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mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 26, 2013 - 01:45pm PT
Happy Holidaze, boys, girls, rocks and trees.
Here's an exciting tale, with golf balls and tees.

Hannukah, the Festival of Lights, begins on Thursday, the 28th.

Let the shopping commence, let's go crash the fence
At Target, at Costco, Walmart if you have sense.

A Golfer's Nigh Before Christmas

‘Twas the nigh before Christmas,
with things running fine.
Old Santa decided t
 play a quick nine.

He packed up his sleigh,
His clubs well within reach;
then flew to a good public course
near the beach.

On the back nine, a threesome
called out, “Come and play.
there’s no one behind us.
We’re last here today.”

Santa smile, then teed up,
set his shoulder blades square,
and took a deep breath
from the grass-scented air.

But he swung much too hard
and in spite of himself,
the took up a divot
the size of an elf.

If that pitiful drive
wasn’t lousy enough,
his fairway shot found
a deep spot in the rough.

Muttered he, “Oh, perhaps,
it’s the wrong eve to play.
I’ve more meanigful deeds
to accomplish today.”

“Oh, no!” they protested.
“That isn’t the thing.
You just, ever so slightly,
must alter your swing.”

The first man stepped up.
“Change your grip. Look alive.
Swing fast but softer.
Now drive, old man, drive!”

Santa swung at the ball
with an air-splitting THWACK!
But it popped up and gave him
a smack on the back.

The woman said, “Santa,
now here’s what you do—
stand this way, squint hard,
then scream and swing through.”

Spoke the first guy, ”That tactic
went out with the Edsels.
You’ve got him all twisted
like soft, salted pretzels.”

Santa swung, noetheless;
then he cried out in pain.
“My back,” he lamented,
“has gone out again!”

Then a grizzled, old gent
who’d a wisdon like Snead did
gave Santa, too late,
the advice he had needed.
The thirteenth green.  500+ yds, par five.  Number three handicap hole...
The thirteenth green. 500+ yds, par five. Number three handicap hole.
Credit: mouse from merced
“You’re out here for fun,
and as you grow calmer,
“you’ll find yourself hitting
like young Arnold Palmer.”

But I can’t even move now.”
The thought made him shiver.
“I have all these presents
I have to deliver.”

“Please help me save Christmas.
Please give out these toys.”
Soon the fousome took off
to the good girls and boys.

It was Santa who now
gave out tips to his crew,
as up in the air
past the rooftops they flew.

At each home, the golfers
found just the right packs
and with magic Yule dust
scooted down chimney stacks.

They twisted and stretched
and got scorched by Yule logs,
ate cookies and milk
and got nipped by some dogs.

But they said as they passed
the last fireplace screen,
“This is almost as rousing
as playing eighteen!”

Santa said, “You’ve done well,
and reward you, I shall.
We’ll start at St. Andrews,
Augusta, Doral...

We’ll do lunch in Scottsdale,
try Pebble Beach, then,
Riviera, Sawgrass.
You just tell me when.”

“Then eleven more holes--
what a dream round we’ll play!”
Then he took the three home,
and he soon flew away.

Soon they heard him exclaim
from a sky dark as slate,
“Merry Christmas to all!
May your drives all fly straight!”

--Jody Feldman



Sport climber
Dec 1, 2013 - 12:42pm PT

Pan's Labyrinth OST & Last Scene

Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
Dec 5, 2013 - 08:43am PT
a poetry story in the land of non-fiction:

i was recently in Santa Cruz, downtown.
there, lots of street art occurs at the inspiration of
homeless folks and professional fools alike.

i was enjoying a stroll with my family,
and one fella is sitting, while driving
a typewriter. his sign says:

"poetry. donations accepted."

so i step and greet.
he asks me if i'd like a poem.
i say that i've got no money,
which is the absolute truth,
and then ask if he'd trade a poem for a poem.

"sure," he gleams.

so he writes me one, not knowing me from
the deepest man-man hole in the world (a gold mine in africa.)

to be honest i don't remember the specifics of his poem,
and shamefully i utilized it to start our
hobo-beach-fire that evening, but it read
something to the affect of:

.."he who shines brightest
is blinded by his own inflections..."

or something like that.

so i improvise a return:

"since i'll never be a new direction on the compass,
i wanna be the sharp end of cupid's arrow.
or perhaps a new color in the rainbow."

we both conclude that
poetry is stupid and a waste of intellect.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Dec 5, 2013 - 10:09am PT
i smell hoss sh#t, folks, but everyone's nose has its own opinion/mayb...
i smell hoss sh#t, folks, but everyone's nose has its own opinion/maybe i'm just reeling in the shocks/my goodness the thought scares me that my net worth is nothing
Credit: mouse from merced
sez he
who spits on his gift
and pisses on his mind
and cries lame unto others
in readiculous ways
which unconform like synchlines
on the topo's graphy goodness
don't read my lines
read behind them

and in the end
he's his only friend
a door of missed perception
mist-placed angst
but nothing is ever missed
because it is nothing
so nothing is amiss

it's none of my business
i know
but it's a hobby
and this is mutteruttiness
utter musiness
(were i truly christian
--if sixes were 9 times infinity--
Fletcher might forgive me for that one)
mutinous mice
making not nice
in norwegian
with the man himself
in the mirror
who or what the f*#k i am is nunya musiness, mush
who or what the f*#k i am is nunya musiness, mush
Credit: mouse from merced
he's never died
and he never will admit it if he does
he has no words for that
so he celebrates his shitty life
and sharpens his ego-paring knife
and cuts the roots of his soul
away from his corporeal being
and becomes less than nothing

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Dec 7, 2013 - 11:47am PT
Who are we?

She says drama.
I say drama.
She calls her gramma.
I call her momma.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Dec 9, 2013 - 09:27pm PT
Ol' Captain.
Ol' Captain.
Credit: mouse from merced


O CAPTAIN! Our Captain! your Citrus Trip is mean;
We two have carried heavy racks, the prize we sought went clean.
The brow is near, the crows we hear, no peeps are likely hanging
To welcome us with bong and stash and porters there next morning?...

O Captain! Our Captain! we climbed you in such style
You'd think there'd be a crowd of dudes stretched out a country mile:
This means no cans and ciggy butts--for you both sh#t and glitter--
I'm glad that it's just you and us cuz Smokey wants no litter...

Our Captain does not dye his hair; his rocks are potent still;
Her wide cracks eat my biggest cams, like Lover's never will.
The pig is anchor'd safe and sound, its contents used and spent.
And this old rock, it's mighty good, but, by God, we've sent...

Ellipses by Victor Shipp


Sport climber
Dec 15, 2013 - 11:41am PT

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy’d
Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Alfred Lord Tennyson
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Dec 15, 2013 - 11:51am PT
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Dec 21, 2013 - 11:51am PT
Recipe for Success in the Ditch

Add a heaping tablespoon of tears
To a bottomless cup of dreams of Hall of Mirrors
Stir in the hopes and fears of all the years
And don’t regret drinking all those beers
Take it to The Outer Limits but there ain’t any

Slow down and die in In the Fast Lane
Keeping your eyes on the Walk of Life is lame
Follow the orders of your wife your dame
Do this do that don’t throw the the softball bat
Or they’ll bench you

Don’t make a big long Soutwest Face
You are a member of the human race
But walk don’t run to First Base
Or you may find yourself in disgrace
With the Valley Christians

"It is aight, Ma, for I'm on belay."
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Dec 24, 2013 - 06:37am PT
A Late Christmas Eve Phone Call

Well it's a hard night to go to sleep
I was in slumber, fast and deep
Eh, what's that, the phone says beep
And it's my little sister
Being a big pest
On the phone
Late at night
Like she did
As a kid

It's Christmas Eve
And by your leave
I'll sit right here
And try to cheer
This midnight drear
And make it clear
The woman's dear

I chewed her out
I was a lout
I let it get out
Of hand, no doubt
Hung up a with a shout
You don't want to hear about

She had to know
If I would show
Be there or no
Way up in the snow
Her melt is slow
My car can't go
Vern's going to Fresno

She'd invited me
I couldn't see?
Well, ex-CUUUUUUUUUse me
Forgive, my plea

Amy's coming
I'm not
Adam's here
Tim, too
Can't, thanks
Why not?
I'm a-told you

I'm a tumbler
I'm a docent Wednesday and Thursday
The Courthouse Museum
All Christmas tree-um
Kids should come here not there
Visit me not watch TV
Nor play in mucky melt
Much better you
Come down too
Too late to plan for next year?

That is what I should have said
I'm so bad my face is red
Like Santa's
Now back to bed
Enough's been said
Poor Lenna

I'll have to call her this morning
At five thirty no prior warning
It's not that I am scorning
Vern and Dawn want me adorning
Their Yule table Tuesday morning

I have no real problems this Christmas
I'll have to remember that next Thanksgiving
At Lenna's


Sport climber
Dec 28, 2013 - 02:01pm PT
"A Tennessean named Webster had been watching him and he asked the judge what he aimed to do with those notes and sketches and the judge smiled and said that it was his intention to expunge them from the memory of man. .....

Webster: Well you've been a draftsman somewhere and them pictures is like enough the things themselves. But no man can put all the world in a book. No more than everthing drawed in a book is so.

Well said, Marcus, spoke the judge.

But don't draw me, said Webster. For I don't want in your book.

My book or some other book said the judge. What is to be deviates no jot from the book wherein it's writ. How could it? It would be a false book and a false book is no book at all.

You're a formidable riddler and I'll not match words with ye. Only save my crusted mug from out your ledger there for I'd not have it shown about perhaps to strangers."

BM, p. 140-141

Sport climber
Tucson, AZ
Jan 16, 2014 - 02:17am PT
"Poetry" by Pablo Neruda ....


And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
and open,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
likeness, image of
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind."

~Pablo Neruda

EDIT: Sullly... love what you shared. ~xx
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 22, 2014 - 08:35am PT
zBrown arrives to settle the contest, folks!  Hi yo, Sepia Tony, my pr...
zBrown arrives to settle the contest, folks! Hi yo, Sepia Tony, my pretty pony.
Credit: mouse from merced
I'm an old man who chooses to wear purple and lime.  I'm  not the king...
I'm an old man who chooses to wear purple and lime. I'm not the king of a single thing but I am the prisoner of rhyme.
Credit: mouse from merced
I really only wanted to see how my home haircut turned out.I know how the Kalavela turns out.
Sweet sweet Huizinga.  Historical poetry singer.  You rock me.
Sweet sweet Huizinga. Historical poetry singer. You rock me.
Credit: mouse from merced
Poesis doctrinae tam quam somnium--poetry is like a dream of
philosophic love, says the deep-minded Francis Bacon. The
mythical imaginings of savages, those children of nature,­
concerning the origins of existence often contain the seeds of a wisdom
which will find expression in the logical forms of a later age.
Philology and comparative religion are taking pains to penetrate
more and more deeply into the mythical origins of faith. Ancient
civilization is now being understood anew in the light of this
fundamental unity of poetry, esoteric doctrine, wisdom and

The first thing we have to do to gain such an understanding is
to discard the idea that poetry has only an aesthetic function or
can only be explained in terms of aesthetics. In any flourishing,
living civilization, above all in archaic cultures, poetry has a
vital function that is both social and liturgical. All antique
poetry is at one and the same time ritual, entertainment, artistry,
riddle-making, doctrine, persuasion, sorcery, soothsaying,
prophecy, and competition. Practically all the motifs proper to
archaic ritual and poetry combined are to be found in the Third
Canto of the Finnish epic, the Kalevala. The old and wise
Vainam6inen enchants the young braggart who dares to challenge
him to a sorcery-contest. First they contend in the knowledge of
natural things, then in esoteric knowledge concerning the origins.
At this point young Oukahainen pretends that part of the
Creation was due to him; whereupon the old sorcerer sings him
into the earth, into the bog, into the water, and the water rises
to his waist, his armpits, then over his mouth until finally the
young man promises hiln his sister Aino. Only then does
Vainam6inen, sitting on the "stone of song", sing for another
three hours to withdraw his strong magic and disenchant the
reckless challenger. All the forms of contest we have mentioned
earlier are united in this exploit: the bragging-match, the
boasting-match, the "comparing of men", the competition in
cosmo gonic knowledge, the contest for the bride, the endurance­
test, the ordeal-in one wild flight of poetic fancy.

from HOMO LUDENS by Huizinga
and thanks to Sierra Ledge Rat

Vern, my rival wizard knows no poetry by heart.  Though he has some re...
Vern, my rival wizard knows no poetry by heart. Though he has some renown, he still is an old, old fart.
Credit: mouse from merced
Of course U NO.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 22, 2014 - 12:39pm PT
You'll not see nothing like the Mighty Pen.
You'll not see nothing like the Mighty Pen.
Credit: mouse from merced

"Playing the Poet"

The ritual of sharpening the pen and the wit.

The entertainment of watching a grown man act like a child and say stupid-sounding wise things.

The artistry of knowing when to pause for breath and how to create tension, causing listeners to squirm and their jaws to drop and older brows to wrinkle and then smile.

The making of riddles is questionable but then the answers are already true or partly so.

The inducktrination of stupid listeners is a form of mass persuasion, especially during the sermons to which we must listen on Sundays or Saturdays; some sermonizers speak to the heart with magical words.
Proper inducktrination requires that your ducks, or what have you, be ...
Proper inducktrination requires that your ducks, or what have you, be formally aligned front to back, in a row, like.
Credit: mouse from merced
It seems like it's sorcery but poetry is simply a constant way of thinking., consciously or not.

If it's soothsaying, time will tell. If it was not soothsaying, U would NO by now.

In prophecy lies profit, ultimately.

And don't let any competitions end in a draw, a form of art which is discussed in another thread (but with "real" images).

Sport climber
Jan 23, 2014 - 03:54pm PT
Great posts Mouse

Credit: Marlow
Credit: Marlow

Stair climber, lost, far away from Poland
Jan 23, 2014 - 06:17pm PT
You can find poetry in surprising places. From the "Climate" thread:

Hey dipshet egocentric humans
you egocentric scientism humanoids
you and your extreme left-wing socialist liberal eco-freak scientism political zealots
your eco-freak humans

move along useless TARDBAG!

Not only does your Spouse have to put up with your total negative selfish presence, but you actually were selfish enough to bring kids into this world and then having forced them to endure you for the time you're on this planet???
your eco-freak humans
That bushel of sour cherries must be over loaded

From the day your poor mother spit your sorry ass out, it has been nothing but down, down, and down……

As you pick your ass and then eat it for dinner

I suggest you get off your fatass and go out some time

You and the rest of your tribe are merely a micro "Blip's and Wiggles" on the ass of this planet and the rest of the Universe.

May the God of this Universe be with them having to endure your pathetic mentality and totally negative attitude their entire lives.

Simple... Go away. Never to return. No more sadness from watching required. Now.. move along useless TARDBAG!

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 23, 2014 - 09:07pm PT

FUNNY COUPLETS that i devised yesterday on the way to the forum
by versegood, last man alive on the planet





EE CUMMINGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 30, 2014 - 08:45am PT
lip gloss
by chucky choss

shave a lip

half a lip

half a lippa


did he move sideward then up then side ward then up

have steppes all the way in winter, bud

bud, the breakfast of diedways champeens

hammered clean climbing

sets the bells to rhyming

but not no make that never

to the colors of the sound of ssssibilant sssstrewberry silentsss

black and white

slowly colorizes

chill thickens

on with ur millars

out the ur doors

out of that six-pack in ur pack

take another

it’s so frosty

now ur all toasty

let’s go play go & see

maybe wee can see mousee

on the travelling butteresssses

there he is

he looks up right

but it’s a fake

he’s going up and now left

he’s running baack baaack baaaack

and catches it fully stretched that hold nobody else seeessss

except in the snow in jersey

it's a bootball game not the leap

did u catch that

no u threw it

how did u do it

norwegians vs the larsons

our sons were tagged by a freeze safety

as they lay with the ball perfectly poised

on their left frickin’ palm

on a dike at the summit

peace and out mouse

game over

we still win because we were already ahead

by being dead

we had the moves from chuck

who threw that ball

we’re not really on the same team

the norskis and the idahoans

it’s just that it makes for a nicer dream

and in colors that shine like lip gloss

there is only wind

and never loss

when u play with chucky choss

to let him throw u let him go

he'll make the call

throw the ball

catch it too

a friendly dream

i got to wear his piss-yellow jersey

it made the hi-lites in their neon reel

to norwegian i kneel

u r my tebow

no i mean it

next time i will check down and throw u a crossing pattern left

no left then...


u know

don't have to say more

who's cold?  warm colors make u hot!
who's cold? warm colors make u hot!
Credit: mouse from merced
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Feb 4, 2014 - 04:45am PT
Dry Goods
Dry Wells

Adjective tells
Adverb sells

Mouse's nose tells
Foot odor smells
Photo of socks drying in the bath after having had one, in cold water, not hot and no soap, just the hands.
neebee sox on the box, a Calpack box from the land of sunshine, vintag...
neebee sox on the box, a Calpack box from the land of sunshine, vintage fifies, simply a support for the arts, both photographic (by Jay Sousa) and the knitty stuff like these excellent handmade gems
Credit: mouse from merced

Socks drying
Stars dying

Water loss
Who’s boss?

Mali crying
Dali sighing

First world buying
Third world trying

Never enough
Life’s just tough

And then you die
With your socks on

one hopes
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Feb 4, 2014 - 04:55am PT
Yeah, we got it tough in Cliffornia with a drought, a shut down, a huge-ass fire, and high-speed rail a-comin'.

We ain't just a-hummin, Dixie.

We ain't the rest of the world, only a dinky (but wealthy as hell) state in a large country, with friendly neighbors, for now.

Credit: mouse from merced
The rest of the photo above.  Mama, this is good shooting.
The rest of the photo above. Mama, this is good shooting.
Credit: mouse from merced
Credit: mouse from merced
Credit: mouse from merced
Credit: mouse from merced
Credit: mouse from merced
Eisenstadt Awards for best photojournalism, from the nineties, Life Magazine special.
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