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Social climber
Wolf City, Wyoming
Nov 3, 2012 - 09:03am PT
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

Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
Nov 4, 2012 - 01:11am PT
"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

Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
Nov 5, 2012 - 02:29am PT
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.

Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
Nov 5, 2012 - 02:32am PT
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.

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 13, 2012 - 06:19am PT
"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.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 16, 2012 - 02:38pm PT
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!
I can't blame Marion.  He's a saint.  He's got protection from the gal...
I can't blame Marion. He's a saint. He's got protection from the gal upstairs. Go fugure.
Credit: mouse from merced

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)


Mountain climber
The Other Monrovia- CA
Nov 16, 2012 - 04:07pm PT
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!

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 16, 2012 - 09:51pm PT

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.

Trad climber
Nov 17, 2012 - 12:42am PT
“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




Crying: “This is my Creation,”

Flying the black flag of himself.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 17, 2012 - 08:47am PT
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.


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
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 17, 2012 - 09:11am PT
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
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 17, 2012 - 05:26pm PT
Boogie woogie was a deer.
Boogie woogie had no "ear."
Boogie couldn't boogie.
Now really, how could he?


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
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 17, 2012 - 05:35pm PT
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


Nov 25, 2012 - 01:04pm PT
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.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 25, 2012 - 01:29pm PT
Evocative and nuanced
Is what I want to be
In my writing

The germs of my soul


Nov 25, 2012 - 01:55pm PT

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
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
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
you want to blow my book sales in
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
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
and we sleep together like
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do

Charles Bukowski
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 26, 2012 - 11:53am PT
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!
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 26, 2012 - 12:43pm PT
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...
* *

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.


Social climber
Nov 26, 2012 - 02:41pm PT
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 '' is still good...
and this one, (soon to be below) is for you to see which
books, you may want, or order-should:

(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...
(if not, just hit STOREFRONT on the main deal_

Sport climber
Nov 26, 2012 - 03:34pm PT
To Mouse himself

No poetry here:

Be kind to Mouse
Don't judge too harshly

Know it or not?
It's there.

Thrives outside the center?

There's many ways...only...

Be kind to Mouse
make his day...
his way...

The legislator

Yeah, shucked simile is just one of the strengths of the text and fitting it's subject quite well.

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