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Tony Bird

climber
Northridge, CA
Jan 14, 2013 - 12:21pm PT
breastfeeding, huh? explains a lot.
Mtnmun

Trad climber
Top of the Mountain Mun
Topic Author's Reply - Jan 14, 2013 - 12:21pm PT
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


mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 14, 2013 - 12:34pm PT
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
Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Jan 14, 2013 - 04:38pm PT
Wikipedia to the rescue:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hear,_hear

In this case, it would be "Hear her, hear her for Mr. Lowe!"

Eric
Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Jan 16, 2013 - 01:59pm PT
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)
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 17, 2013 - 08:45am PT
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.
Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Jan 20, 2013 - 02:36am PT
Beautiful Mouse, beautiful.

Eric
Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Jan 20, 2013 - 02:36am PT
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)
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 20, 2013 - 04:03am PT
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?
Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Jan 21, 2013 - 02:56pm PT
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)
Marlow

Sport climber
OSLO
Jan 21, 2013 - 03:11pm PT
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
Marlow

Sport climber
OSLO
Jan 21, 2013 - 03:26pm PT
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
Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Jan 21, 2013 - 07:25pm PT
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)
Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Jan 23, 2013 - 02:22am PT
“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”
Pillowattack

Boulder climber
DC
Jan 23, 2013 - 03:22pm PT
The ox pulls the plow
The earth breaks open
It is raining
Marlow

Sport climber
OSLO
Jan 23, 2013 - 03:31pm PT
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
Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Jan 24, 2013 - 03:08pm PT
Seek patience
and passion
in equal amounts.

Patience alone
will not build the temple.

Passion alone
will destroy its walls.

~ Maya Angelou ~


(Life Mosaic)
Mtnmun

Trad climber
Top of the Mountain Mun
Topic Author's Reply - Jan 24, 2013 - 04:20pm PT
Good one Donald!
Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Jan 24, 2013 - 10:25pm PT
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)
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 25, 2013 - 12:11am PT
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.

Credit: mouse from merced

Hello, Suzy, it's been years since you've been here.

Here come de sun~
Here come de sun~
Credit: mouse from merced






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