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mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 8, 2013 - 02:51pm PT

First he was born.
And then he was warned.
And then he was taught to swim.
And then he was married.
And the he was buried.
And that's all that happened to him.
--Shel Silverstein

Credit: mouse from merced
Credit: mouse from merced
Credit: mouse from merced
--Shelver Silstein, bookseller extraordinaire

Trad climber
the tip of god's middle finger
May 8, 2013 - 03:16pm PT
when im beneath a foreign fluid,
i execute an explosion of heart
gesture that writes my mis-alignment
with your universe.

Sport climber
May 8, 2013 - 03:20pm PT
Poetry: Acts of the raven

“Blood has leaked and darkened the cheeks and masked the little lamb, which now stands calling and helpless in Ianto’s face, its senses in this world of plunged pain and darkness leading it towards the nearest large living thing. Nothing it can see and nothing it can feel but for the sky-brought fire in its face…..

“……The lamb cries and cries again, the dark and bubbling holes in its face expanding into howling voids which begin to draw little Ianto in and he reaches out young fingered and desperate to fill those awful weeping gaps with his plaything pebbles. To put something where there is nothing, to bring substance upon emptiness. The stones sink softly into place and for a moment the lamb stands stone-eyed, ……..”

Science: Sheep and sight

"Sheep depend heavily upon their vision. Behavior scientists speculate that the placement and structure of the sheep's eyes are due to nature's designation of sheep as a prey animal. Sheep have a very large pupil that is somewhat rectangular in shape. The eyeball is placed more to the side of the head, which gives sheep a much wider field of vision. With only slight head movement, sheep are able to scan their surroundings. Their field of vision ranges from 191 to 306 degrees, depending upon the amount of wool on their face.

On the other hand, sheep have poor depth perception (three dimensional vision), especially if they are moving with their heads up. This is why they will often stop to examine something more closely. Sheep have difficulty picking out small details, such as an open space created by a partially opened gate. They tend to avoid shadows and sharp contrasts between light and dark. They are reluctant to go where they can't see.

For many years, it was believed that sheep and other livestock could not perceive color. But, it has since been proven that livestock possess the cones necessary for color vision. Research has shown that livestock can differentiate between colors, though their color perception is not equal to humans."

Names: Ianto

"Ianto (pronounced Yan-toh) is the pet form of the name Ifan, one of the Welsh forms of John. Therefore, Ianto shares John's meaning of "Yahweh is gracious". Ianto is usually a masculine name."
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 8, 2013 - 03:46pm PT
Dear Puck, A Duck:
My five chicks have green tails. Does this mean they will be roosters, not hens?
It’s what my auntie tells me. So is she just screwy? I guess that all depends

Food group or building block of insanity?
Food group or building block of insanity?
Credit: mouse from merced

Dear Pluck, A Duck
argh... My two black EE chicks both have green tail feathers coming in.
Dad is black and tailed Arcauna. Mom is black EE with white undertones, not gold.
One acts and looks so roo-ish with a high tail, the other is muffed and has a low hen-like tail and is more submissive.
But they both have those green tail feathers!

Dear Puck, A Duck
thanks for the replies. I didnt need to post a pic after all- it started crowing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dear Pluck, A Duck
Well, you know it's a rooster now, but see this RIR hen I used to have? Green sheening all over her black tailfeathers.
Why "sheening?"  Is it an Irishism?  Green = Irish.
Why "sheening?" Is it an Irishism? Green = Irish.
Credit: Speckledhen

And CarpeDeHen weighs in:
Green tail feathers is not always a sign of roo, as Speckledhen has shown.
Dark hens tend to get green feathers too, like some others I have owned.
Also crowing is not a definitive sign of a roo.
Hens can crow too. Vagina doodle-doo!

Behold the duck
It does not cluck.
A cluck it lacks.
It quacks.
It is specially fond.
Of a puddle or pond.
When it dines or sups,
It bottoms ups.
--Dogden Dash

Sport climber
May 9, 2013 - 03:06am PT
"Not I" (Samuel Beckett) - Billie Whitelaw

"Not I" starting 21 May, London:

Billie Whitelaw from Happy Days

... after all... so far...
well done
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 9, 2013 - 06:29am PT
Marlow, "this other thought" he was exhausted but the mouth gave it some appeal. Haven't figured the meaning out and don't intend to, frankly.

It wasn't his voice, Beckett's. But it was his work and words. And that wa'n't her normal speakin' voice, naoh, it weren't, och aye. And where d'ye git 'appy 'round 'ere, I'd like ta knaow.

Sport climber
May 9, 2013 - 01:37pm PT
Mouse: Hehe... I'll do my best to jump over the fence this time.. after all... isn't this the poetry thread... as you like it... should this be the appy thread... appy inside Happy Days?
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 9, 2013 - 02:15pm PT
Hey, do your thing:

It is a thread to which EVERY POET AND LIKER OF RHYME might 'appily apply.

The talented head
May see this thread
And feel invited to try.
--Moe Cowbell.


Over the fence—
Over the fence—
I could climb—if I tried, I know—
Berries are nice!

But—if I stained my Apron—
God would certainly scold!
Oh, dear,—I guess if He were a Boy—
He'd—climb—if He could!
--Emily D.

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 9, 2013 - 02:39pm PT
The word tumulus is Latin for 'mound' or 'small hill', from the PIE root *teuh2- with extended zero grade *tum-, 'to bulge, swell' also found in tumor, thumb, thigh and thousand.


The sun comes up and the birds clear the air
Signaling me that the weather is fair.
But the fact is this: I’m going nowhere.
Do you see that mound? I’m buried in there.

I was covered by stones the size of a house.
I was shooting one day, for I was the Mouse.
I went out alone, no friends nor a spouse
Knew where I was headed when I saw a grouse!

It flew in my face and I tumbled back
Down the way I had come, detached from my pack.
I came to in a daze with a stupid wisecrack,
If I had any brains things would not look so black.

I died and my soul flew away in the sky
And the time since has passed in the blink of an eye.
Don’t do what I did for you surely could die
In the rocks if you fall and break your damned thigh!

Trad climber
May 9, 2013 - 07:52pm PT
Hail to the muthas! Seamus Heaney captures my love for my mom best in these two sections from "Clearances."

The cool that came off the sheets just off the line
Made me think the damp must still be in them
But when I took my corners of the linen
And pulled against her, first straight down the hem
And then diagonally, then flapped and shook
The fabric like a sail in a cross-wind,
They made a dried-out undulating thwack.
So we'd stretch and fold and end up hand to hand
For a split second as if nothing had happened
For nothing had that had not always happened
Beforehand, day by day, just touch and go,
Coming close again by holding back
In moves where I was x and she was o
Inscribed in sheets she'd sewn from ripped-out flour sacks.

In Memoriam M.K.H., 1911-1984

When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each other's work would bring us to our senses.

So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives--
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.

Sport climber
Is this a trick question?
May 9, 2013 - 07:59pm PT
Off the Cuff ...

It's breezy here
so cool and light
wind chimes singing in the night

I put on your shirt
Climb More
Epic Less

Which I do often
when you're not looking.


Ice climber
Soon 2B Arizona
May 9, 2013 - 10:19pm PT
I know the darkness of the roads
endless into the glowy path before me
lit by the moon high above and the heat rising from my truck’s engine.
The humming from tires whisper mile after mile
endless alongside roadside of fields shadowy from glow.

I know the darkness of the roads
It swims through my veins
dark like my skin
and silenced like a battered wife.
I know the darkness of the roads
It floods my liver
pollutes my breath
yet I still witness the white dawning.
-Esther Belin

Mountain climber
Less than a second shy of 49 minutes
May 9, 2013 - 10:23pm PT
Funny thing the ketchup bottle
First none cones but then a lot'll
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 10, 2013 - 01:10pm PT

JL'll appreciate grapeness when he sees this
Ever-lovin' shot of a squishy Fresno miss.

Credit: mouse from merced
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 14, 2013 - 02:49am PT
The Rocks Are

In a time of glitz and glitter
Giants have become merely litter.
That shouldn't make one very bitter:
It's just Ma Nature, there's nothing fitter.
Subliminal message:  knock, knock.  Who's there?  Boo.  Boo who?  Boo ...
Subliminal message: knock, knock. Who's there? Boo. Boo who? Boo B. Thread.
Credit: mouse from merced

Smaller This Year

Small rocks from big rocks,
Small stalks and big stalks,
Small mind always knocks:
Guess some folks have mental blocks.
Oh, my!  Squishy?
Oh, my! Squishy?
Credit: mouse from merced
Ward Trotter

Trad climber
May 14, 2013 - 03:40am PT

All along the bent and angling coast
seaweed strands in sunken coves
groping with long bleached arms
from wave to wave

I always chase after them
their darkened strewn and floating forms
rolling like dead bodies
from wave to wave

What seaweed does not hide
its own sorties in unknown depths
submarine worlds where time itself
conceals its broken piece

Under every rubbery leaf
striped in running and ribbed bands
like veins on my father's arm
long long ago

A strand marks the sea's closing line
where I now stand
feet in the blue blackness
hand against the sandy bulb

A strand marks the seaweed
in roped and stringed fragments
at the place their soft crests fall
sharp against the stone



Sport climber
Is this a trick question?
May 14, 2013 - 03:49am PT
^^ sweet. ^^
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 15, 2013 - 01:43pm PT
Q & Q & No A

Why is it not "spice" for spouses
if we must say mice not "mouses"?

Why is it the blues not "the blue"
And why is it not "yous" but you?
Ward Trotter

Trad climber
May 18, 2013 - 02:54am PT
A Little Ways North of Mill Creek

A little ways north of Mill Creek
the beach runs round
in a single wide arcing swath

There the tide stems in segments
fast against the open mouth
of sea and sand and barnacle

There is also a cliff near the stone rising
above the under-base of a million waves
throttling a darkened face

Somewhere out of sight
from prying eyes
the salt water still churns

And churns for a million years
oblivious to the carnage
inflicted on the crumbling mass

It's as if the big bass drum
of agonies from time immemorial
plays its one note dirge

And summons the shelving mist
to curtail the pitiful death
from the eyes of a dumbfounded poet

Who loiters in the wet hiss
like a reporter in search of tragedy
and finding none, returns to home



May 18, 2013 - 03:25am PT
learning to walk
you need to risk standing up
you need to struggle to move
and take that fall
you must get up and lift that clumsy leg
fall again
until you figure it out
let go
and ungracefully move
it's your first step to the greatest freedom

and everyday each of us must do this in all it's forms
we must dare ourselves
be willing to get up
and ungracefully go beyond our greatest limits
to be successful
one must dare to stand up
into the truest form of freedom
one must always know first how to fall

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