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eKat

Trad climber
Less than a second shy of 49 minutes
Mar 13, 2013 - 11:01am PT
You can lead a horticulture
But you can't make her think

Dorothy Parker
Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Mar 14, 2013 - 12:26pm PT
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
Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Mar 14, 2013 - 12:27pm PT
seeker of truth

follow no path
all paths lead where

truth is here

~ e. e. cummings ~
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Mar 14, 2013 - 12:57pm PT
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."
eKat

Trad climber
Less than a second shy of 49 minutes
Mar 14, 2013 - 01:33pm PT

Har har, eKat!!! Love puns, the worse the better for some reason!

Yeah. . . she was one of my mom's favorite poets. . . one time I saw the statement on a greeting card. . . and I needed one for a crazy friend of mine you is totally into gardening. . . she laughed so hard she CRIED! I'm glad she was here, in person, when she got it. . . we both had to get low to keep from fainting from the laughter!

:-0

eKat

Trad climber
Less than a second shy of 49 minutes
Mar 14, 2013 - 01:35pm PT
Crazy Spring robins
Throw themselves against my glass
Sunroom shades up now!
Norwegian

Trad climber
the tip of god's middle finger
Mar 14, 2013 - 02:05pm PT
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.
Anastasia

climber
Home
Mar 14, 2013 - 02:25pm PT
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

Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Mar 15, 2013 - 02:32pm PT
Very good eKat, Norwegian, Anastasia, all in quite different ways, but ways necessary to our sustenance!

Eric
Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Mar 15, 2013 - 02:33pm PT
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)
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Mar 15, 2013 - 04:33pm PT
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
Credit: mouse from merced

Irish Poets’ Society

Lord Tennyson
Couldn’t be one.
We’re sorry, mun,
You’re out. We’re done.
Credit: mouse from merced

C B Low
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Mar 16, 2013 - 02:44am PT
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!
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Mar 19, 2013 - 04:41pm PT
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.



mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Mar 19, 2013 - 07:00pm PT
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
Credit: mouse from merced


mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Mar 20, 2013 - 09:19am PT
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
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Mar 22, 2013 - 04:13am PT
The Great Phil Sentinel.
Critical Envelope.
Critical Envelope.
Credit: mouse from merced
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
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Mar 24, 2013 - 02:28pm PT
He had to die, so post a reply.
From Summit Magazzina, June, 1960.  This is the FUNNIEST thing in the ...
From Summit Magazzina, June, 1960. This is the FUNNIEST thing in the blackest vein. Deep. Soooo deeeeeep...

Credit: Steve Grossman
Rick-ity tick-ity peel...
Leggs

Sport climber
Home away from Home
Mar 28, 2013 - 11:40pm PT
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*
Mtnmun

Trad climber
Top of the Mountain Mun
Topic Author's Reply - Mar 28, 2013 - 11:45pm PT
http://www.interviewmagazine.com/culture/lawrence-ferlinghetti

Lawrence Ferlinghetti still getting after it at 92.
Fossil climber

Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
Mar 31, 2013 - 08:16pm PT
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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