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Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
Oct 9, 2012 - 01:23am PT
You guys got me going now... more baby steps came to me at one kid's football (that's soccer for you 'mericans) practice this evening:

Lying on the earth
Flat on back upwards to sky
Both grounded, far-flung

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 9, 2012 - 11:08am PT
For All We Sing of Snow
Jack Rosenblum

For All I Know I Blow

For all I know I blow. Beep-boop-boop-beep-beep
So I'll just jam with this dude, slow. Plinky plink, plinky plink

Where I'm at since you've been gone.
Typos all over the place.
Double space in your face.
Backspace backspace backspace
period period epic period GF's pregnant.

Plinky plink, plinky plink

Verbs and nouns in my hand,
A big old smile on my face.
And when we come to read it
A lone spark breaks through.

Plinky plink, plinky plink
--A Beefheart acolyte, apparently

Telephoto Mountain Messages

It's all about the hills,
Ecstasy in vertical.
Nothing finity.

Dancing on the peaks
Of the summits of the top
Of the world. Early. Often.

In ranks they fall away
Foreground, middle distance, far
Himalayan peaks

The years too drop away
Layers and layers of age
Ledges like ledgers


Trad climber
Oct 9, 2012 - 11:10am PT
Montana big sky

Streaming in my log cabin

Fall is glorious
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 9, 2012 - 11:24am PT
Telly marking snow--
Snow better thing I know--
Always makes my day
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 9, 2012 - 11:26am PT
panny cakes syrup
butter scrambled eggs coffee
and a ton of snow
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 9, 2012 - 11:29am PT
wishes were horses
ghosts roamed my pockets
you remained as my friend

Jack Rosenblum's pretty cathartic listening.
He's a weird Dylanesque 'snew-age don't wannabe...but he is, fortunately.

"I can't decide what to shoot at.
Or choke. Is this some kind of joke.
I feel like a house detective who has lost his shopping bag.
I look like one too."

Jokers and thieves hang
Together, talking tacos
E-veh-ry dang day.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 9, 2012 - 12:12pm PT
Soccer makes dads cry.
In spite, the kids laugh harder.
Don't you just love it?

Social climber
joshua tree
Oct 9, 2012 - 12:19pm PT

Oct 8, 2012 - 03:51pm PT
My Reality.

My reality is willy-nilly.
Having resonance with my creator.
I am in tune with the waves of control.
Feeling the rock is solid as my tooth.
My body is contoured to be a sacrifice for gain.
My mind is a flutter with the prescribed pain.
My spirit rockets on the hopes of the proposal of fame.
But my ambitions could be quenched by the verdict of shame.
Whilst my heart is playing another game.
My soul warns me that we are all the same.
I give thanks to the Lord, on a job well done.
And ask for strength, to keep hang'in on.
As he wraps his arms, around me and sez
I Love U Son

Jus Ryhm'in


Social climber
Oct 10, 2012 - 10:59pm PT
hey there say, flecher... say i saw the poem there, :)

love that robin! possibly, besides her and her mate, there just mayyy be another lone one that shows up later, not sure where her mate must be, though :O

i enjoyed the poem, in both spots, as, it made me think of my mom...

she loves the greatoutdoors too, and worked in it... doing her
gardening things... is harder now, she is older--
like the old
clothes in this poem...
(and her sis, 79, that died fallling through the ice of her pond one year--well: her boots and clothes were old too--she worked hard in the greatoutdoors by walking through it, as she tended to it, and she loved these very things--she also had worked indoors, as oneof the main folks at the cleveland museum of natural history, since when it first started)...

thanks for sharing...
our true work IS to enjoy and to pass it onward...
money,though we DO need it, and must provide for our home of kids, after all, will NOT endure forever--but--love does, as we share it gleaning from our experiences and passing that love of life, onward...

gives a firm foundation of self esteem, for when the money times seems to
fail for a season...


*oh--got the dreamcatcher email i just could not get the mail to work this eve, :( it DID work earlier, but i have to get off line now, so jjuust threw this in fast, :)

Social climber
Oct 10, 2012 - 11:01pm PT
hey there say, ekat! i can picture you there, :)
as to your quote:

Montana big sky

Streaming in my log cabin

Fall is glorious

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 11, 2012 - 12:43am PT
Point of Punctuation

? :) = 2 (syllables)*?

Symbols, icons, ideas.

Scannning the literature there are two accepted symbols for the building blocks of poetry, the syllables. A poem is a sentence, therefore, I is a poem because I is a poem.

It's a different concept than I am a poem or I am poem.

My motive herein is to show the breakage of the word ":)" into two short syllables, ":" and ")".

This yields the possibility that neebee's statement is a devilishly-conceived poetical conceit that could only arise from the fertile ground of Texas. Or it may simply be my imagination.

I admit, the word ":))," which neebee frequently uses, seemingly at whim, (but one never knows) but always to great effect, [ (> ] might have convinced me it wasn't so.

I am just a hopeless romantic, I guess. Boy, howdy!

[Did I say that right?]

I, poet.

* There are no "breve" marks nor "macron" marks on this keyboard, hence "syllables" is a substitution, which is the best I could do...But there is no substitute for neebee, I must say.

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 11, 2012 - 12:58am PT
Fletcher! Ha ha ha... "Mouse plumbing" Ha ha ha... I'm a sewer rat, a lawyer, but no plumber.
The Watergrate break-in, though, that was partly my idea.

Haiku, TX

Hey there say, eKat!
i can picture you there, :
) as to your quote


Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
Oct 11, 2012 - 02:16am PT
A poem arrives like a hand in the dark. - Yahia Lababidi

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 11, 2012 - 02:51am PT

The Athletics win
The Tigers roar like caged Lions
Tomorrow will tell


Lincecum, my man
This time, out of the bullpen
Just doing his job

Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
Oct 11, 2012 - 11:12am PT
For all us type B's out there (you know, the one's that DON'T have heart attacks):

For Yaedi

Looking out the window at the trees
and counting the leaves,
listening to a voice within
that tells me nothing is perfect
so why bother to try, I am thief
of my own time. When I die
I want it to be said that I wasted
hours in feeling absolutely useless
and enjoyed it, sensing my life
more strongly than when I worked at it.
Now I know myself from a stone
or a sledgehammer.

~ David Ignatow ~

(New and Collected Poems, 1970-1985)
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 11, 2012 - 07:30pm PT
Old School Boy Blue

I have the old school blues
I've had 'em since the break of day


But I had 'em way before that, I had 'em back in the day

I know how to suffer
Been doin' it the whole damn way


Ever since the Good Lord took my baby, back in the day

When if I come here broke
You gotta send me away


Cuz I never repaid anyone anything, Lord, way way back in the day.

My friendless life is nothing
Safe to say it's never even been


Unfinished until then, way way way way way back in the day.

Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
Oct 12, 2012 - 03:11am PT
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 planations,
shadow perforated,
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
likeness, image of
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

Pablo Neruda
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 12, 2012 - 10:38am PT
A succinct tale tale of unsought success success, Eric Eric.

How cruel the shoes shoes of the poet poet who tries to create and is hardly ever satisfied with his output output.

The man man who is just sauntering through life life has a thought thought, a good idea idea. He writes it down. Each thought thought and idea idea he gets is not in his journal journal, but at least one thought thought or idea idea is in there from each and every day day of his life life.

When he retires he is pleased to sit down and write himself a poem poem each day day of his life life for the rest of his life life based on the thunk thoughts and ideal ideas he has in his journal journal.

That's one approach approach. I just wish that I had bothered to journalize. It's always something something or other other. So I just force myself to go with the flow flow and trust in The Mouse Mode Mouse Mode.

Mouse Mode Mouse Mode is hard to describe to a straight straight ora a mundane mundane. The key key is to not listen to other people people but to muse. A mouse mouse knows how to muse. It is instinct. People people can muse but it seems to take longer to get results results. I just put them down and reject them, the ideal ideas and the thunk thoughts.

It really doesn't matter if no one one reads them or not. I am pleased and this is my main goal goal. I know that not everyone everyone has time time to read these drivel drivels. Nor the time time to try to understand the convoluted convolutions.

But this is the real end reason reason. If they read and understand, by gosh, maybe they will improve their live lives and love their wifely wives just a bit and the world world will be a better place place to live.

I mean, it's pretty cool the way it is, but it could be better.


That's called "double-noun." There are stict rules. Read, observe, you shall see them. I invented it just now. I hope it will make my fortune and that of my heirs, but I am a poet now. If it doesn't work I try again. And if that doesn't work, I try again.


"Mousie tried" should be on my stone but I don't plan on a stone. I plan on being dumped on the beach at the base of Mt. Clark's western face. Don't forget the tube of SP 50+ because it's hot up there.

Now is the time when we all casually observe. It's casual-observation and sit-around-looking-bored time, Karl Heinz. You look bored already, my dear. Just relax.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 12, 2012 - 12:21pm PT
Massive Creative Epic V
Written by THE MANY MICE
Sponsored by Kalliope, "the beautiful-voiced" and Best Little Law Firm, in Brooklyn, NY, owned by "the melodious lady" Bevin, who suggests singing it to the tune of Lucy in the Sky-y With Stem Cells

Edicated to John Lennon

Hooking glass headwalls in yellow and green
Towering over our heads
Using special glass tubes and genetic threads
Our lab is incredibly clean

Seeking a method to make up some mice
A presumptuous thing they all say
But we ignore them saying just let them pray
Our goal is incredibly nice

This world needed more mice it was so plain to see
But we need better climbers far more
And our new "Lynne's" Version Four
And by next month we'll have "Alex Three"

Imagine: Using just stem cell sperms and beautiful stem cell eggs could change the world. Then everyone can have a swimming pool. Zappa, the visionary genius foresaw it in 1965. And Lennon challenges us with his song.

A note on my creative process: this is the closest I have come to imagining a line and getting it down on paper and finished before my fourth cup of coffee. It kind of represents what I've been trying to do and have been too undisciplined and lazy to do. The ditty above is far from epic, so it is fair to say it is only sponsored by Kalliope, not inspired by her. No, it was inspired by my old friend, the demi-goddess Thalia. She pestered Kalliope into sponsoring me. And my daughter Bevin is my devoted daughter, so...That Thalia's a real pistol. She's flighty as hell and hardly ever sticks around to see the finished product. But you must love her.

A quote from Mark Rodell: "Dig on writing, it is a good and tough lover."

The same can be said for climbing.

Hey, I'm a poet and don't feel like a fruitcake. Must be doing something right.

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 12, 2012 - 10:52pm PT
I had an interesting conversation with my dad, Boomer.

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