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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 18, 2012 - 07:46pm PT
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Cereal Dream
They're strange, the gifts that come in the night,
Or in the lobby of the place you live.
Some nights it's thoughts that turn to verse
Like chocolate-covered Cheerios.
I never expected them, yet there they are, free;
A-waiting for passionate milk's embrace and perhaps a piece of fruit.
Cheerios, the breakfast of mice and men:
But such a difference the chocolate makes!
Take your thoughts and spread them out
And lay them in a pattern on the table of your soul.
Play with them until the mother of consciousness
Comes and tells you it's time for bed again.
Then write them into the diary of your memory,
Turn off the light and say goodnight.
If you find Twinkies filled with butterscotch in the morning,
Please share them with the rest of us.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 19, 2012 - 04:09pm PT
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Hiku-Hiku
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 19, 2012 - 11:27pm PT
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Write a book, Mouse. Or have you?
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BLUEBLOCR
Social climber
joshua tree
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Oct 20, 2012 - 01:50am PT
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Man... Or, Mouse;
That is one of the most,
finest displays,
of creativity,
exhibited,
by matter.
Of factt..
Jus
Say'in
BB
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 20, 2012 - 01:57am PT
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Thank you for the shot of assurance, Wayne. I never wrote for pudlication. Only private stuff, generally.
'Do not Depends prepare guides?'--Heanas Screed
'Friends do not drive guides to drink, they take a taxi.'--Braverly Samson
Big Bill Bierkhan tells this one:
'Two guides walk into a bar. The bartender adks 'What'll ya have?'
The first guide says, 'I'll have a Mountain Dew, on the rocks.'
The second says, 'I'll have what he's having, but use ice in mine.'--Offa Deszneid.
ba-dump!
/and BB, from BB, TY.
Calls for a celebration of blind mice chased by Women. Love is "Blind." Dig the rhythm. Now, you got your rhythm and you got euythmitic you got them mice all around the house, tired of hearing good ol' Mouse, he's so screwed up screwed up screwed up.[Click to View YouTube Video]
[Click to View YouTube Video][Click to View YouTube Video][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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Oct 24, 2012 - 06:39pm PT
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The Nouns of Time.
Not knowing much is better than knowing much of nothing.
Nothing is much more exciting than what I am doing right
Now.
Now then, having said that, it’s time to get drunk.
It’s Friday night but the booze won’t flow
Tonight.
The message is that the message is in the bottle,
But I am just not getting it at the present
Moment.
I must put it off until later on when I have some dinero
And it is in my pocket waiting to get spent in a great flourish over
Vintage.
Because I have no money to allow booze to flow
I am saving something of my dignity, I suppose, by not getting drunk
Right away.
But I’ll see about
Saturday.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 24, 2012 - 06:52pm PT
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Amor de Verdad or True Love Waits Down the Insinkerator
Words by Hubby Dolley
[Very saccharine. Real country sappy. A tad schmaltzy.]
I will bury thee
Or you will bury me,
For I can’t love another
Just only you.
And no matter
What’s the deal
Our fears will have seemed so unreal.
We’ll laugh at them and kneel for each other’s forgiveness.
And so trust me or go away
But please listen to what I must say.
Silence speaks volumes
When no one is talking
But I trust you to steer me straight
When I go off walking
Where I shouldn’t have gone.
No, darling, no one else.
Only you.
Finely spun
Are my thoughts of you,
Held together
And woven through
For all time
By my feelings true.
We will come to the end of our days
Together.
[Up-tempo]
Corny verbs and silly words
Cannot express my absurd wishes
I'd really love to wash your dishes!
[Real good musical stuff guaranteed to burn your ears off and penetrate your soul. No less.]
It’s only suds down the drain,
I’m probably wishing in vain
And I wish you no pain;
To be the goal of your wishes
Would be oh so delicious.
So don’t be suspicious,
Please, just let me wash your dishes.
[Wild-ass finish suspended by tepid, dish-watery muzak? I leave it to the musical director.]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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just fvcking haiku
no rhyme scheme and seventeen
such an odd number
Dante went to hell
finding thirteen circles be
divine poetry
Alighieri was
his own elegy since he
was terzarima
his cool divine wind
blows down the dry hillside
hell's heat now abated
yeah it seems to me
the haiku really does suck
it's very pointless
I am un-danteed
let us be friends signore
let's shake hands sonnet
5.13, let's get the hell out of here!
I know a coffee shop...
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Jaybro
Social climber
Wolf City, Wyoming
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Be Seven o'clock
Thirty five in the desert
Coffee to imbibe
Sip spro in the dark
Gollum way jacked my rig
Car shop opens at eight
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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"Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower" by Rainer Maria Rilke
translation by Joanna Macy + Anita Barrows
Quiet friend who has come so far,
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,
what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.
In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.
And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.
Sonnets to Orpheus II, 29
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Pueblo Blessing
Hold on
To what is good
Even if it is a handful of earth.
Hold on
To what you believe
Even if it is a tree
Which stands by itself.
Hold on
To what you must do
Even if it is a long way from here.
Hold on
To life
Even when it is easier
Letting go.
Hold on
To my hand
Even when I have gone
Away from you.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Nice Jaybro!
The last two I posted go out to those who are hurtin' at this campfire. At least it seems there is a lot of hurtin' lately. Or maybe they are just squeaky wheels. Still, that's ok by me.
Nonetheless, those poems were delivered to me out of the blue; they spoke to me; and I thought of ya'll. Maybe they'll find their way to those in need and maybe even help a bit.
Peace,
Eric
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 13, 2012 - 06:19am PT
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"The reader of modern literature, Piette asserts, distrusts poetic prose, sensing it to be an indulgence on the part of the writer unless justified by exigencies of the narrative itself. Piette's system allows for a writer's shift into poetic prose to be aesthetically justified -- or found to be unwarranted -- by exploring the mimetic relation between the fugitive music of rhyme and memory."
--review by Graham Fraser of: Adam Piette. Remembering and the Sound of Words: Mallarmé, Proust, Joyce, Beckett. Oxford: Clarendon P, 1996. 285pp.
Prose or poetry? Poetry or prose? How to sound like you know what you're talking about is half the battle, but you judge the article for yourselves.
http://muse.jhu.edu/login?auth=0&type=summary&url=/journals/modern_fiction_studies/v043/43.4br_piette.html
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 16, 2012 - 02:38pm PT
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Guns Kill Bullets Blame
I blame Twinkies and the Hostess Co.
I blame the Norwegian for making me blame the Twinks.
I blame Oakley and Cody.
But it's OK because eventually there will be no one to blame and no one who doesn't share the blame.
Better we get hit over the head with a rolled-up copy of Argy-sod magazine real hard twenty times right now than to have to admit we are wrong about our "need" for guns.
We'll all have killed each other off before we settle this.
Ma Deuce sounds sooo sexy.
But what's so "special" about Saturday night?
By the logic of the hunter, weapons of mass destruction seem good.
That may seem extreme, but the Rev sez my logic is to change the subject.
The Rev never lies, for the sake of argument or otherwise.
When he an his dad got into archery, they settled the bug duck question with their scores, not by pricking stags with those long flying things the deer knew nothing about.
Hinting that hunting with arrows is just as unfair as hunting with guns might get me in deep doodoo; some may even mention my duck size, but at my age, that's laughable.
Is there much difference in "conquering" a route with aid, leaving our sh#t on walls that are utterly (except for falling stones) defenseless?
My mind is spinning like a high-speed bullet.
There goes another couple of innocent bystanders.
When God takes away our guns and leaves us with stones to throw and just our fingers to grip the throat, at least we will not have this argument to plague us.
Then she will have given us true freedom.
Here's a "sport" which may appeal.
Put up firing benches on the South Rim and charge tourons for taking potshots at aid climbers on El Cap: out-of-state permits twice the fee for Californians, but the revenue-sharing would be between the Feds and the STate.
In an ideal world, Guns and Ammo would be Buns and Amour.
There's a full-page ad for Twinkies in there, and a half-page ad for the Traverse Winery, owned and operated by me!
Hold on
To what you believe
Even if it is a tree
Which stands by itself.^^^
The sentiment is a good one. We believe what we believe, we feel how we do. It's right to stand up for them and it's the purpose of a forum. I brought my thoughts here rather than try to turn them into arguments. I dislike arguing. It's puerile, and for all I know, even "ternary." :0)
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Reilly
Mountain climber
The Other Monrovia- CA
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Nov 16, 2012 - 04:07pm PT
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A poem by Willie Nelson on his 75th birthday:
"I have outlived my pecker."
A Poem--by Willie Nelson
My nookie days are over,
My pilot light is out.
What used to be my pride and joy,
Is now my water spout.
Time was when, on its own accord,
From my trousers it would spring.
But now I've got a full time job,
To find the f***in' thing.
It used to be embarrassing,
The way it would behave.
For every single morning,
It would stand and watch me shave.
Now as old age approaches,
It sure gives me the blues.
To see it hang its little head,
And watch me tie my shoes!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 16, 2012 - 09:51pm PT
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Liberty Cap by Joe Fitschen, from Going Up
The rest of the morning was marked mostly by ferocious thirst, the bete noir of Yosemite climbers.
Our saliva glands went on strike, our toungues felt like resin bags, our lips like slugs.
At cramped belay stances our muscles cramped for want of water, while below us Nevada Fall still fell, and amid the unceasing roar we heard the cry of that ancient mariner So there was suffering.
But during those seemingly interminable waits at a belay stance, while I willed my body into quasi-hibernation--lower pulse rate, lower blood pressure, mimimal muscle tension--my mind, not keen on suffering, cast about for something of interest.
Here a satisfying piee of astract art composed of facets of granite, there the peregrinations of a minuscule red spider, and, several feet away, a single-bloomed flower atop a green stem, thrust from a hairline crack and waving to and fro in the wafting air.
Yosemite walls are rife with Zen gardens that, if you were a nautral theologian, would make God a Buddhist wich, if you know something about Buddhism, is odd.
This represents a passage that has remarkable mimetics and wonderful imagery. There's an exuberance. There is a short bridge to cross between Joe's prose and what could be a really great poem with a little shearing here, some faint padding there. Royal would have been proud to have written this, I think. For that matter, I would.
So poetry's not hard if you are already competent at prose. It just requires a little time at the feet of the one's that the muses have already favored and some mimetic ability. Imagination's on you.
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Trevbo
Trad climber
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Nov 17, 2012 - 12:42am PT
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“Crow” by Ted Hughes
When God, disgusted with man,
Turned towards heaven,
And man, disgusted with God,
Turned towards Eve,
Things looked like falling apart.
But Crow Crow
Crow nailed them together,
Nailing heaven and earth together-
So man cried, but with God’s voice.
And God bled, but with man’s blood.
Then heaven and earth creaked at the joint
Which became gangrenous and stank-
A horror beyond redemption.
The agony did not diminish.
Man could not be man nor God God.
The agony
Grew.
Crow
Grinned
Crying: “This is my Creation,”
Flying the black flag of himself.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 17, 2012 - 08:47am PT
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Here's one for the Fossil Climber, in retaliation for your mouse-poem, and in thanks for the recognition and the (ghostly) recommendation to North Face, so long ago.
Mouse
Having written lots of words
He has not completed a book
Nor even begun to compile his droppings
Having left a pile of words
He defines them as his little turds
Like sundaes with gross chocklit topping
He's fond of cheese and all the nuts
Ropes and rice and other stuff
His bad habits send climbers shopping
Old hands know and hate his guts
They can't afford to feed him much
They get so mad they're often hopping
If you would save your things from he
Then string them up in yonder tree
Keep fixing rope they all need chomping
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 17, 2012 - 09:11am PT
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Here's Timid Tightrope's fine untitled poetry, his attempt at emulating the weej.
Mr. T., I hope you don't mind my lifting it gently for repose where it really shines!
The coward's tail's 'tween me legs
it's in the very name i named
but joy 'tis aint the game i play
just lost the flaming flume
it speaks or tweaks of bracken' hearteds
past the flames of dear departeds
wish i had the fire retarted,
restart my old game
in comfort combustfamulating
break a sound that sets to grating
turn a page of hister splaying
spray aginst the wind
icy winds that sinned her wounds
broke the cymbal of thine tombs
the magic harper fuccks the tune
and slowly plucks within
keeper of the sea sick sawing
saw bucks of my past belonging
longing for the thing that lacks
and laps at death-test doors
ner was i to come a scriber
all along just duck and diver
diving for divininations
like a paltry sum
sum of zero was summation
left it parked no jubilation
left the what? in what up zillions
'till i reach the silvery shore
but a new tune comes erasing
setting sun the sky still blazing
recriminations of my hazing
still paps the smear of navel gazing
pecker pecks upon my eaves
flicker quickly knows my deeds
sower of the deadened seeds
and slips before me done me screed
all is lost dear supertoper
not one to enunciate this dope no sir
silence on the killing floor
erections come elections go
lift the beam and raise the bong
won't you sing the siren's song?
may be two too stanza's long
knock on heaven's lawn
butthurt scribblers go a-walin'
comfort them no need explaining
rage aghast machines and bodies
'till we breathe no more.
the coward's tail's 'tween me legs
it's in the very name i named
comfort those that need the same
timidly i walk the plank
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