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Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Jan 22, 2013 - 11:22pm 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 - 12:22pm PT
The ox pulls the plow
The earth breaks open
It is raining
Marlow

Sport climber
OSLO
Jan 23, 2013 - 12:31pm 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 - 12:08pm 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)
Donald Thompson

Trad climber
Los Angeles,CA
Jan 24, 2013 - 12:37pm PT
On the Link
Track 2 East


When the hot yellow sun wore
a colorless hole in the eastern sky
I made my way
again to the station
where teams of waiting journeyman
plugged the ticket machine
with nicotine stained forefingers.

On track number two
the 341 will roll out of the mist
to a sun-baked asphalt yard
tagged with plundered refuse
on board its unwelcoming platform
like a tarantula to a desert boulder
numbed motionless by that identical sun

On track number two
the intersection bell rings
a tune of returning gadgets
like a big bass drum
squared to the vibraphone
of slender coiled and heated tracks
two by two, out to eternity.

Suddenly I am a son of the link
I am strangely at home
Me, the scion of this hour
configuring awkward words to fit
the glazed and deafening contours
of high car to straight line
and straight line to back car.

Yes, the straight line
all the way to San Bernardino
where the earlier sun with godless effort
topped the impossible world
revealing a Euclidean rupture
where this train now ventures
a doppler shift in the ruddy smog.


DT
Mtnmun

Trad climber
Top of the Mountain Mun
Topic Author's Reply - Jan 24, 2013 - 01:20pm PT
Good one Donald!
Donald Thompson

Trad climber
Los Angeles,CA
Jan 24, 2013 - 01:35pm PT
Thanks, Mtnmun.
Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Jan 24, 2013 - 07:25pm 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 24, 2013 - 09:11pm 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






mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 24, 2013 - 09:21pm PT
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.

Credit: mouse from merced
And run away! Run away!
Anastasia

climber
InLOVEwithAris.
Jan 24, 2013 - 10:26pm PT
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
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 25, 2013 - 05:56am PT
"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...
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 27, 2013 - 11:36pm PT
Click to enlarge, you hard-of-seeing folk. <br/>
I SAID CLICK TO ENLARGE. ...
Click to enlarge, you hard-of-seeing folk.
I SAID CLICK TO ENLARGE. OK?
Credit: mouse from merced

http://www.collective-evolution.com/2012/02/11/is-a-world-of-peace-and-harmony-really-possible/
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 28, 2013 - 12:36am PT
"Don't Interrupt."--Teacher



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.

Credit: mouse from merced
"Hoot to Be a Poet"

Yuk.
Yuk.


Anastasia

climber
InLOVEwithAris.
Jan 28, 2013 - 01:34am PT
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?


mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 28, 2013 - 08:05am PT
Boy, howdy!
Donald Thompson

Trad climber
Los Angeles,CA
Jan 29, 2013 - 09:22pm PT
On the Link
Track 1 West

Only once before
did the link train run this fast
on a late Sunday last year
I think in the middle of June

But when the train runs fast
these high seats are dumb witness
to that very same lazy silence
you might see in a conductor's eye

We sail on singing tides of steel
past grinder mills that shift
their gravel to windward
their dust from side to side

We slide and banter
passed north south venues
passed streams of endless corner malls
perpindicular to their stalls

Every angling sunlit exposure
reflected in flat dimming casts
I can see now in my image
looking back at me in the glass

We are racing into the west
into a hole where the vast city
is awakened by the sound
of the doppler shift in the horn

West on track one
soon to my tired and yawning station
where I am the last departing rider
to march off into the gloom


DT
weezy

climber
Jan 29, 2013 - 09:25pm PT
you guys check it out
i just took the biggest dump
where's my camera?
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 29, 2013 - 10:05pm PT
Papadopoulos
pretty much did it, too, right?
You should write a book.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 29, 2013 - 10:44pm PT
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!

Leo Quog and Carol Quog from THE TANTRUM!
Leo Quog and Carol Quog from THE TANTRUM!
Credit: Feiffer

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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