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mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 11, 2012 - 04:30pm PT
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.
Fletcher

Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
Oct 12, 2012 - 12:11am PT
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
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 12, 2012 - 07:38am PT
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.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 12, 2012 - 09:21am PT
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.







mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 12, 2012 - 07:52pm PT
I had an interesting conversation with my dad, Boomer.

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 12, 2012 - 07:53pm PT
Oh yeah? What did you talk about?
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 12, 2012 - 07:54pm PT
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.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 12, 2012 - 07:56pm PT
What did you read to him? Did he like it? Did he criticize it? Did he venture and opinion?
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 12, 2012 - 08:27pm PT
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.

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 12, 2012 - 08:29pm PT
If you say so it must be true. Did you explain to him why you write poetry?
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 12, 2012 - 08:36pm PT
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.

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 13, 2012 - 02:05am PT
Burning Man.
Burning Man.
Credit: Blitzo

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.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 13, 2012 - 06:36pm PT
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
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 17, 2012 - 08:19pm PT
Did somebody out there say S.Clay Wison? The Checkered Demon?

Here's a friend of Clay's you might like to hear from, Charley Plymell.

http://www.hesterglock.com/words/Charley%20Plymell%20%20Eat%20Not%20Thy%20Mind%20Review.htm
Fletcher

Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
Oct 17, 2012 - 10:21pm PT
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
Fletcher

Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
Oct 17, 2012 - 10:22pm PT
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
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 18, 2012 - 04:46pm PT
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.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 19, 2012 - 01:09pm PT
Hiku-Hiku

Credit: mouse from merced
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 19, 2012 - 06:35pm PT
Dave MacCleod, poetry in about 70 or so moves.

Fossil climber

Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
Oct 19, 2012 - 08:27pm PT
Write a book, Mouse. Or have you?
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