
and the stars above
with the Hyades way up top
Then thought to myself
what a sight it would be
when a nova bursts forth with a scion
All the stars it shall spawn
in its constellation
adding nebula two to Orion
-bushman
09/10/2018
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Sep 28, 2018 - 12:30am PT
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A Poem for Manuel
There we once walked the mountain path
as sunbursts splashed and tumbled fro
Your sneakers kicked up clouds of dust
as Jack the dog led where to go
Your sis and mom brought up the rear
we watched you from afar you know
You were but briefly at the cusp
of childhood dreams that you’d outgrow
We saw you take your bride in hand
raise up two kids for which to boast
You were your own man pass or fail
& stood your ground more firm than most
One thing that some remember well
the careful timing of your jokes
You saved your punchlines like your truths
for when they would hit home the most
I remember how that you once said
your love was pure emotion strong
a powerful conviction that
through pain and strife would carry on
I argued there was more to love
and countered there was work involved
And there we left it I recall
our points of view still unresolved
As husband, father, nephew, brother,
cousin, uncle, grandson too
The brightest hope we had for you
how you were loved I wish you knew
Your mother fought so hard you know
she did all that a mom could do
At least a few years maybe more...
we thought we had more time with you
There once we crossed a mountain lake
beneath the Rockies towering
It seems like only yesterday
with s’mores around the fire ring
We thought we had more time to voice
those thoughts that families hold dear
Within our heart of hearts we’d hoped
to care for you and to keep you near
We miss you son, always
-Dad
09/16/2018
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Sep 28, 2018 - 12:59pm PT
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Bohemian Waxwings
The waxwings sweep in through the swirling snow,
Attack the bountiful berries of the rowan.
The berries have fermented,
The birds are partying.
Two hundred fluttering wings shiver the tree.
Two late robins join the party.
Their cohort has long gone south -
These were waiting for the right vintage.
Magpies join the bacchanal,
They scorned the berries earlier.
Party crashers.
Power of suggestion.
A pair of hulking ravens flare in like thunderclouds
Swaying precarious on tiny twigs,
They ignored the berries all fall.
The waxwings caught their lofty attention.
The tree is almost stripped.
The birds are happier now.
Avian crapulence tomorrow.
Wayne Merry
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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After all the Leaves have Fallen
After all of these years
I thought I would know
the path of my life
and how things might go
With the passion we’re given
and the lessons we’re shown
with what we’ve returned
to the universe unknown
Voiced by the arching
of the trees in the yard
framing my trepidation
how life can be so hard
As I see up in the clouds
through the sky high above
where a satellite passes
like the flight of a dove
And the stars all come out
as a testament to all
enlisted with the moonlight
in it’s orbital stall
There’s left only the thrumming
like the beating of a drum
I hear all of our heartbeats
pounding into one
And I see only the mystery
the comedy and the farce
of this irony called life
it’s finality and it’s course
After all of these years
as I watch the river flow
what’s meaning of it all?
I don’t think I’ll ever know
-bushman
10/03/2018
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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"In the Hunting Grounds of Arden Oaks"
There is some thing about magpies, Wayne.
It's hard to put into black and white, though,
since it's been ages since Sacramento.
There only came one Stellar's Jay the other day
and he had some thing he seemed to want to say...
I doubt it was about magpies.
You never know with Stellar's fellers.
Sea lions, okay, they get the point across.
Maybe not in grandiose cosmic Orion fashion,
but loud enough to warn you away.
I saw only that one stupid jay all week.
Where have they all gone?
Have the raven gangs driven them off?
We used to collect a quarter on every magpie as bounty on magpies.
Went out 'n' bought more BBs.
My brother was a good shot, pinned a butterfly to an oak once, by its head.
Don't need to take that home, Mike. Leave it mounted right there.
MFM
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Blow It Out, Dude
The wind is in the willows, with all those moles and rats
It's blowing in the caves among a million bats
It's chilling the Antarctic and the Arctic, too
And it's moving lots of sand out in the Howlin' Buckaroo
Mono Lake's a choppy mess of waves and salt 'n' spray
And Utah's being blown out west to San Francisco bay
I really hope it stops before it gets to Tahoe Lake
Cuz I just want to make a wish while blowing on my cake
--Tahoma Joe from Tahoma
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Catherine
there by the fountain
on the back of a dragonfly
I tasted the nectars
of a thousand sweet butterflies
down on my luck
I cast forth the dice
then heard the bell toll
not once twice but thrice
there out from eden
I was tossed on my face
what was once is what was
what is now is not just
she once took my hand
as I once took her throne
we had both pledged
to each other our troth
that was then
Catherine
your royal court was there
eyeing your long black hair
Catherine
find your man
he held his dagger high
thrust it into my side
I bled for her
it was not for my pride
Catherine
then I died
she once took my hand
as I once took her throne
we had both pledged
to each other our troth
that was then
Catherine
-tim sorenson aka bushman
10/09/2018
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 15, 2018 - 10:47am PT
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Susurrate Thus
Quietly whispering to the wind
the aspen leaves have no worries
until the approach of late fall flurries
And then like all good leaves
they take themselves elsewhere
and return six months from now
as echoes of themselves
--John Murmuir
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 15, 2018 - 12:48pm PT
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A couple of seasonal tankas -
sun low through clean air
trees heavy with gold
days ever shorter
I bask now like a marmot
soon I will envy his fur
***
silence in the north
a stillness overwhelming
but in it you hear
a leaf whisper to the earth
a lone gull cry far away
WM
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Oct 15, 2018 - 04:19pm PT
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Rhyming at the last for the Daylight
The sun set loudly with a low pitched thud
never rose in the morning or so it would go
and never the birds sang nor the flowers would bloom
The deniers were never to speak on the news
having drunk the permanent Kool-Aid that day
before black hole eclipses would yet be explained
But so it would happen the very next morn
while facing the east in my lawn chair I cheered
along with my neighbors when great Zeus arose
Today I watched tiny Mercury go
fleet fast flying across the dawn sky
sister Venus held bright in her poisonous charm
Later pondering lost evangelicals oh
so hard for them ceding science it’s due
yet opening their eyes might have given a clue
-bushman
10/15/2018
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 15, 2018 - 07:21pm PT
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Wow, you guys...
I love the heck outta this thread!
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Oct 15, 2018 - 07:46pm PT
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The Mouseman’s poetry never sleeps...
as the Fossil climber shows his ageless-ness.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Oct 16, 2018 - 06:18am PT
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The Owl Speaks
The stars all winked at four am
as I was poor with sleep again
The cold a quiet pre dawn hush
one scratching dog I asked to shush
The dogs came with to warm the house
our own heat and a sleeping spouse
The owl outside my window there
hoot hoot hoot hoot he said beware
I think about what he did say
as I ready to greet the day
The world a slave to cyber norms
most heedless now of Strigiformes
Our signs by nature go unheard
like powerful messages in a bird
I blink my eyes to clear my brain
and hear the messenger again
The admonitions weaker still
I swallow them like a bitter pill
The days may come and days may go
what matters most is what they show
Of things I’m learning to this day
what means much more than I can say
Hoot hoot hoot hoot I’m coming near
and quietude is what I hear
The owl was speaking through me now
or I through him I don’t know how
-bushman
10/16/2018
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 16, 2018 - 03:33pm PT
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I hadn't backed up through the thread much until today. Man, there is so much really good stuff in here! Seems to me that some of it should be in print.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 16, 2018 - 06:13pm PT
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I, too, think that's a worthy idea, Wayne. It's not hard, or at least it's easier than rocket science.
Rocket Science
by Matete Motsoaledi
A poet tried to be smart with his art
To satisfy his addiction to diction
But lost meaning to rhyme-scheming
He churned out empty lines
Which went into a comma and died before a full stop
But the fool wouldn’t stop
He scribbled passive cursive
Which was not at all impressive
And carried on cursing and cursing
To spice it
His imagery as I imagined it
Was like a litany of bad dreams
Insisting on invading my line of sight
So he was told
Keep poems simple
Like dots in Morse code
Weave words into visions
That loose minds in imaginings
Stevie Wonder did it
With limited resources
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 16, 2018 - 09:08pm PT
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Partners
dedicated to the Reverend Mathis
One of us at either end,
a swami tied with a ring bend,
a cincture with a bowline,
I was sure that we could send,
for he'd been my bosom friend
since I was eight and he was nine.
We crossed the ice in quick time
to the base of our intended climb
and switched leads all the way.
On the summit we felt prime
So I made up this little rhyme
To commemorate that special day.
--mfm
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 17, 2018 - 03:52am PT
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On a theme of aging, a few more tankas -
***
old brass primus purrs
blue flame under blackened pot
not used for decades
treasured but as obsolete
as the climber who carried it
***
hands so powerful
solid on rope and rock
forty years ago
wrinkled now and trembling
still holding untold stories
***
time comes when you know
there is not much of it left
then you recognize
inevitability
so little time, so much love
***
WM
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 17, 2018 - 03:56am PT
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bravo!
pronouncement
night owl crossing moon
whiching hour is coming soon
who knows who's the loon
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Oct 20, 2018 - 07:19pm PT
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Lost in a Bad Dream
All trials and tribulations
now seem minor by compare
with losing a dear loved one this year
but for a lock of his dark hair
This week was crammed with two weeks toil
seemed easy by and by
remembering someone missing today
brought tears into an old man’s eyes
I thought that things were going well
considering the adversity
juggling irons and taking names
‘till I began remembering
Exhausted and overworked
the evening found me unprepared
the solitude it turns out
caught me up short unaware
The memories flooded back to me
of a boy who’d lost his way
his life reduced to ashes now
a curt reminder of this day
I don’t know when the healing starts
or when I’ll find relief
every time I catch my breath
I’m still consumed by grief
The world seems trivial since he’s gone
where does my purpose lie
beyond propping up my family
I still take quiet times to cry
This is the state we’re all in
a shadow still hangs o’er
our lives suspended by his death
I’m trying to believe there’s more
What god there might have ever been
could hardly matter less
in this place where hope lies motionless
there’s unrelenting emptiness
I know that I can soldier on
so lonely I have rarely been
but emptiness times loneliness
this wasteland I cannot defend
I’m sure tomorrow morning
I will wake and start my day
but no matter how tough I think I am
some pain will never go away
I’ll listen to the radio
and finish up some work
and try to forgive myself the times
I’ve acted like a jerk
I’ll kiss my wife good morning
and give to her some space
and try to give myself the time
to find a little grace
-bushman
10/20/2018
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Oct 21, 2018 - 04:14am PT
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The Replacement
He moves through life
not here nor there
Who he’s become
now is not clear
As though he isn’t
in the air
Some say he isn’t anywhere
the replacement
The sound of smoke
is everywhere
The replacement neither
has a care
As laughter wafts
all though in the air
It matters not a wit
to the replacement
The replacement does not care
the replacement is nowhere
The replacement’s pain
lies deep inside
It’s more than real
and there it will remain
No matter how thick is his hide
the replacement
He sees unholy
decimation
The replacement
with his wide eyed stare
They tell him time heals
life’s unfair
It matters not to all
to the replacement
His voice a scraping
rasping sound
He feels devoid
but duty bound
Now easy laughter
is rarely found
His pent up rage deflated
the replacement
The replacement does not care
the replacement is nowhere
The replacement’s pain
lies deep inside
It’s more than real
and there it will remain
No matter how thick is his hide
the replacement
-bushman
10/21/2018
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 21, 2018 - 11:39am PT
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Would like to know the back story on this one.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Oct 21, 2018 - 11:51am PT
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The sad song of addiction
For Wayne
and Tim, my o my A son - I can but try
( I can try to understand)
What becomes one when the life is all unfurled
It justice seen
but dashed
by the fowl beautiful Heroin
As with all
Re: The replacement
The hart can no longer take
All the stones and arrows thrown
So
The replacement steps up as guide as Ice breaker
As line backer to the smaller now bruised running back
A man who, while fully concussed, must still plod ahead
Must for those left hanging, must stride
Must still persevere
The front of the well pounded battering ram
The world on its own
on this turn is
Hurt full
twisted
beyond all hope of redemption now
We killed off the sacred cow
Ate of the belly meat
so gorged
we fled to see the northern lights
A oh-so-brief display - The tonight show
Ignoring for a moment
Only a moment
And all seems lost
Ason A grown one who?
Who we can if in deep surmise got his dad's
Sensitivities
but in this modern world, found no way to out them
Too turn them outward
Found not one way to expound of the misery
that locked in
deep down
so
wither'd his very soul.
So looking out as if within when in all the stories the son eclipse the far the father to far to go
&So
Fell to the throws of boils in the bulb,
or that most cruel mistress of miss trust
or both?
or take all comers? I espouse that while not looking so
That that last girl is the worst of all
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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Oct 21, 2018 - 12:13pm PT
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Potato Mountain
I will arrive
an habitual escapee
from the rabbit warrens
of central planners
By ferreting north
in search of
breaks in the maze
rifts in the grid
I will follow
a stream beside
the climbing track
and yet higher
To a saddle below
the great ridge
southward along
eastern slopes
To a fine summit
of long vistas
and white gravel-skirts
exposed to sun
Exposed to eyes
sweeping round
the slow wide circle
of arcs in passage
Years to degree
degree to century
century to millennia
beyond human sight
And my own frail
footsteps in iron soil
blown to red oblivion
by winds now shadowing
My identical track
passed beehives
thickets and copse
up the potato
To a summit
of concrete pylon
red dirt
and folk art
Where unknown infidels
posed the creative
issue of their
anonymous fancy
In the form
of starch-fat tubers
affixed with parasols
to shade them
And toothpicks to
give them arms
and bay leaves
to make them hair
Hats to render
them style
atop bald and oblong
pates of brown
Wings of sumac leaf
sleek and waxy
to impart mottled skins
flights of fancy
But they cannot fly
like chaparral birds
fitted to wind
and wildness
Unmoving the potatoes
await their fate
on a flat stage
above the world
Three days pass
their number reduced
in gathering erosions
and mathematical decline
Four days
the mule deer
has found them
yet still proud potatoes
Pass from deer
to lion to
slow beetles
upon the soil
And there the
once magnificent
and well-arrayed
vegetable host
Submits bravely to
mechanical escorts
in the brief free fall
to worlds below
https://www.booksie.com/483586-hassy-prolog
https://www.booksie.com/483604-crilly-crick-spring-prolog
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Oct 21, 2018 - 04:05pm PT
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I’m sorry Wayne, we lost our adult son to addiction and liver disease on September 10th. He had been clean now for over a year since he destroyed his liver with hard dinking the summer before last. He suffered multiple health issues and struggled with opiate addiction, alcoholism, liver disease, diabetes, and he was bipolar.
I have been posting some dark poems this past month and I did not intend to bring any one down. Trouble is I’m the guy supposed to keep his sh#t together and prop up the family. But after the numbness and shock of holding everyone in my arms when we saw our son code in the ICU (all the girls in the family, my wife, daughter, and granddaughter were huddled in my arms when our son died), now that the initial strength I needed to support everyone is waning, and I’m really feeling exhausted and emotionally drained.
Last few days I’ve burned the candle at both ends repairing our brush chipper after it caught fire at a job site Tuesday. End of the last two days I’ve found myself at the garage sink scrubbing all the grease off and sobbing uncontrollably into the sink. Happy my wife doesn’t see me like this, she’s been through enough and I don’t want to trigger more additional grief for her at the moment.
Friends and family give condolences and tell me time heals. I just want to say f*#k all that but I keep my mouth shut because I know they mean well. So writing and posting some of the feelings with poetry is my therapy, also bike riding.. Later I’ll get back flying my model planes but that diversion really doesn’t matter to me right now.
Wayne, I just wanted to note that ‘The Replacement’ poem is about me feeling like a hollow shell and a zombie lately. Gnome, I appreciate your trying to Gnome-splain it for me. Tad, thank you for your ear, buddy. Ward, I love the potato mountain poem. Mouse, if you read this just know I think you’re a trooper. I’ll get through this. It just hurts a lot right now is no other way to put it.
Cheers (I’m trying),
-bushman
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 23, 2018 - 02:35am PT
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At last, some serious verses about the saddest thing in the world...the rising cost of getting hammered.
Thank you, Q.
There must be more...?
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Oct 23, 2018 - 03:54am PT
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Good on the one, who moved, was moved to move one!
Some pictures are poetic, if not poetry in stone:
NO ACCESS GIVEN TO US BY THE AXES CLIMBING AREAS CLUB
YOUR OLD 'BOY'S' "CLUB" IS GREAT
KEEPING SOME PLACES CLOSED TO ALL BUT THOSE FEW?
WHILE BEGGING CASH-MONEY NATION WIDE
WORLD WIDE?
FROM THOSE YOU PROMISE TO GIVE BACK TO
LANDS CLIMBED ON FOR DECADES TILL YOU CAME INTO THE PICTURE
OPENED UP TO CLIMBING FOR EVALUATION, TO BE CLOSED
POSTED, FINES IMPOSED
UM YEAH ??
DON'T YOU MEAN THE NO ACCESS FUND ?
A BUNCH OF STOOGE LAWYERS INVOLVED IN LAND GRABBING!!
OPEN SPACE INSTITUTE IS STILL STEALING OUR RESOURCES.
UP FOR CONSIDERATION-
SAMS POINT / ICE CAVES MNT. IN ELLENVILLE NYIN FACT ALL THE CLOSED TO CLIMBING,CLIFFS
& RIDGE LINES -
LORDED OVER BY THE PALISADE'S INTER-COUNTY PARKS . . .
THERE IS NO "COMMISSION".
iT IS A CABAL*
STILL IN THE GREEDY HANDS OF THE CASTRO FAMILY?
(NOT EVEN GOING TO SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THE ORGANIZATIONS NAME-SAKE CLIFFS ALONG THE HUDSON RIVER ACROSS FROM NYC)
REGURGITATE YOUR BS SOME PLACE ELSE!
OH! YEAH, SPEAKING OF A SAD STATE, THAT MAKES CLIMBERS HURL
HOW ABOUT ALL THE OTHER INCREDIBLE ROCK?
OFF LIMITS TO CLIMBERS,
ALL THE CLIMBED ON,
NOW CLOSED?
THE ROCK
IN NEW JERSEY ?? !
I know the folks & volunteers do, do a lot of good,
and do get places open - often.
BUT
EVERY ONE OF THESE GREAT CLIMBING ZONES, IS CURRENTLY NOT . . WHY IS THAT?
*A cabal is a small group of people united in some close design, usually to promote their private views of or interests in an ideology, state, or other community, often by intrigue and usually unbeknownst to those outside their group.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 23, 2018 - 07:45am PT
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Intrigue. Love it!
Probably the only way the Doggers will beat the Sox in the Series...
Of Time and the River
The scene is instant, whole and wonderful. In its beauty and design that vision of the soaring stands, the pattern of forty thousand empetalled faces, the velvet and unalterable geometry of the playing field and the small lean figures of the players, set there, lonely, tense and waiting in their places bright, desperate solitary atoms encircled by that huge wall of nameless faces, is incredible. And more than anything, it is the light, the miracle of light and shade and color-- the crisp, blue light that swiftly slants out from the soaring stands and, deepening to violet, begins to march across the velvet field and towards the pitcher’s box that gives the thing its single and incomparable beauty.
The batter stands swinging his bat and grimly waiting at the plate, crouched, tense, the catcher, crouched, the umpire, bent, hands clasped behind his back, and peering forward. All of them are set now in the cold blue of that slanting shadow, except the pitcher who stands out there all alone, calm, desperate, and forsaken in his isolation, with the gold-red swiftly fading light upon him, his figure legible with all the resolution, despair and lonely dignity which that slanting, somehow fatal light can give him.
--Thomas Wolfe
"bright, desperate solitary atoms encircled by that huge wall of nameless faces"
a metaphor for all life...Mann oh Mann
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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Oct 23, 2018 - 09:05am PT
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writing and posting some of the feelings with poetry is my therapy,
Post away , Bushman.
I extend my Deep Condolences.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 23, 2018 - 10:26am PT
|
Along the lines of "candlance," rather than condolence (his bright self remains a light unto our benighted feet):
"Le Beatnik"
The beat goes on though Big Daddy is gone, himself.
Directly you pass "GO" you die.
Is that any way to get to immortality?
Apparently so.
Had he not died, he'd have been just another dirtbagger.
Or would he?
Does anyone really care what level baggage he had?
Did it not matter that he had one thing on his mind?
And that was: Get higher faster.
Good plan, Gary, as keeping up with Layton required more than one could imagine.
You died trying.
You failed falling.
(Royal was no doubt proud of you, his fellow Americain.)
Through no fault of your own, just dumb luck that you died.
A credit to our tribe, much more than just a flash in the pan.
Thanks and Amen.
--mfm
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Oct 26, 2018 - 02:37am PT
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Dreaming back the Howling Beast
Raging the drunk
watched to bar the door
where beyond lurked the demons
of unholy laughter
The fire chief appeared
admonished a warning
the drunk raised his head
but did not hear
Threatened by motives
of authorities at play
the beast was awakened
and quickly emerged
Swinging a radio
by the cord like a lasso
the drunk held his would be
captors at bay
Shouting he leapt forward
accosting the chief
railing bright expletives
in a loathsome rant
Barefoot a kick cleared
the door from its hinges
as the chief and entourage
fled into the night
Fast on their heels
the drunk was to follow
demanding to resign
and collect on his pay
Mixing shots of tequila
and bourbon at his locker
the drunk in his blackout
collapsed on the floor
A handful of crew mates
carried him on their shoulders
he awoke spewing spirits
on the nights conflagration
His place reinstalled
as the fool of the party
his shameful behavior
excused as forlorn
The drunk and his Kryptonite
rose with the sunlight
who he ran from
the mirror refused to conceal
The director requested
he make known his presence
for such animal crackers
would have no place here
The beast had been howling
between his two ears
he never knew then
what he understood now
For the saddest thing
was the hardest he found
he was granted reprieve
but his child was not spared
The beast does not howl
between his two ears
the beast has been howling
out there all along
-bushman
10/23/2018
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
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aloha
weeping the willow uprooted itself
and wandered through the night
this was how it came to be
born of a tree it took up a stone
tearing upon its barked legs
as it wept to escape the dream
of a world beyond this dormancy
a medicine woman found it
and scraped at its scaly wooded bark
attached to cambium like fascia to bone
thinking it knew the limits of its being
it was fallen as time replaced
all that there was it ‘twas loath to believe
unbeknownst to this sapling become me
-bushman
11/07/2018
|
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
|
|
Well, let's try an erotic tanka:
in a moonstruck lake
boots and trail clothes on the beach
a tentative kiss
cold bodies drew together
and your nipples pierced my heart
|
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
|
|
It is only roughly three thousand feet
but a sleepless night can make or break the feat
Errant Night
Why fight it
across the room, a tent floor
An errant thought escaped
The old what ifs come swirling in
the fear of fight then flight
A what then if the pro don't hold
Ah it is the old doubt -
not relevant to this ascent
what then, it fell to a belay
there won't be one this time
now
Those ifs and buts start to grow,
giving texture to the feelings
An essence of the pit that fear can relegate
even a climbing fool to.
It can't be stopped
It can't be suppressed
it musn't be held in contempt
there might be something to it
After all,
a fall
would mean an end to it
Can anything be made out
Is this a warning to bug out
A crawling sense of dread
is growing somewhere
Down deep, It can't be stopped
It can't be suppressed
it musn't be held in contempt
there might be something to it
It can't be stopped
It can't be suppressed
it has been tried to no avail
leading that time to a bail
The doubts are not unfounded
We do not play inside
not on the hardwood floor
This aint basketball
Rocks of size -or not- breed doubts
Doubts about choices
Life's choices
Decisions turn the nut
good or bad
going up
continuing
it is one of those actions
you cannot reverse
Doubts like children
ones own they start to grow up
Fast they take on a life of their own
They start to glow,flashing behind closed eyes
The Light keeps the climber up
Being light keeps a climber up
An errant thought has grown , it is only 2 am
Prone at eleven, was there any sleep
Surely no rem, but some drowsy shut-eye
At two am to start to climb, arriving then,
Disturbing they and them that are mid climb
already ensconced in the rock crannies
those them that too have been fighting doubts
that have been also trying
while ascending to find sleep
in that
Elusive Errant Night
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
|
Nursery Mimes
Mairzy doats and dozy doats
and liddle lamzy divey
And very few things I hate worse
than dreaded poison ivy
This old man, he plays one
He plays knick knack on my thumb
Tooth picks keep my eyes open
while television makes make me dumb
The itsy bitsy spider
Climbed up the waterspout
You’re so captivating that
my heart’s in chains and can’t get out
Little miss Muffet she sat on her tuffet
eating her curds eating and whey
Sometimes I need my coffee like
a sunrise on a brand new day
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all
-bushman, joni, and the merry rhymesters
|
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
|
|
Coffee for the Soul, It a pleasure to occupy the same page even if it shows my poor form.
Hope the sun is shinning on your hart and that winds of strength bouy you and the clan as you search for peace and comfort.
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water.
They did something risky cuz he got frisky
And nine months later there was a daughter.
Her name was Bo Peep and she herded some sheep,
And had a young swain named Tommy Tucker...
I think we can move on, folks, because I agreed to abide by the SuperTopo Content Policy
and the rules and restrictions therein.
|
|
Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
|
swoop-de-loop
I lied to get in
then broke all the rules
it’s probably the greatest
comb over in history
now who’s the fool?
-arungutung
|
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
|
|
Nov 10, 2018 - 06:06am PT
|
absinthe makes the smart go blonder
in searching for a song
this just happened along
oh say what you will
about the Whippoorwill
I was sure that bird said
now quit while you’re ahead
but on listening very still
then I heard its Whip-Poor-Will
now whatever Will did
that this bird had his fill
of boys who would be boys
abundant with their toys
some so eager for the spoils
being reckless to find foils
laying waste to all the world
for the banners they unfurled
oh say what you would
of the birdsong in the wood
I would correlate their worth
with the value of our mirth
in those places undefiled
and refuges of the wild
where for one I’d rather go
to sit and watch the river flow
I love you son
wherever you are
-bushman
11/10/2018
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|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Nov 12, 2018 - 10:07am PT
|
I would bewail in manner of tragedy
The harm of them who stood in high degree
And fell so far, there was no remedy
To rescue them from their adversity.
For know this when Fortune wishes to flee
No man may her delay, nor fate withhold
Let no man trust in blind prosperity.
Beware of these examples, true and old!
--Chaucer, "The Monk's Tale"
"We know we are writing tragedy when our verses weep for Fortune's assault on the proud."
--Chaucer
"Hubba hubba!"
--Marlow
|
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
|
|
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Nov 12, 2018 - 08:20pm PT
|
Not sure about content restrictions here. Is very soft eroticism passable? This is retrieved from that first great heartbreak, 61 years ago.
// Cosette
Last night you came back to me in a dream.
You were with me absolutely,
more real than I am to myself now.
Even the warm scent of you was there.
In blind love you slid over me,
slender thighs clasping mine,
warm sleek belly,
breasts pushing for my heart
and finding it.
Long dark hair a curtain
shutting out the needless world.
I could not lie still.
My hips rose to meet you,
rising to enter heaven, and…
You were gone.
I was alone.
You were gone.
My love is gone.
W.
Italic Text
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
|
|
Nov 12, 2018 - 09:58pm PT
|
^^^^
Wayne, I like that one.
Erotic, warm, sad.
|
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
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Nov 13, 2018 - 02:05am PT
|
owed to locker
locker the mocker
locker the talker
locker the rocker
now locker, the focker
is locker the lurker
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Nov 16, 2018 - 06:21am PT
|
Bhang and Whang on Changabang was such an epic story.
They smacked and whacked a crack, Jack, and climbed their way to glory.
|
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
|
|
Nov 16, 2018 - 07:13am PT
|
Annatuk
At half past sunset
Annatuk took her leave
winding down mountain roads
Then we saw her at Christmas
fresh faced and laughing
she ran with the children
We talked about family
how some nursed their grudges
or never got closure
And of others who bounded
defied expectations
Annatuk being so humble
The last letter she sent us
snapshots of Italy
San Gimignano onto Florence tomorrow
As I dog sit the hoard
awaiting their return
from their travels abroad
Annatuk with her brood
along with her Andre
she never stops long for the sun
-bushman
11/16/2018
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Jim Clipper
climber
|
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Nov 16, 2018 - 07:22am PT
|
Bushman, was it you who mentioned R. Brautigan
?
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
|
|
|
Nov 16, 2018 - 07:24am PT
|
nO tHAT'D BE MOI
this is why we can't have nice things
and why the 1st amendment is under attack
NOT REAL SORRY FOR THE ALL CAPs
ON ONE OF THE STUPIDEST THREADS WE HAVE SEEN IN A LONG TIME
AT THE END OF THE 1ST PAGE
I LEFT THIS STEAMER
NOW MOVED HERE ,
REPLACED WITH WHAT EVEN THE SIMPLETONS WILL GRASP
but I like my itailian
My rant a shjtton
SO
HERE, EMBARRASSINGLY
& TO BE FOLLOWED BY SWEET CUPS OF WATER SOME CALL TEA
HERE IT IS IN ALL IT'S GLORIFIED MESS, CORRECTED FOR MISTYPES & TYPOS
PHOOK U IDJUTS i WAS ALMOST A NEIGHBOR.
LOOK UP BRIARCLIFF MANNER ON A MAP.
THERE IS A BIG HARD CLIFF IN ARMONK
ALL RIGHT AROUND THE CLUSTERFLUX
THAT IS Chappaqua
LOOK AT THE WAY GNOMISH COMES THEN GOES AWAY IF i GOTTA SOMETHING TO SPRAY.
MY HEART GOES OUT TO YOU IN sODOM, yOU GOT gAMORHRED FOR CAUSE
IT MUST BE HARD TO SEE THERE.
WHAT WITH ALL THE THICK WOODS - WHAT WITH ALL THE TREES
WAIT, FIRE LIKE NEVER SEEN BEFORE?
ABSOLUTELY BIBLICAL BURN DOWN
APOCTILIPRICAL
NO TREES TO BLOCK YOUR SIGHT?
NO CLEAN AIR TO SATE YOUR PLIGHT
YOU HAVE NOT LEARNED
YOU DID NOT LEARN YOUR CATECHISM
POWER NEVER RELENTS OR GIVES BACK
YOU SHOULD KNOW WHATS COMING
THEY HAVE GOT YOU ALL BY THE SHORT HAIRS
ON YOUR KNEES
YOUR YAPS OPEN
THAT TONGUE STUD GREASED WITH MRE (Meals Ready to Eat)
SWALLOW WHEN MUSHROOM-HEAD-ICKY STEPS ASIDE
AND PUTS HIS PENCE DOWN TO YOUR TONSILS
Pence/Rohrbacher -2020
i HAVE TO TAKE A BREATH, ITS SNOWING HERE
EVERYTHING IS FRESH, CLEAN WASHED AIR
PILLOWS OF WHITE EVERYWHERE.
TWICE THE TAXBITE
THREE TIMES THE COST OF LIVING
EXISTING IN A FIRE PIT
YOU CALL THAT LIVING?
Now i'm gonna go write my name in the new fallen snow
with my pee
Then I have to shovel it
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
|
|
Nov 23, 2018 - 06:18am PT
|
eight hours this day...
at eight am I put on one sock
cross sliced an orange and noticed a clock
eight even sections divided each hour
then I tasted the sweet with the bitter and sour
now at nine the other sock and a shoe
for lopsided shuffling with critters ‘twould do
eight hours for sleeping or eight hours for kicks
eight hours for whistling or picking up sticks
come ten am and I went out the door
with two shoes pajamas a cap and no more
feeding the critters with woofs and meows
shuffling I smiled with the sun through the clouds
at eleven the shadows all left for a bit
with lunch and a nap it now felt time to quit
noting I was present I’d shown up for work
as a single notation with some major quirks
with noon it marked four hours to go
half way to sunset I was starting to slow
still time to tool about in the shop
five pets at my feet and no room for to hop
time flew by as the clock struck one
I barely noticed so engrossed in the fun
an escape from the world and time off from my mind
a welcome reprieve from the daily grind
two pm found me sanding and painting
letting these hands do the work of creating
drilling and sawing and building from snuff
whatever the heart thought important enough
three came and went as the light still held
like pieces of wood from great trees once felled
clearing the mess and turning off the light
readying myself for the coming of night
four pm and eight hours gone by
walking with dogs under darkening skies
a rain was now falling on grateful hearts
to nourish the souls of a world torn apart
eight hours passed in the blink of and eye
as well do our lives as we live and we die
civilizations they’ll come and they’ll fall
like summer to winter we all hear the call
what can one do in an instant we might ask
take time to reflect or to drink from your flask
for time waits for no one it often is said
so I put out the cat and I went off to bed
-bushman
11/23/2018
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
|
|
|
Nov 23, 2018 - 08:59pm PT
|
The great lake may not even freeze this year, but if so, this is what it does.
Freezeup
breath catches
breeze sears the cheek
wavelets ripple through fleece of mists
splash to glaze shore rocks
gunmetal lake steams
oppressed by arctic air
water shivers, contracts, becomes dense
sinks
descending waters merge
invisible columns flow down
sink over rocks, snags
to the sloping muck
slides lower
slow crystalline cascade
dense oxygen-rich and sinking
downward
downward
pooling in deepest dark
and building there
forcing warmer water
upward
upward
clear aqueous columns
like thermals on a warm day
boiling up
spreading like cumulus
seething the surface
bearing scent of grey-brown muck
at bitter surface
swirls, shivers, tightens
sinks in its turn
the lake is turning over
turning over
cooling
colder
coldest
turnover slows and stops
the lake is still, waiting
water can get no colder
and still be wet
surface seethes no more
surrendered to the cold
darkness comes and calm
no eye sees the jewels form
thicken touch coalesce
at dawn all is under glass
***
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
|
|
Nov 24, 2018 - 05:12am PT
|
the son
the days gone by
the heart grows fonder
the memories of you
the loss of you now gone
the little boy with super powers
the many things we did together
the battles of the will
the adventures and the climbs
the pain
the heartbreak and
the triumph
the watching you grow up and then
the girl that you would marry
the times you tried it on your own
the pride we felt for you
the little family that you had
the girl and boy that you raised up
the woman and man that they became
the lives that you made
the times you shared them with us
the world and it’s distractions
the temptations that you battled
the disease and the addictions
the hand that you were dealt
the dying that you suffered
the alternate reality
the perceptions with which we struggle
the times and empty spaces
the life you made
the hole you left behind
the place within my heart you’ll always be
the son I love and still want to cherish
the father that you made me
the son you’ll always be
the days gone by
-tim s
|
|
Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
|
|
|
Nov 24, 2018 - 12:08pm PT
|
Tim - you really got to me.
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Nov 29, 2018 - 07:11pm PT
|
The name's the thing.
Blankenverse?
Shakenbrake?
flip-flops in the rain 12 & 35
the squishing of water-logged leaves
the dripping of water from the eaves
each step taken leads me further into the dark
in another forty days we may need an ark
so quiet and the world seems at peace
it's chilly out but I'm wearing fleece
and I'm thinkin':
what would Jesus have done if not for the Mediterranean climb?
it is easy to walk on water in Greenland--it's mostly all frozen
--mfm
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
|
|
|
Nov 30, 2018 - 04:45am PT
|
So that's where that went -oopsy-
resting than there, a something, it came from where
the depths start to deepen more
And darkly
too yes
hear hear to better daze.
ifn no was to no what, no, no, what no, & nowhat
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Nov 30, 2018 - 06:02am PT
|
Ng, that gnarly gnat from VietGnam,
gnawed gnocchi as Gnome burned on.
--Silent Lee
|
|
Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
|
Time the Gift or Curse
When I was young
and carelessly bold
I rarely reflected
on the pain and cold
But as years went by
I mused somewhat
with a beer in hand
and stew in the pot
How the injuries felt
they took longer to heal
I’d contemplate this
while I ate my meal
Thought there’d be more days
‘for the next conquest
achieved but a tenth
what I’d planned at best
The days grew short
as well my spine
So I read more books
while remaining supine
‘Till one day I
could barely get up
to tie my shoe
or to eat my sup
So now I am lucky
though no longer a pup
and delegate labor
when my body gives up
I count the hours
the minutes the days
they’re all I’ve got left
in so many ways
As life goes by
as well goes our youth
our friends and our pets
we get long in the tooth
As the years do pass
‘twould be well to do
accept there’ll be loss
with your victories too
-bushman
12/02/2018
Holiday McMiss-Steer
John said it was forty
degrees in St Louie
Back home the missus
builds wreaths by the fire
...and hope
I hadn’t the hearth to
remark on their flammability
but then I did
Smooth move ex lax
...dope!
-bushman
12/04/2018
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
And When I Say Poem
BY REBECCA WOLFF
I mean this thing
I want to write and no other
You will not be so clever
as to resurrect the feathered
the tatty wings of a costumed
angel in my dining room
tatty spatial realm
room where I exist and look at things and eat them
and float nine inches above the floor
and no one else need know
and no other poet
will do
The poet will do
what the poet will do and mime
or maim the poet
meme—in fancy
venue or classroom or focus
group the wings of the poet
relax and warm and shed and oracular
shit out the window in a pile by the side of the road
and the commitment of the poet
to engage, subvert, refract, or remand
is safe in my vagina at last where it belongs.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/90201/and-when-i-say-poem
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
|
the road up there
give or take a hundred klicks past
several stop lights
more or less
some friendly miles of mountain driving
old sugarloaf then
phantom spires
on forest snows sleeps the marauder
tonight off broadway
lovers leap
where we once strode we stand alone
some say forever
no one knows
the shadows know for whom to mourn
their cold indifferent
loving care
-bushman
|
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
|
|
(then I wanted to just copy paste the title)
(the bug is limited to the Taco! damn......)
I'm suffering some 'puter issue,
did not accept some up-grade or another.
The resulting slow to failing to upload -
Or reload or return to the page
after an edit to make a spelling correction....
So much so that I copy/paste whole posts to save them
Incase they leave & disappear into some dark hole.
-That means as I have done here I just save the planned up-loads then add .
-them to the post once
-the, ,words The text is semi...
Semi......finished
Semi... . deliberate
Semi. . . . expanded
Semi. .Truck*
Semi. . . . Bomber
Semi. . . . . . on
Semi. . . . . . . off
Semi. . . . . . . . slack
Semi. . . . . . . . . take
Semi. . . . . . . . . . belay
falling!
if that explains anything? it was not meant to clear up anything
just an attempt to qualify this weirdness
and what has led to the spam-like nature of this and other posts.
|
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
|
|
The Top of the Junk Heap of History
- and their brothers, sons, daughters mothers,
fathers, guilty cousins, all those yet to come
Who will un-ceremoniously end up mummified
under the heap
This A test
UN-ONLY A TEST
From deep to shallow
Whats best is best
This Rollercoaster
This whipsnake
this closed out barrel
riding the crest
riding just under
the breaking wave
What is Life
Glory be to who
What
A funeral train
-A gift that once, now no more
-A grief, A pallor palpable to some
But lost on most.
All in to find that it was a worst possible out come
error
this is a test
only a test
best left to let those who mourn do so
To wait for the pages of excuses & bold proclamations
to un-fold
Regardless of the tragic truth
A truth that a look at the history
Of the sad repeated behavior
truly holds
to get it out, let it out, to pass the past off
to the bloody junk heap of history
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Dec 16, 2018 - 04:43am PT
|
You're all asleep, you lucky peeps.
4 a.m. Blues
I'm standing on my porch again
But there's no rain to ease my pain
Just the sad and mournful refrain
Of a slowly moving Santa Fe train
A sleepless night with a restless mind
I've come out here looking to find
Some peace for myself of a Christmas kind
But it's in my heart, so I must be blind
--Wink N. Blinken
|
|
Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
|
|
Dec 20, 2018 - 06:50pm PT
|
Compliance with those Things Too Real
(on the loss of our boy)
Sometimes things don’t go our way
Sometimes things just go this way
When no one talks throughout the day
Or maybe there’s nothing to say
The sadness sinks won’t go away
The heart grows harder day by day
The pain rises it’s here to stay
How long how long will it be this way
It’s not ok
It’s just that way
I’m sorry that I feel this way
The loss remains each every day
I’m sorry there’s not more to say
Sometimes things just go this way
I’m still waiting for the pain to subside
-bushman
|
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
|
|
Dec 24, 2018 - 06:31am PT
|
The Longest Holiday
(our son Manuel would’ve turned 42 yrs old this Christmas Eve)
life changing dramatic upheavals
happen more often these days
the heart is much colder
yet now that I’m older
I’m much more forgiving today
irreconcilable indifference remains
on how I once treated my brain
harmful addictions
I once saw as fictions
I’ve long since now cast them away
for such incomprehensible things
what demoralization it brings
though I’ve wished it on none
it’s afflicted my son
and now he returns to the clay
the holidays are the hardest this year
the pain in our hearts sharp and clear
Christmas music will find
someone’s missing in kind
I might listen but he’s no longer here
last night the grief wouldn’t end
silent night brought back memories again
primed by La bohème
the tears would not stem
for this holiday we’re all missing him
life changing dramatic upheavals
in a world of complete disarray
life is much colder
yet now that I’m older
I’m forgiving myself every day
-tim sorenson
12/23/2018
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
|
|
Dec 26, 2018 - 05:39pm PT
|
My Name is Lazymandius
There’s no way to know the difference
between dehumanizing ignorance
and the phony father figures
hidden among the hedgerows
of a thousand secret mazes
The mind is blind to what we’ll find
your shouted words now empty boxes
He’s not been here for ages
Ache the heart
and finally
the eye drop drips
Little birds who once told me
now silent
Ghost white sands and crisp ice havens
ground to dust up in the heavens
this I’ve told you not for naught
sure as my name is middle Scot
Three times he said
Three times bite the ear
for emphasis he’s Sisyphus
and he won’t hear for
he’s not dropped that ball in years
Lazarus knew and so did Homer
Would that they would
or so they would
There’s no way to judge the cost
for what we’ve lost
between indifference and independence
our collective cold blooded myopia
in voluntarily downloaded bits
So said Lazymandius
-bushman
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Dec 26, 2018 - 07:26pm PT
|
move forward sideways
traversing & traversing
middle cathedral
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Dec 26, 2018 - 08:35pm PT
|
new year approaching
it is a large white page now
so is tomorrow
|
|
Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
|
|
Denali Tundra
Hike over the alpine tundra.
Walk, if you can, without bending over,
Walk without tasting the berries.
I can not.
Fingers are always blue now.
It is September.
Frost has found the blueberries
Mushy soft like sweet wine.
Last week they were blue-white,
Popped like cold grapes between the teeth.
Lingonberries in tight shiny leaves
Lie close in grey-green reindeer moss,
Young ones sparkle scarlet,
Old ones absorb all light
Like bits of midnight.
Bearberry too, scarlet as their raiment,
Crowberries thick on frizzy stalks
Black as their name.
Pick a mixed handful.
Taste the history of the summer.
Taste the sharp wind from Denali,
The sweet energy of the sun,
The permafrost beneath,
The essence of the tundra.
How many millennia
Have men picked these berries?
How much longer will we pick them?
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
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Jan 10, 2019 - 08:44pm PT
|
all a ‘glisten
where the cacti do wander
are them skies torn asunder
by midwestern twisters
and their big twisted sisters
aye them hurricanes
that roll up from
out of the gulf
you’ll hear voices of warning
chupacabras a ‘scorning
with their eyes all a ‘glisten
if you dare then to listen
you’ll be clacking
yer skeletons
to the sound of the wolf
as the guitar chord strums
if you’re down on your bums
neglecting surroundings
unmindful the soundings
from bottomless quicksands
those clawing leviathans
your horse they’ll engulf
at those poolside soirées
with daiquiri purées
as the eagle flies o’er
you’ll be haunted by more
meteorological phenomena
and strangely illogical
happenstance stuff
you’ll hear voices of warning
chupacabras a ‘scorning
with their knives all a ‘glisten
if you dare not to listen
they’ll be cracking
yer skulls to
the sound of the wolf
-bushman
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
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|
Jan 11, 2019 - 10:10am PT
|
Acerbumdulce Profectionem
So beautiful you are
sweet life
But afterwards...
no bittersweet soliloquies
will bring us pleasure
Chances are
we shall not see
celestial orbs
suspended by
the fractured line
Or
in a flash
all timelines instantaneous
Or love
at love’s behest
it would not hold us fast
And if all human experience
were expounded exponentially
by earthly knowledge...
beyond our deaths
we would not know
When we depart
like-minded shall we be
in all our silence...
there is that
But only in
this moment
do we know...
so beautiful
you are
sweet life
-Tim Sorenson
01/11/2019
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
|
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|
Jan 11, 2019 - 07:46pm PT
|
Tim -
Have you ever submitted any of your work to poetry publications?
You should.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
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Jan 14, 2019 - 05:54pm PT
|
No Wayne, I have not...I probably should. No excuse except I was planning to start submitting to publications after I retire in several years. At present I wouldn’t know where to begin...I’ve written several hundred poems or more in the past five years.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
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Jan 14, 2019 - 05:58pm PT
|
bewitching and becoming
his rhyming goes a-humming
along his sing-song lines of verse
his rhythm is a curse,
but it could be worse
|
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
|
|
|
Jan 14, 2019 - 09:09pm PT
|
POST NUMBER NINE ONE ONE
You? well, you & I have been here before,
Would you like to come to Ridgefield?
will Will be welcome?
Well? will we see Will two too?
will Will one want to? Will Will one want to what? Will two won one too Will Will one win one too?
Will Will one want Will two to what?
Will Will one want Will two to want to?
Well Will two want Will one to win one too
PLEASE DO NOT APPROACH FROM THE POSTED BEACH
right now I can't seem to find my own pictures,
So will Will's video do? Do-well Will will do
Will's will get some well-deserved views will
It not...numbers always will out
114380997steep enough?
114380438steep enough!
114429895&114430093 ?
& at a different place,
10 minutes south, 99% 5* 5.11z
("V" whatever if you will if you want with sit starts)
116153069&114294280
Well not all highball
114406378& 114294280
but why risk access?
116358115
529712
escape yourself from trance
r
twice the ferocity none of da`soft.
a kind & yet still no place to be lost
fast west slow east going to be a day of the beast
The Dead transit company moving u from home to home
third times never a charm but mostly the last, nothing left on the bone
Burr of the cold wind rising, ice and snow is coming and coming on fast
Coz costs are rising, dust in the billfold won't satisfy the jailer
tux`d atween midnight and the birth of our savior
Twixt-ta a scene of mayhem and bloody disaster
lies a kind space where love is the cover charge
no entry fee, you have to pay to getr out of the place
wasted when you get in, like Nam, its all about the routes `n toots
Struggles strengths moodz bastions of acceptance excepting lies
that was it, what`id takes to win show or just to place
a sailor knows the total disgrace when the mast fails
The boom, next, when the crack of the whip comes down
I'm gonna go have a very dark beir or ten,
don't try to tell me when, just keep pouring
I've got 7 where are the other three gonna be to come from?
we keep hearing the same refrain, over and over and over again
And don't not never call me insane
that's why I do it, to get to the same place
the same result, as small a change as age allows
to look for any change would be crazy er no doubt
the rule of the constant; nothing stays the same but change
huffer wit was sour, bit it after fifty thousand told you sows
No way to fix blown out toes feed the head with those
he woulda told ya if he werner goin' deaf now
all-out bled out deleted dead
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
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Jan 15, 2019 - 04:43am PT
|
A Brief Moment in Time
They once who
were standing there
looking on
panoramic views
subsumed within
a Cenozoic Era
The ancients stood
awed by
intoxicated
feared everything
embraced by life
then stricken down
A brief moment
in time
a window to
it’s visitors
a glimpse beyond
the antiquated universe
The scent of crude
churning up
to permeate
like peat from bogs
of bygone
years
Cold and heat
by any means
held rapt
beyond philosophy
a basic simplicity
of man and beast
As witness
it now humbles me
yet bares the point
I shout out loud
a nameless
melancholia
-bushman
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
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Jan 15, 2019 - 08:52am PT
|
walking on stilts the movie
aka Leaving Soon
the director's cut
get him a band-aid
sharp and focused details abound
my vision is acute
i seem to be walking on stilts
through time
i am greatly enlarged
overtopping giants
but really only sitting on a stool
having breakfast at the cinema cafe
i see the waitress
and she sees me
we each smile and mean it
she looks French today
with a black and white striped top
all you need is a beret
and i probably should order French toast
...but you're waffling, as usual, she notes
as she takes my order...
but chorizo scrambled English browns okay?
sure, got it
hey, she muses, nobody serves waffles much anymore
but the place at the other end of the street
and i went out into the street to smoke
and recalled when most cafes had waffles
and a grill not just a deli case with trifles
maybe the occasional mass-produced muffins
and there used not to be choices
paper or plastic
smoking or non
credit or debit
cash or check
room for cream
splenda or some other substitute
asiago or feta
wtf is asiago but a trumped-up ad man's idea, Jack?
sir, do you want to king-size that
jumbo mumbo burger a la bacon asiago Jack?
spinning around on my stool at the counter
i have dismounted from my stilts
and they lie propped in the corner
by the coat rack and ice machine
ah, the rarefied air of walking on stilts
able to view much but unable to view the future
the distance, sure, space-wise
but not tomorrow, time-wise
and my best guesses are seldom right
and more often wrong by far
it seems i only have eyes for the past
as well as a taste for a good repast
as many do who come to the cinema cafe
ah, the rarefied air of walking on stilts
aah, the rarefied air of a few layers of grease
covering some classic movie posters under glass
mounted under shelves filled with green glass
an old-timey hole-in-the-wall
where you like to meet a friend
maybe godforbid for the last time
--hey you never know remember Joe?--
outside the art deco
of the facade and the dated marquee
add luster to the bouquet
and aroma to the ambience
and your dog is welcome if he's on a leash
and of a pleasant demeanor
bienvenido al cinema cafe
this place is run placidly
amid the haste of the modern work-laden world
it has its own conventions
and ways of doing things
and making folks comfortable
like me being able to sit here
hypnotized by the interplay of the staff
if not reading some book
or ear hustling customers
--i can't help it of course--
as i have many times over eighteen years
and like most i find comfort
among people who know my name
and treat me almost like family
in case your order is to go
remember that
being here now is not the same as
a lot like having been here then
for a business lunch
a family brunch on the weekend
a leisurely ritual coffee for the early birds
a kind cup of water for some homeless streetie
an oasis in downtown
one of the world's many side stages
where all are players
bit part or lead or spear carrier
everyone gets equal billing
and V will amaze you with her math skills
prices are subject to change
no senior or group discounts
refills are free
[coda]
the times they are a-changin'
like a busy baby's diaper
but the newspaper of record
was never sold outside
in the antique vending machine on the corner
now there is only fake news anyway
so who cares -- not the elders on their iPhones
i see universal truths from on high
and recommend stilts for all
good day, and here are "some things to share"
you don't miss your water till your well runs dry
the road to a man's heart runs through his stomach
fairy shrimps will still be here after the fall of man
don't believe in fortune cookies
--pokeyman on the go
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
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Jan 15, 2019 - 09:02am PT
|
Comfortable Shoes
Unexpected triggers
remind us of them
and we tell the stories
that we recall
Our woeful grief
common the thread
though some might think
they’ve heard it all
I thought I was strong
I would box and control
remorse and love’s curse
beyond death and the pain
But I’m just a child
and I check myself
in this human condition
I can yet but contain
I never wanted to be
that lost soul in the room
who never got over
their loved ones demise
But I’m only a human
with a heart that is soft
it’s my greatest strength
I now realize
Unexpected triggers
bring them close to our thoughts
I might bracket my grief
in the hustle and tide
But I cannot turn back
the hands of time
and these wounds to the heart
I won’t bother to hide
-Tim Sorenson
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
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|
Jan 17, 2019 - 09:55pm PT
|
They Say People Do Not Care
We were rattling along
a dusty dirt road
down in old mexico
There a lone gunman stood
who waved us over
but I said we had somewhere to go
He looked us up
and down
he took some cash
and we drove on
They say people do not care
these days
he cared enough
to stop us on our way
They say people do not care
these days
oh come to jesus
now some would say
I dreamt that the president
came on the news
not like any other day
And he said he was sorry
and he was through
giving everyone else a bad day
He looked the nation
up and down
said he’d take some cash
and he would move on
They say people do not care
these days
he cared enough
to yank on our chain
They say people do not care
these days
oh come to jesus
now some would say
Oh I saw a poor lady
out in the street
I gave her a dollar anyway
Oh I still felt guilty
but I’d moved on
five would do better I’d say
I had looked that lady
up and down
I gave her a dollar
then I moved on
They say people do not care
these days
I cared enough
to stop there on my way
They say people do not care
these days
oh come to jesus
now some would say
We woke up in the night
to the sound of a bang
something was going on out there
We heard people screaming
there were flashing lights
we were almost frozen with fear
And we looked each other
up and down
we grabbed the pets
and were gone
They say people do not care
these days
and sometimes
there is nothing to say
They say people do not care
these days
oh come to jesus
now some would say
Was an old friend way back when
followed the mean streets and
he didn’t find trouble trouble found him
I never saw him again
heard he got religion but only remember
that he was once truly my friend
We had sized each other
up and down
We’d taken our friendship
and then moved on
They say people do not care
these days
and sometimes
there is nothing to say
They say people do not care
these days
oh come to jesus
now some would say
-bushman
01/17/2019
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
|
|
Jan 19, 2019 - 09:08am PT
|
Jon of Roc
At the Battle of Dark Star
he pulled the flag out of the stone
from the top of Temple Crag
he took it down
for the people there
and made
Third Lake
his mountain home
In the Siege of El Capitan
he fought the tourists
and the rats
then retreated
to Tuolumne
reflecting on the golden domes
a tired warrior
sun kissed
In Desolation
he was counseled by
the angels as they spoke
his trek along the Pacific Crest
twenty six hundred miles
or more
with celestial guardians
on high
At the mountain hall near Mendenhall
they slew him where he slept
their piousness masked
their jealousy
of nature’s love
and free spiritedness
their vigilante law
inept
-bushman
|
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
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Jan 29, 2019 - 09:49am PT
|
cedrus,
joy of trees conspiring
oft I have wondered
for I am a woodsman
do trees have a memory
and would they conspire
oft I have pondered
when felling great timbers
would trees take their vengeance
if so they desire
Oh as I sleep
while the rains hammer down
would that great cedar
crash down on my dreams
oh as I sleep
through the wind and the storm
would the cedar uproot
taking one for the team
oft I remember
the words of the elders
how the people gave thanks
to their prey as they fell
oft it has served me
at work in the forest
that I should give thanks
to the trees just as well
-yohan sabunyan bach
|
|
Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
|
The Big Fall
or
(The time I fell one hundred eighty thousand feet, probably)
It was just a little hill
by the name of Benwards Bluff
just a tiny little sea cliff
by its standards tall enough
one hundred eighty give or take
thousand feet above the sea
and though I was just a young man
it near whooped and hobbled me
The first day was a doozy
we climbed umpteen thousand feet
the second day was harder still
some parts we could not free
the third day we were stopped up short
by a monster storm you see
pinned down upon a ledge for days
and humbled to our knees
But then the storm clouds broke
and we pushed on without a fuss
climbing on for many days
up every overhanging truss
but a storm front moved back in
and caught us short pinned in our slings
dangling o’er the precipice
in blinding rain that stings
as we wiggled into bivy sacs
half wet and numb with cold
stuck in our hanging bivouac
with our spirits growing low
we wondered would we perish there
encrusted in an icy tomb
in eyesight of the summit cap
so ominous as it loomed
The storm finally abated
but the prognosis was grim
retreat was not a question
but our options were quite slim
the rock was iced with verglas
and the rain had turned to snow
though our only path was upwards
with no clue of where to go
My lead up through the icy roofs
was tedious and unsure
with fingers numb and frozen toes
the worst that I’d endured
and there upon that buttress
all the fates conspired to deem
that I’d make an err in judgement
that still wakes me in my dreams
I had reached around a roof
to find a hold that felt secure
and when I went to hang on it
believing it was was sure
the hold came off in my right hand
read further if you dare
as I waited for the rope to catch
I was plummeting through the air
As the wind rushed up around me
the rope did not abate
somehow the anchors failed us
and appeared to seal our fate
as my partner fell right past me
I bid him howdy do
as we both fell in unison
I was sure that we were through
Soon I had caught up to him
we shook and said goodbye
we fell so far we took a flask
and toasted mud in each others eye
we fell some more in silence
and waited for the crash
with time to play a game of cards
he took all of my cash
We fell and fell and fell and fell
and then we fell some more
we fell so far that time stood still
and hung itself upon the door
we fell way past our bedtime
and then we fell asleep
we dreamed while we were falling
we heard snoring as we counted sheep
At dawn we woke to see that
we’d stopped falling in the night
somehow our rope had caught upon
a tiny flake so spare and light
and as we looked below us
only inches give or take
was earth and terra firma
we’d been saved by just a tiny flake
We both looked ten years older
as we stepped upon the ground
we left our rope as a testament
and strode quietly back to town
we found a local establishment
and toasted to our luck
and pondered long the ludicrous
repeating only, “what the f*#k!”
We both hung up our climbing gear
to live ordinary lives
and as the many years gone by
we’ve been busy with our kids and wives
But not a single day goes by
that I do not recall
falling one hundred eighty thousand feet
in that monumental fall
It was just a little hill
by the name of Benwards Bluff
just a tiny little sea cliff
by its standards tall enough
one hundred eighty give or take
thousand feet above the sea
I’ll be never to forget how
it whooped and humbled me
-bushman
01/03/2019
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
Bravissimo, Tim!
Glad you both survived that one.
|
|
Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
|
Project Planet Heart
I see a candle
still burning
It’s what I see
when I look deep
inside my soul
It’s not just me
don’t you know
Oh whoa oh oh oh
What can I say
bad things happen everyday
Life is hard
and then we say
with sympathy
we’ve all been there before
is it true is it real is it earnest
who am I to say
For all my words
there are so many
without meaning
but some speak
my true feelings
like the mother with her child
there is no more perfect love
than what you see
For all our tears
some kept inside for years
some waiting for
the day they are revealed
what can I say but
I truly hope they’ll be
new tears of wonder
and of joy
Whoa oh oh
so many veils
yet some are lifted
It’s what I see
when I look deep inside my soul
It’s not just me
you might have been there too
and you have known
-bushman
|
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
|
The Birch’s Lament
Once upon
a midnight stroll
alit by moon
and all alone
I came upon
a moonlit knoll
a corner in a hidden dome
where hand jams fit
and sunk to home
a solace
and a quiet tome
a magic book
to call my own
a respite from
the daily drone
of ruinous labor
and haunts to roam
or crimes long past
for to atone
And there upon
that rocky jamb
I climbed up high
to where began
the difficulties
I’d not planned
both feet then slipped
on stone they swam
I feared the final
plunge and slam
With toes now set
I found a perch
in desperate need
for holds I searched
then saw nearby
there swayed a birch
the top of which
that I might lurch
lest I succumb
to bad research
The way above
appeared quite grim
with chances of
success more slim
as I judged I
might catch a limb
I conjured from
some strength within
then threw all caution
to the wind
The jump was short
so off I leapt
but felt my left foot
might have slipped
and through the fall
the trunk I kept
with arms looped ‘round it
while I whipped
as every cross branch
cracked and ripped
for forty feet
I spun and clung
down spindly birch
stripped rung by rung
the lowest branch
it caught and flung
me hard on grassy
shelf among
the detritus
that I had brung
Waves of nausea
and blurry eyes
when I would move
or try to rise
the pounding head
bruised arms and thighs
with racing pulse
I realized
all signs of life
a welcome prize
Waking once again
at dawn
although the headache
now was gone
the aching limbs
I leaned upon
and limped for miles
to make a home
behind the wheel and comfort of
my trusty old automaton
Some cars might drive
all by them self
but mine not steered
by gnome or elf
with remedy
the miles went by
one birch more worse
for wear than I
the incident
now on the shelf
-bushedman
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Feb 10, 2019 - 03:21am PT
|
Is There A Spell-Checker For Emojis?
Halley Kahoutek Hale-Bopp Attorneys send Holiday Greetings
to all of their clients in the X/S Galaxy.
Memo from Forever 21 System home office to those affected by the following:
Justice Joann Kirkland's Torrid Back Room Shoes
has been purchased by Starbucks/In-n-Out-n-Amazon.
This means many of you are due to be unemployed, possibly by next month.
People, get ready.
Blame the emojis for dumbing down language,
(yet, in so doing, they help to bring us closer
in a way that a child could understand)
but this has nothing to do with them.
We know what you're thinking, too, and it's not that.
"Crazy old man," that's what you're thinking.
And I'm all, "Not my house?
Get the hell out before I call the cops!
Wait! How did I get here?"
There is no cross-traffic
And I can sneak across the four lanes.
It's four a.m. in the fourth safest city in the world
You may have even been here at this same time of the morning
In the same location earlier in your life
Or you may come here later in your life
Or even later in another life
Or I might, too -- who knows
"Hey, this is not my house at all.
Where's Mother?"
Well on the curb, having made the jay-walk,
I have a feeling that in spite of the empty-appearing street
And sidewalk and parking lots and well-lit areas
Someone is watching me.
I just know it and there's no need to think
--But I collect myself
And we walk away all casual
With no looking over our shoulders.
It's a no-brainer.
If whoever is watching sees us
He may recognize that we are the same
And this is something that would tend to call attention to us
--Not that jay-walking at four a.m. is exactly stealth behavior.
It is always a crossroads in time somewhere
And today, right now, there is a traffic light
Which will never change but continue blinking amber
As I stand here on the corner of Body and Mind.
Blinking blinking blinking
Thinking and winking my lids to the beat of the light
I begin to feel solid but still very slight
And I step across boldly even though it's not right
And I care not if they're watching
And disappear in the night.
--Cray Z. Oldman
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|
Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
|
|
|
Feb 11, 2019 - 11:26am PT
|
Silent goes the Peregrine
and there was then a quiet pause
after rising late one morn
reflecting on the pain of age
I found with it no fault or scorn
but pondering the sense of it
what little use of it I found
beyond biology and it’s alarms
no other rationale seemed sound
to suffer for the suffering
or anneal us for the coming years
explained nothing of its logic
allaying nothing of our fears
then it markedly occurred to me
might all our sufferings just be
a kind of dry run the the final hour
as a stratagem it seemed cruel to me
then long after such a quiet pause
as I found shelter from the storm
I pondered long the pain of age
and found with it naught but fault or scorn
-Tim Sorenson
02/11/2019
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Feb 11, 2019 - 04:39pm PT
|
barracoda
pointless and useless
it's all so excuse-less
we should never oughta
pollute the earth's water
yet we poison ourselves
with the stuff on our shelves
and we don't seem to mind
all the crap left behind
from our industries' waste
to old tubes of toothpaste
it's more than we can handle
burning both ends of the candle
--mfm
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|
Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
|
|
|
Feb 12, 2019 - 03:39am PT
|
My Feet Hurt The Call
Foot by foot
by sodden foot when feet hurt
They heard it from the toe
The tow, a tug to go up,
once more again and again
to gain to gain again, must we
Can we for one more time again to go up
herd by foot by foot
Footfall, feet fail
free the heels, free thoughts heal
I'll undoubtedly feel ill,
tightly tied in not tied in at all,
Naught for not for knot
for no one to tie into, still
my feet hear the call, my feet hurt
I heard the call to go up don't have to
but can not stop, so alone still I go up
kick-kick wump wump kick
O, pull, pull pull
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Feb 13, 2019 - 05:57am PT
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They Felt Like Dancin', Yeah
Vance and Lance both liked to dance.
They had an audition, a really big chance,
For fame and for fortune, maybe even romance.
So they practiced all day and did calisthenics at night,
Which made them both vigorous, graceful and light.
But the facts were they were White and couldn't keep time
So their hopes were all dashed and they never made a dime.
--mfm
Mighty Hikers in the Highlands
(He-lands)
Strolling through the heather in the bitter winter weather
Here come Lance and Vance who've not got things together
They've swam three chilly lochs and traversed some snowy ben
But they haven't a single clue as to where they might have been
Scotland sucks when the sun doesn't shine
And they still haven't made a nickel or a dime
--mfm
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Feb 13, 2019 - 05:59am PT
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Happy sappy Valentine!
Bears Do It
The offshore is now onshore and it's cold on the porch
but not too cold to enjoy the breeze, light the torch.
It's still dark outside but the day has begun
It's just that it's nice when we have some sun.
It's discontenting winter as Shakespeare once said,
But really, I think that it was all in his head.
It's not that hard to just hibernate some
And emerge all refreshed when the Springtime has come.
--mfm
Let's Fall In Love (including the Finns)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eraOhezY23s
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Feb 26, 2019 - 07:00am PT
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On the road to Sandy Ditch
Along a passage to the sea
on the road to Sandy Ditch
the fungi and the tree moss grows
where birds do rarely chirp off pitch
Some say an old man on the hill
who lived above that winding tract
was a no good or a malcontent
and worse was heard matter of fact
A scientist who’d been defamed
Doc Hertzenberger was his name
he’d done hard time for murder
for grave robbing and for poaching game
No one had gone to the house for years
the gate was locked and barred
all overgrown with trumpet vines
and like a jungle from afar
A preacher who’d been philandering
with men and women from his flock
was on his way to services
and a fate worse than being defrocked
Never thinking he would cross paths
with a man of such ill temperament
his car broke down nearby his home
on a morning that he would lament
A neglect of needed engine service
attributed to the constant itch
for bourbon on a Sunday morn
hence the rendezvous near Sandy Ditch
His auto that once purred smoothly
now sat impotently along the road
the preacher sat and waited there
as fodder for the nematode
Standing immersed in poison oak
an old cow bellowed by the stream
the crows sat at attention
aligned like soldiers in a dream
Then rising from behind the wheel
he thought he heard the tow truck sound
but felt the hairs stand on his neck
sensing someone else was around
As he lifted up the motor hood
his face contorted wrenched with pain
reverberating through the gulch
an ax head struck him in the brain
And as the blood welled at his crown
and wicked along his suit so neat
his lifeless body was dragged away
through underbrush by his two feet
Along the road to Sandy Ditch where
some folks have their bits removed
their contribution’s duly noted
when Doc Hertzenberger’s in the mood
Where you’ll find no trace or evidence
that anyone has lost their way
or there’s ever been a disturbance
on any calm pastoral day
-bushman
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Feb 28, 2019 - 04:40am PT
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for all the little things
there’s a timeline for our joy
and a timeline for our misery
I can’t think about that though
don’t you know
it’s too painful
and I shouldn’t mention it
just so you know
I’ve been waiting for the right time
to tell you I appreciate you
for so many things
for all the little things
that you do
there’s a mountain up ahead
but you focus on the road
I always say I got this
I got so many things
It’s so easy now
thinking I know
I just want you to know
if it weren’t for how you handle it
we’d be lost with every storm
and I appreciate you
for all the little things
that you do
there’s a timeline for our pain
and a timeline for what’s ours
time’s been counting down
from the day we met
I can’t think about that
don’t you know
I just want you to know
oh oh oh
we’d be lost with every storm
I appreciate you
for all the love that you carry
and all the little things that you do
-tim sorenson
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Mar 20, 2019 - 04:06pm PT
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Limerick time.
Couch lock
When I first got some legalized pot
I though I might party a lot
But the high CBD
And the low THC
Almost put me to sleep on the spot.
And conversely -
Stony
When I first got some legalized weed
relaxation and sleep was my need
But the high THC
And the low CBD
Made me think I was tripping on speed.
But I’m stuck when it comes to rhyming hybrid, sativa and indica! Well, I’ll work on it. And them.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oh, SNAP!
My internet went out just now
I must fix this thing somehow
I think I know just what to do
I'll hit it with the OTHER shoe
If that's not enough to do it
I'll give up and just say "Screw it."
--mfm
Obviously, the problem was resolved, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Apr 13, 2019 - 11:46am PT
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Out of Place
I never liked crowds in the first place
they always set me ill at ease
So many faces of humanity
looking for something
sometimes they never can be pleased
Always so out of place
there’s barely room to escape
when I only want to be free
In that crowded place
the volumed voices never eased
And then the silence came
when I first saw your face
and you were all I could see
Always so out of place
there was no room to escape
your gaze directed at me
There I sat on an empty highway
the voices of doubt behind my eyes
I never knew why
I always thought that way
searching for something I couldn’t say
Always so out of place
hiding behind my disgrace
always getting in my own way
There you were again at that party
the voices of people came and went
But something had changed
there was that silence again
but you had gone behind the veil
I was always so out of place
was it just circumstance
or a simple act of true grace
I never liked crowds in the first place
the crush of humanity makes me bolt
I’m always locked in
to my own rhythm within
I must be wired different than most
I’m always out of place
it’s a fact that I’ve had to face
just another wild and unruly goat
-bushman
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Apr 16, 2019 - 06:14am PT
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Don’t Listen Don’t Judge
I climbed in my youth
till my fingers got rough
then I climbed the big stone
till I thought I was tough
but a high mountain crag
said enough is enough
but this stubborn boy don’t listen
and the crag said
Oh please
it’s my way or the highway
you’re in my house now
don’t listen
don’t judge
get out your own way
Oh please
you’re right on the edge
your not a boy anymore
don’t listen
don’t judge
you’re gonna have to pay
And I climbed like a devil
as I climbed that crag
like I thought it was my own
didn’t place any slag
I was headed right for trouble
but I thought I could brag
well it spit me right off
I was headed for the dirt and
Oh please
as I bounced off two ledges
was hurtin’ in the house now
don’t listen
don’t judge
I got in my own way
Oh please
I caught on the third ledge
true story girls and boys
don’t listen
don’t judge
I was gonna have to pay
Well chipped a shin
and I busted my hide
road rashed knees and hands
but was still alive
jumped back on the lead
and I finished that jibe
didn’t learn my lesson
till I almost died
Oh please
it’s my way or the highway
you’re in my house now
don’t listen
don’t judge
get out your own way
Oh please
I was right on the edge
then at work one day
don’t listen
don’t judge
I finally had to pay
Oh please
for thirty years now
been payin’ every day
don’t listen
don’t judge
that’s all I have to say
-bushman
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Bushman
climber
Venus photo -by bushman
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worm pembroke
twas this chap was always broke
who always wore a silver cloak
we called him worm that was no joke
our every idea with holes he’d poke
while scratching at some poison oak
the worm finished his artichoke
and then leaned in to light a smoke
turning away to cough and choke
he was after all the kind of bloke
who said stay awhile and have a toke
twas all in the way he often spoke
that classic need to pause and evoke
on classical music but never baroque
before heading to the loo to soak
in obligatory lines of coke
for he fancied he would oft invoke
an argument that’s how he spoke
an antagonist at every stroke
the worm did relish to unyoke
our reveries his masterstroke
twas a chap was always broke
we called him worm that was no joke
till years went by and he did provoke
the powers that be to cool his stoke
and snuff him with a massive stroke
-bushman
05/04/2019
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Bushman
climber
Venus photo -by bushman
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May 21, 2019 - 04:25pm PT
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This Sacred Place
Rounding every bend
coming over every rise
there are so many places
Tiny stones rippling in lake reflections
great scaly groves of pine
ancient junipers
a raven wary eyed
Vast panoramas
far as the eye can see
Each and every view
sight or sound
and living thing
waterfall and lofty precipice
still the heart to breathless silence
And when the high winds blow
at night through trees
o’er my encampment
It makes me feel the warmth
of sunrise even more
This sacred place
it is my rebirth
-Tim Sorenson
05/21/2019
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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May 21, 2019 - 05:41pm PT
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Here.
Once was a picture of an unspoiled long pond
The mirror-like water's surface so still
that it appeared that the green of the shrouded banks
extend mid-way across the narrow lake.
A thick green canopy of mixed hardwoods rising up from the water's edge. Extending off to the vanishing point.
Far-off in the center of the view -
Unseen, Sharing only the reflection of heavily forested shoreline Hidden up in the hillside, lay ridgelines and outcrops
some 80 feet high.
In the foreground, Still deep water past the bank, thick as it travels to the edge of the fast-churning waterfall; A cataract.
The full spring flow already waning into small silver ribbons.
It was a short cascade over a black wall into blacker un-seen rocks
As once it was here
I hope it can still be seen in a minds eye
For the words must now surfice
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d-know
Trad climber
electric lady land
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May 21, 2019 - 05:55pm PT
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I have a sad story.
Ever so hard to tell.
The times have kept
me under it's spell.
I linger and wander
don't know what to
die for, shoe after
shoe. Keep walking.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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May 21, 2019 - 06:38pm PT
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Hey, Sierra Ledge Rat, Hank, ~Yes sir!~ I am Crying Too
What will I serve?
Well,
It is more of a -how- I will make a celebration of that meal!
'
I WILL CELEBRATE HAVING BEEN A CLIMBER
I WILL CELEBRATE FOR CLIMBERS WHO HAVE BEEN
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Climbers with whom I share the feelings of what it was to
Climb out into the unknown-looking for safe passage,
while a vengeful force tried to drag us down...
The very same climbers who's hand & foot holds I shared
& followed to the edges of the heights.
Climbers with whom I share The Highlights of my misspent youth.
The great moments that so few share.
The feeling of mixed emotions The 'to-the-bone' tired,
of the great relief that only comes
from having Climbed out to the edge of oblivion,
conquered it & of having survived
The feelings, the memories of things that most others cannot imagine / / /
what it meant to dangle at the end of a cord, to lower out & spin slowly
& have the sawing action seem to increase the closer to safety that one got.
We are going to be baking a cake!
The kiddo's & my sweet one, they feel it;
They see that I'm grieving a loss
My family, that hates this place because it took me away from them.
They blame "it" for my addiction.
I have a need to share Super Topo
reading & reciting climbers shares to them.
Trying to get them to see the amazing history,
The 'rest' of the story.
The way that the main protagonists
Those others, "the climbers in the mists"
That would show up & post about climbs
tidbits that gave texture to things I had done
Climbs I knew the texture of.
I love my wife & kids, they try to understand,
They see it now, that what Mom tells them,
that I was the best that I ever was...
That I was at my best & greatest
that the biggest I ever was~
was when no one could see me
When I was a speck on a wall
A cork on a sea of stone
when I was perched out on nothing
fingers-tipps & tippy-toes clinging to edges
setting a row of chips; chunks of metal on wires
130 feet out and still some ways to go...
I will miss knowing that I'm sharing with others
who also know what it feels like to be gravity's play-thing...
To have mastered an art
To have passed up when so many died doing what we do
Kevin Was only 48 ! (& Andrew with so much promise at 30!)
And so many others over the years
(a high cost, ~AS A PARENT?~ WHAT A WASTE?)
And whether through some other insanity
or the result of trying to find those same feelings
Feelings that only came from triumphing over
from surviving gravities revenge...
Whatever the other pitfalls of all kinds,
that took them from this life
That left us -other Climbers- missing them
Missing some so much
Solos and life's woe's that led them to...
I mourn the loss of each & every climber gone to soon,
gone at all...
I celebrate the pointless cause of youth - that exhibits sheer joy, bliss in the need to climb
A need that for many becomes an internalized thing, an itch that must be scratched...
Asked why I take pictures of rocks, I smirk a bit and say
Because they are....
Good Bye sweet Topo you saved this boy
and for that
My children & wife thank You.
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Bushman
climber
Venus photo -by bushman
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May 28, 2019 - 05:25pm PT
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Only Wintering Now
And waiting through the winter months
I dreamed of spring and summers warmth
keeping close to hearth while trying to feel
the times near lost to memories grasp
There flickering with the springtime thaws
my fresh faced youth sprinted through my mind
that forty years had bleached and scrubbed
to flashbacks old as faded Kodachrome
We clung and held with feet glued fast
our bones on stone though some were lost
We blinked away pain with youths undaunted drive
as cascade mists infused salty flesh to bring new life
And waiting through the winter long
I thought to welcome summers jaunt
but found this spring a stranger to me
in it’s green and vibrant calling out
It knows me well and welcomes me
I’m shy to say I can’t reply
With zephyr winds sweet as honeysuckle on the vine
I do not know this season now
Creaking as I walk the critters up the hill
the season beckons to my back
I turn but twinges of lifelong aches
distract me as I limp away
One season on to the next
summer to autumn does not delay
Old am I to winter sad and gray
familiar its final numbing fade
-bushman
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