Another Poetry Thread

Search
Go

Discussion Topic

Return to Forum List
Post a Reply
Messages 301 - 320 of total 505 in this topic << First  |  < Previous  |  Show All  |  Next >  |  Last >>
Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
May 18, 2013 - 12:34pm PT
Well done, Anastasia!

Eric
Ward Trotter

Trad climber
May 20, 2013 - 03:09am PT
The Mountains of My Dreams



The highland Santa Lucia
breaches the bench of earth and sky
with ancient crests framed in
scrub outlines
and open slopes.

It was from that world above
atop the grand and open vistas
where once dreams were fetched
from dark profiles
and deep slumbers

I must have dreamt the unmoving
mist as it gathered near
an unnamed summit
drawing to itself the lighter fragments
of motion and light

It was a mist concealing
a spirit once speaking not in words
but in unfathomable contours ,giving way
to even deeper contours downslope
beyond the oaken ridge.

Was this a language of my
childhood mind as I sought to
wrangle a meaning from this alien
landscape ,so as to make it
my own?

If so, where did I sleep?
how did I enter that magical terrain
how did I know its depth
like I know the
flat of my open hand?

These are the mountains of my dreams
rising in one solitary tone
in consort with a thousand unheard voices
voices that out - sing
even the sea.





Donny... the OHHH!- Riginal

Sport climber
C:porn
May 20, 2013 - 12:38pm PT
Oh stone Arch o' mine

...how you were raped by Potter

...though Dean, not Colonel.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 21, 2013 - 04:08am PT
Elephant Wreck/1970

I thought I saw an elephent
I could tell you where he went
I'k like to tell you where he died
But then you'd tell me I have lied

That's the truth and I should know
Look for him beneath the flow
Merced River hides his tail
His trunk's still there and that's my tale
--L.E. Naibisco-Phanto
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 21, 2013 - 04:21am PT
When You Can't Stand the Eyes

Have you ever looked at yurself?
Then you have eyes, I'm assuming, and recognize humanity.

How much bible have you tried on?
If normal, then you ought to be able to hear my little voice booming.

When God said "Thou Shalt Not Kill," how do you take Him to mean that?
Did some educational teacher inform you that it is right not to kill animals, like the kid and the lamb?


That isn't what God meant, you know, about not killing for meat.
Eating meat is no sin where I come from, nor where I am going. It tastes better dead and won't run away.

I was not born in a desert seeing wolves and lions slinking away with my charges in their mouths: my flock, my family's sustenance being taxed by others for their own use. A few, inevitable, and a way of giving back to the Creator, OK, it would be my thanks for continued being; but if I were so foolish as to ignore the food the Creator has given us, I have always wondered, "What would He say?" .

"Fool, so I made thee.
Fool, I shall not smite thee,
For thou art my own foolish pride."

Possible.

I'm no vegetarian; there is a lot else which I am not.
A fool into the bargain with God is one of them.

He lettuce eat meat.
TACO!
--L. Zapitan

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 21, 2013 - 04:39am PT
Faux Jewel

The moon is a huge baroque pearl
Dripping nacreous swirl
It's really rococo
In fact many say so
Selene, you make my hair curl

For tonight you are no ghostly galleon
But for my delight you are sallying
Forth over a third
Of what you once were
Back when you were full and were dallying

Many a mule packer has watched you
And this old climber on old Bugaboo
You gave us all a fair share
Of your beauty so rare
And I thank you tonight, yes, I do!

If Selene and Mousie got married
Their life would be oh so harried
I'd be out looking for oats
You'd be shining on boats
All our days and our nights till I'm buried
--Mouse
Anastasia

climber
Home
May 21, 2013 - 04:39am PT
The wind blew and took my hat away
I could live without my hat
and without a care or a thought
I stepped into my house
then the silence came and it broke like a lie
and the wind blew and blew
as the windows broke
the wind howling like a train
beating and breaking down walls
I found myself crawling through a collapsing world
reaching the door to get beneath the ground
as if I was already dead
curling up in fear at the bottom of my cellar
and when the silence came again
when I stepped out into the world
my car was gone
my house was gone
I didn't know how to feel
and then I thought of the school
where was my child?
I couldn't live without my child
and in the wind I called her name
my voice howling
and there was a deafening silence
as the wind died
clasping against me
not even the slightest breeze stirred
and there sat my hat
a few feet away

tear streaming down my face
I cared
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 21, 2013 - 05:47am PT
SPECIAL, ANASTASIA!

Here's the best advice for fights and being in a windstorm, too.

Free the poor homeless OK cowboys & cowgirls from their awful disaster, out there where the living is "easier."

I prefer San Jose-type disasters, like the quakes.
Cuz they give me the shakes.
Open artificial lakes.
Chase out all the snakes.
Wake up all the flakes.
All the cars put on their brakes.
End to end to end to end on the bridge intakes.
It's a temporary end to what man "makes."
Anastasia

climber
Home
May 25, 2013 - 02:59am PT
Now that's poetry!
Marlow

Sport climber
OSLO
May 26, 2013 - 05:47pm PT

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night (Dylan Thomas)

read by Philip Madoc



Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Marlow

Sport climber
OSLO
May 28, 2013 - 03:53pm PT
Eli Jenkins' Prayer Dylan Thomas Under Milk Wood
Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Jun 3, 2013 - 03:03am PT
Nothing Twice

Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.

Even if there is no one dumber,
if you're the planet's biggest dunce,
you can't repeat the class in summer:
this course is only offered once.

No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with precisely the same kisses.

One day, perhaps some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
into the room, all hue and scent.

The next day, though you're here with me,
I can't help looking at the clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is that a flower of a rock?

Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to say
Today is always gone tomorrow

With smiles and kisses, we prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we're different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.

~ Wislawa Szymborska ~

(Poems New and Collected 1957-1997
Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh)
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jun 5, 2013 - 08:12am PT
After Vacation
By George Sterling

Below her now the storming city rolls
The tireless thunder of a sadder sea
Than that between the planet's frozen poles
And she is captive who awhile was free.

Far out across the dusty roofs her gaze
Beholds the turbid vapors jetting forth,
And tow'r and spire unhidden by the haze
Tell where the hungered city reaches north.

So little time ago it was she stood
Where the unhurried sea-wind offered her
The clean, wild fragrance of the cedar wood,
And made the little grasses dip and stir.

But here the sea-wind tells not of the wave,
Smearing the smoke-plumes on the tainted sky;
And lost the blossoms that the summer gaveó
The nameless meadow-flowers, aloof and shy.

It is another fairness she must seek,
Here where the cold and stately dungeons soaró
Some hint of what the chiseled granites speak,
Some iron beauty at the world's deep core.

But grant her time a little longer. She
Has yet of memory a vanished day;
Her dreams are of the spaces of the sea,
And snowlike sands about a turquoise bay.

George STerling was a friend of Jack London's and Northern California native. One of our state's best poets, too.

George Sterling and an artist's depictions of him.
George Sterling and an artist's depictions of him.
Credit: mouse from merced
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jun 6, 2013 - 02:47pm PT
For Royal and Liz.

Who are approaching a fiftieth anniversary on November 17th, the same date as mine and my own lovely Lizzie's.

Hard Men and Hard Rain

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
And where have you been my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.--Bob Dylan

Oh, where are you going, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where will you be, my daring young one?
Iím going to Fin Dome to climb with the Rainbows
Iím looking for something that will satisfy a hunger
Iím seeking a power within me that will blow me away
I may not find it till I have been proven worthy
But find it I must and find it I will
If I have to climb every forested hill
And itís a hard, itís a hard, itís a hard, and itís a hard
Itís a hard manís a coming home.

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
And where have you been my darling young one?
Iíve been out to Tahquitz where the snow still resides
Iíve been out to the desert where thereís no shade to find
Iíve been to the Valley where glory is waiting
Iíve been to Fort Bliss and done my military duty
Iíve seen the old elephant now I want to climb one
Iíve been skiing and racing and winning some trophies
But itís a hard, itís a hard, itís a hard, and itís a hard
Itís a hard way for to live.

Oh, who have you seen, my blue-eyed gun?
Who have you met, my darling old one?
There are Fitschen and Pratt and Frost and Chouinard
There are Royal, Don, Roy, Ray, and good old Frank Hoover
There are Mendenhalls, Sherricks, Wiltses, and Gallwases
There was Mark Powell, Warren Harding, and sweet Liz Burkner
There are countless others which I canít now remember
And itís a joy, itís a joy, itís a joy,
And itís a joy, to have led a life and climbs like my own.
--MFM

1954, Stoney Point.
1954, Stoney Point.
Credit: "Frank Hoo?"
Anastasia

climber
Home
Jun 6, 2013 - 04:07pm PT

the days are long
the nights are longer
to be away from one's love
one yearns
restlessly turning

then there is bliss
a sweet perfect moment

and the sun rises so slowly
as a little hand touches my face
to set time flying as they grow

oh child that rules me
have mercy on my soul

for now all my love
is forever you

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jun 7, 2013 - 03:07am PT
Heading to Redding


The hub city where I was born in

Lies way north of Corning

Where the olives grow

And there's sometimes snow

And lots of heat

And an ice plant across the street

With a perfect cone of ice chips

That resembles Mount Shasta

It doesn't hafta be Shasta

My sly sister said

It's passin' for Mount Lassen

But it will just melt away to a Mount Tonuthin.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jun 15, 2013 - 10:38am PT
Credit: mouse from merced

Our lives are cobbles
creating eddies in which
our souls effervesce;

metaphoric rocks
amid streaming dreams of our
future as sand grains.

Credit: mouse from merced
old craghag

Sport climber
Bishop
Jun 16, 2013 - 04:14pm PT
I used to be hot but, now I'm not
I used to be bold but, now I'm old
I used to climb hard but now, I work in the yard
I'm glad I had fun when I was still young
A lot of my friends are already dead
Wish it was me instead
Marlow

Sport climber
OSLO
Jun 16, 2013 - 04:28pm PT
Gweddi Dros Gymru

Sibelius - Finlandia op. 26
Anastasia

climber
Home
Jun 16, 2013 - 04:29pm PT
I yearn and mourn
for the laughter and the tears
all the times you stood near
how you didn't ask but demanded
all the best in me

in my twenties I was a fully grown gal
yet you still could lift me up one handed
when I finished college
you still outsmarted me
and even though I didn't always agree
I always respected
the man that made me

Daddy
I miss you

AFS
Messages 301 - 320 of total 505 in this topic << First  |  < Previous  |  Show All  |  Next >  |  Last >>
Return to Forum List
Post a Reply
 
Our Guidebooks
Check 'em out!
SuperTopo Guidebooks


Try a free sample topo!

 
SuperTopo on the Web

Review Categories
Recent Route Beta
Recent Gear Reviews