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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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MFM
I’m done
Gotta be fun
Rule number one
But we get the job done
We just fuss & fuss & fuss
The easy path is not for such as us
We now need to climb the stairs for what it’s worth
They just pulled the plug on our elevator here in middle earth
You can do it you can do it you can do it you can do it you can do it,you
Can.
This is an easy leftward traverse leading up to the top of the spillway.
Dying is easy. Comedy is hard. Life's funny that way.
One day at a time, one twinge at a time.
I hope everything Otay today.
Open says me.
Dish it.
Spill.
DAM THE ZIGGURATS! FULL SPEED AHEAD!
full credit is due to the fine poet
who's verse I just reversed
The master
The Mouse From Merced
Don"t Burn Me down
with this electric hook up
It should happen by itself
I have some thing more to add
That it is cheeky
It might be "bad" bait
So I will think and wait
The flames might be
A better fate
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Bushman
Social climber
The island of Tristan da Cunha
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'There's no time like yesterday'
These are the difficult years,
When I was young and unaware that time was exponentially advancing,
I wasted time on every foolish whimsey,
Feeling bored most of the time,
I was lucky all the time and was so oblivious to my state of decline,
Everything was fine,
I never knew I walked the line,
Advancing was time's arrow but for me there was no straight and narrow,
"Look at all those squares," I said
"Why worry about tomorrow,"
I thought I had an unlimited supply of irreverence,
Little did I know that it would manifest itself through pain,
This is the dark depressing side of my psyche,
That I would harbor such regret and self loathing for all the wasted moments,
All the idle hours of self indulgence and self pity,
Falling so short in bitter disappointment,
What was yesterday will not be redeemed,
So even in this hour of moody reflection,
I waste away my time,
As if I had all the time in the world to care.
-Bushman
11/07/2014
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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ODE: THEM GOLDEN MISSES
Grave Alice and golden-haired Edith
Lay in wait for me under the stairs;
Laughing Allegra, too, underneath,
Hoping to catch me all unawares.
They are planning to smother my face
With lovingly placed little kisses
Just now I dare not slacken my pace
For I love my three little misses.
Thx, RLS/The Childrens' Hr.
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Bushman
Social climber
The island of Tristan da Cunha
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'Walking With Her on Sunday'
"Lets walk down to the gravelly brick yard
to watch the crows fly,"
Their eyes are on the scraps of carrion left over from the
turkey shoot yesterday,
"Rotting turkey flesh is so tasty!"
says the crow with the short left wing,
He always flies counterclockwise
that way,
There in the morning paper
we saw the earthquake warnings,
"I love that freight train rumbly grinding feeling,"
she would say,
"What feeling?" I reply
and try to think of a way to change the subject,
"Turkey jerking, I mean, turkey jerky's pretty good,"
I stumble away,
She gives me that
"why do men always think of sex" look again,
I plot the various possibilities of that
particular Sunday,
She's still giving me the look
and I still haven't changed the subject,
I want to get back early but of course
she wants to stay,
I'm walking along balancing on the old railroad track
in the cool morning air,
"Yeah," she says, "I like turkey jerky,
it tastes okay."
-bushman
11/09/2014
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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JOHN HOOKER BLUES
I want to know, yes, I want to know:
Who put the poo in the spring, my friends?
Was it one of you? Cuz it wasn't me.
Was it some john?
Some dude hangin' out
Lookin for some toosh?
Ch.
My baby climbin Half Dome
He not be climbin me
And now he don't feel so proud
About eating just Clif Bars
And nothing else.
But he's not selling any alibis:
He's switched to bacon bars, that's no lie.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Nov 11, 2014 - 06:53pm PT
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11/11/14 Veterans Remembrance Day
And the stars blew through the sky.
they were never told 'A reason why'.
just ...do and do and do
And if you die we will
remember that it was not fair
So many, all heros, had to die
so that we can have
someone's name to
Put on walls and
Honor in the parades
to sell...IT... war
To the Next ones
to do and do and
die
Peace and condolences to all
Who have served and given
And for the loss of so much
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 11, 2014 - 07:19pm PT
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TWO TIMBUKTU POETRY CONTEST
by Sam Peeps
Ivy Leaguer's version:
"Slowly across the desert sand
Trekked the dusty caravan.
Men on camels, two by two
Destination -- Timbuktu."
Redneck version, SE Alabama A&M:
"Tim and me, a-huntin' went.
Met three whores in a pop-up tent.
They was three, we was two,
So I bucked one and Timbuktu."
And so to bed.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 16, 2014 - 09:55pm PT
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CALAVERASS?
Starring Em and Brutus
Sweat trickles down arms shaking from fear as I climb the
serrated dikes and free-crimp-lakeyshegged past the A2 grungy
placements, pawing the edge of the crack, point-toeing up the
serrations in a teetering, balancy gibbet- dance until I pull
into a belay slab with flared grungy placements and set up an
elaborate redundant, equalized, and backed-up anchor system
utilizing three cordelettes and 8 pieces of protection.
--Brutus of Wyde
Thank you, man.
Thank you, too, ma'am. :0)
PLANE OF HEAVEN (or Tea of Heaven is timely, too.)
It's autumn. Trees of Heaven are turning red all over.
The tree of heaven has a distinct odor, an unpleasant one, but a natural one.
The tea from heaven had a distinct odor, but a pleasant one, a natural one, too.
But it was, some, tainted by av-gas, and would not burn too readily. Many men wasted their selves, then forgot the joint, which had gone out. It is the price you pay for free weed.
But the parties it engendered, some of them...were not up to Flames standards.
Here is a tribute to the ingenuity of the Yosemite Climber of the seventies.
Choose yer own tune, then
Break out the uke
Drink until you puke
The ditties are all dirty
The women are all purty
And we have a ton of weed
The Teton Tea's a-brewin'
I don't know what yer a-doin'
But the harsh-mellows are a-toastin'
We're all here a-boastin'
That we've got a ton of weed
It came out of the lake
T'was there for us to take
And take it all we did
Oh, WAY more than a lid
Yeah, man...we found a ton of weed
The coals are dark and red
It must be time for bed
But before we all are done
Let's roll another one
Cuz we have a ton of weed (It's really top drawer)
Yeah, we got a ton of weed (And it's all home-grown)
Oh yeah, we've smoked a ton of weed (Are we done yet?)
Baked on a ton of weed (We're really toasted)
Love smokin' weed every day (It's good for you-ou-ou)
God bless Ireland! God bless Poland! God bless Finland. God bless Iceland. God bless the Himalaya...wait...huh?
"Are you still smoking that stuff, Brian? What about the promises you made? The hearts you hurt? I'm talking to you..."
One that Nita sent that week, early November. Thanks, chica.
http://www.supertopo.com/climbing/thread.php?topic_id=1973718&tn=0
Where Have YOU Gone?
To where the streets are nameless
And the residents are blameless
It's always been famous
For the sweet sweet afterlife
Remember
OREGON STREET
LIBERTY STREET
MARYAL DRIVE
FITCH WAY
OLIVE AVENUE
Cradle to the grave
I was never so brave
As my dad
My dad
So sad
He never got too mad
He drank
I have proof
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 28, 2014 - 09:34pm PT
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Ultra-thanks to jimthomsen for supplying us with a Dolt poetry fix.
Something for THE Muppet to memorize.
There is a land I dearly know
Of rock and ice and snow
Where the wind, the clouds, the sky,
Oh, how they make me feel so high.
My hands, my feet,
My eyes, my ears,
I feel, I tread,
I see, I hear,
Mountains!
There is a land of rock and ice and snow
To which I always long to go
Where storms’ thunder and lightning
A silent fear kindled and frightening
My pulse, my breath,
My thought, my all,
I’m in tune
With Earth’s
Mountains!
This is a
Desert
Wetted by rain
Clothed in soft light
Brushed in
Pastel
Awake and
You’ll see
A misty
Rainbow
Born of the
Sun and
Seeded by drops
Of sparkling
Rain
Look to the
Heavens
Raise up your
Brow
Full of thanks
Feel as you wish
This is your
Earth and mine
For it
I am Grateful
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tom Carter
Social climber
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Anybody remember a poem Chinese? About hanging the moon in every branch of a tree?
I have tried to track it down but have failed. Wondering....?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nope. All I know is "Turtle on Fencepost." A raga.
A cherry tree branch in full bloom
is hiding the brightly shining moon-
I want to cut the moon-hiding branch,
but at the same time I hate to do so,
because the branch with its blossoms is so beautiful.
An example of maekuzuke poetry, haiku with 31 syllables in Japanese, as I understand it.
But it's Japanese, not Chinese.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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The rain has come overnight.
With the dark pre-dawn comes sound to match the light.
Dark sounds they are compared
To rain.
But warm sounds all the same.
The heating unit mounted in my wall
And the generator at City Hall
Compete.
One is in my face the other across the street
Civil servants fire it up each week
In an emergency they'll at least have light
And heat.
I am toasty warm and my room is lit
But I hear the rain say neither pitter-pit
Nor pitter-pat as it hits the ground, it seems, with
No sound.
So as the silent night has grown
Loudly I lament the way we no longer hear
Aboriginally but by aural
Subterfuge.
If it's not for the car's tires
Kicking up rooster-tails behind
I swear that I'd go out of
My mind.
I could not tell if it were raining
If not for this distinct song,
One I've come to recognize all my life long
And love.
Motors and engines surround'
Unnatural sounds abound
And will be worse after I'm not around
Anymore.
Don't forget the street sweepers' broom
Its day is lost way in the gloom
I can hear its replacement from my room.
You're doomed...
To be warm and clean and dry and safe and well-lit and contented behind your ear-pods next to your India Pale Ale, you SNAG.
And you won't hear the leaf blowers cranking up, either.
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Just discovered a Japanese poetry form called tanka. Had to try it.
==
WINTER COMING
hard frost furs the roof
north breeze hurries mist southward
I blink sleep away
savoring rich coffee scent
planning now for coming snow
***
berries turn dark now
loosen and drop from the canes
the freezer is full
there are too many berries
it’s so hard to let them fall
***
garden is brown now
frost crisp on mulch and dry weeds
hang up rake and hoe
rub linseed oil on maple shafts
keep a shovel out for snow
***
aspen’s gold has flown
greyness owns the earth and sky
colors have gone south
snow can not come soon enough
white will light our world again
***
dark limbs wave helpless
naked against a grey sky
arguing with wind
winter flows cold from the north
dry limbs crackle in the stove
***
the first flakes drift in
perch on the deck and cling there
I search the closet
wool and fleece and warm gloves yes -
the down can wait another month
***
all is white at dawn
new snow muffles earth and sound
turn from the window
sense the skis in the rafters
waiting for that first long glide
***
put back the new skis
lacking soul of living wood
pull down the wood skis
torch in the bubbling pine tar
inhale taste of winters past
***
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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lush images abound
making Merry make no sound
writing letters down
our tankas abound
terse folliliferous verse
followed by no sound
one hand claps only
in time to the ancient one
it's all haiku fun
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Fooling around on a rainy afternoon,
I came across this.
I don't know how old the photo is, nor have I met this "the Larry" fellow.
My first reaction was, like,
"The driven snow could not be this white."
{Photo supplied by the Larry}
A License to Limerick
I blame it on the smut in the air.
Token men, mostly women, blonde hair.
FOXES NEWS, it’s more like.
I’ll just go for a hike,
Till it becomes much less biased, more fair.
It’s very distracting,
It’s very bad acting,
They all have a cloned sense of style;
And they all wear the same frozen smile.
They are told this from birth,
None will surpass their self-worth,
And they will pass from this earth
Hearing the sounds of our mirth,
As they finish the race in life’s mile.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 13, 2015 - 09:41pm PT
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Say what there?
[Nothin'.]
Say, what the hey?
[Nothin'.]
Hey there, say?
Now we're talikin'.
About what?
How 'bout y'all?
YOU
Jorge Luis Borges
(trans. From the Spanish by Norman Thomas di Giovanni)
Throughout time, a single man has been born, a single man has died.
To think otherwise is to be led into statistics, is to attempt the impossible.
Something no less impossible than trying to add the smell of rain to the dream you dreamed the night before last.
That man is Ulysses, Abel, Cain, the first man to make the stars into constellations, the builder of the first pyramid, the man who set down the hexagrams of the Book of Changes, the smith who carved runes on Hengest’s sword, the bowman Einar Tamberskelver, Luis de Leon, the bookseller who fathered Samuel Johnson, Voltaire’s gardener, Darwin on the deck of the Beagle, a Jew in the death chamber--with time, you and I.
A single man has died at Troy, at Metaurus, at Hastings, at Austerlitz, at Trafalgar, at Gettysburg.
A single man has died in a hospital ward, on shipboard, in bitter loneliness, in love’s and habit’s bedroom.
A single man has seen the spreading dawn.
A single man has felt on his tongue the coolness of water, the taste of fruits and flesh.
I speak of the one man, of the individual, of the man who is always alone.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Einar_Thambarskelfir
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luis_de_Le%C3%B3n
(samples of Fray Luis' poetry herein)
Where have all the ST poets gone?
Gone to climb and ski and hike and jive and most of all to dance, I hope:
with more phrases singing praises,
with more words honoring turds,
with more jingles about Kraft singles,
with more tongue-twisting turning twirling tankas
with partners who cannot remain silent much longer.
Winter is long, boredom heavy, but your poems may last forever.
And the dance will never stop if that's the case.
Thank YOU all, ST, for helping this thread along and all.
MFM
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 13, 2015 - 11:11pm PT
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From out there on the prairies of Cornwall.
Cowboy Song
by Charles Causley
I come from Salem County
Where the silver melons grow,
Where the wheat is sweet as an angel's feet
And the zithering zephyrs blow.
I walk the blue bone-orchard
In the apple-blossom snow,
Where the teasy bees take their honeyed ease
And the marmalade moon hangs low.
My maw sleeps prone on the prairie
In a boulder eiderdown,
Where the pickled stars in their little jam-jars
Hang in a hoop to town.
I haven't seen paw since a Sunday
In eighteen seventy-three
When he packed his snap in a bitty mess-trap
And said he'd be home by tea.
Fled is my fancy sister
All weeping like the willow,
And dead is the brother I loved like no other
Who once did share my pillow.
I fly the florid water
Where run the seven geese round,
O the townsfolk talk to see me walk
Six inches off the ground.
Across the map of midnight
I trawl the turning sky,
In my green glass the salt fleets pass
The moon her fire-float by.
The girls go gay in the valley
When the boys come down from the farm,
Don't run, my joy, from a poor cowboy,
I won't do you no harm.
The bread of my twentieth birthday
I buttered with the sun,
Though I sharpen my eyes with lovers' lies
I'll never see twenty-one.
Light is my shirt with lilies,
And lined with lead my hood,
On my face as I pass is a plate of brass,
And my suit is made of wood.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Causley
Thanky, Amyjo. She tells me Causley never ever traveled to The Wild West.
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Bushman
Social climber
The island of Tristan da Cunha
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Jan 17, 2015 - 10:32am PT
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'My Writers Block'
My writers block was on my neck where once my wrinkled head did rest,
I used to write and think of things whether or not I tried to wrest,
Ideas and stories from my mind I thought amusing or at best,
Would keep me centered or at the least would put acumen to the test,
The words that came so easily I might have put to better use,
To educate my simple mind that I should not be so obtuse,
To say I'm fine right where I am has always been my worst excuse,
If I'm right where I ought to be I ought to let my thinking loose,
To dream of journeys far and wide of voyages I'd seldom miss,
To coin a phrase or tilt my pen at windmills in my minds abyss,
To ride away with pockets lined with verbiage plentiful and this,
To catch at words that come and go if not for this I'd be remiss,
To grope for the ungraspable but falling short I still would bet,
The journey is worth all the pain the telling of it better yet,
But now my mind is cluttered with such bric-a-brac I'd soon forget,
Were it to wash out with the tide and leave only this brief vignette.
But cluttered as my words may be my life's disorder would be told,
Is more or less predictable as situations do unfold,
Where everyday occurrences are common and might fit the mold,
To say that it's more complicated shows I'm only growing old,
So clearing up the garbage that's been plugging up my busy mind,
I to hope find some satisfaction in the moment to unwind,
But classically, unexpected, and ironically I find,
The writers block that exited has lodged in my behind.
-bushman
01/17/2015
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 18, 2015 - 10:21am PT
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^^^Block steady, Bushman! Thanks very much for posting that.
Local wordsters: Published in "Tree" from Coffee Bandits.
Some UCM students, some Merced College students.
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