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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 17, 2012 - 05:26pm PT
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Boogie woogie was a deer.
Boogie woogie had no "ear."
Boogie couldn't boogie.
Now really, how could he?
--Mouse
EL PERIFICO, OR SLEEP
A man throws ten thousand shovels of gravel at a window screen
propped upside a wheelbarrow so only the powder
passes into the wheelbarow and the gray rocks fall to the ground.
You musta died once to live like this.
Yeah he says I died once and I had lost my ear
so I was looking for it in a field and the stars were like a seiner's net
and then they were like a system of nerves
and then they were like a seive I came through
that right back into this country and got a job and married
the woman the first two things
she said to me in that fiery field holding in her hands
my ear were how this country now is full
only of pilgrims and residue and her name is Beatriz ending
like light ends with a z.
--Joshua Clover
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 17, 2012 - 05:35pm PT
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This was the eulogy I was not fated to deliver at my dad's memorial. It's a long story, involves anger. Rather not say now.
My dad and mom BOTH loved golf, but only after Mom decided she actually enjoyed it and had an interest did she doff her Golfing Widow Weeds. Once you get them on the course, they are hooked, sliced, and sunk, she would say..
A Man Who Loved Golf:
Boomer and Bobbye
(par four/300 words)
On behalf of my family, thank all of you for coming today.
It is tempting to memorialize my father with golfing metaphor, yet this is an inappropriate moment.
Even so--
I am human, like Boomer, and will resist the temptation to be completely decorous during this obsequy.
But I will make my attempt short and sweet, like a hole-in-one.
I may “ace” this address if I may say simply that the act of marrying Bobbye was like a “hole-in-one” for Dad: it was his stroke of luck and his stroke of genius, if you will, but he would ascribe his fortune as a gift from God, as is proper in a Christian.
His high school sweetheart was perfection to him, in spite of her peculiar breaks and swings: his swing might be off or his yardage miscalculated on occasion; and he might have missed the sweet spot any number of times; but the net score was perfection. They were a evenly matched, in my opinion.
No talk of handicapping, they played for keeps and kept it honest.
I don’t mean to sound flippant or irreverent at this solemn moment, but it is in fact not a solemn moment, but a joyous one. It doesn’t call for a mild golf clap. It requires mirth, but not frivolity.
Our honoree has reached his destiny as his partner has reached hers. They are content if anyone is content. Let’s be happy for that, among other important things.
I loved both my parents equally and love the prospect of playing the rest of my life’s round with a pleasant and well-loved foursome made up of my family, Mike, Lenna, and Tim.
Rest in peace, Dad and Mom.
Your loving number two son, Brian
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cowpoke
climber
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Nov 25, 2012 - 01:04pm PT
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I Ask You
By Billy Collins
What scene would I want to be enveloped in
more than this one,
an ordinary night at the kitchen table,
floral wallpaper pressing in,
white cabinets full of glass,
the telephone silent,
a pen tilted back in my hand?
It gives me time to think
about all that is going on outside--
leaves gathering in corners,
lichen greening the high grey rocks,
while over the dunes the world sails on,
huge, ocean-going, history bubbling in its wake.
But beyond this table
there is nothing that I need,
not even a job that would allow me to row to work,
or a coffee-colored Aston Martin DB4
with cracked green leather seats.
No, it's all here,
the clear ovals of a glass of water,
a small crate of oranges, a book on Stalin,
not to mention the odd snarling fish
in a frame on the wall,
and the way these three candles--
each a different height--
are singing in perfect harmony.
So forgive me
if I lower my head now and listen
to the short bass candle as he takes a solo
while my heart
thrums under my shirt--
frog at the edge of a pond--
and my thoughts fly off to a province
made of one enormous sky
and about a million empty branches.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 25, 2012 - 01:29pm PT
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Evocative and nuanced
Is what I want to be
In my writing
The germs of my soul
Revealed
Blatantly
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weezy
climber
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Nov 25, 2012 - 01:55pm PT
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Bluebird
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?
Charles Bukowski
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 26, 2012 - 11:53am PT
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He’s an uncommon love for the common man and godly wisdom resides in the least of things so that it may well be that the voice of the Almighty speaks most profoundly in such beings as lives in silence themselves.--Roy Tor Wrong Lee, chinese intellectual, on cloning the Devil
What the Fvck, it's Charles Buk.
Bluebirds fly and real men cry:
Those Euros flowing in and all that urine flowing out.
He's still a poet, though dead and commercialized
And even given as Christmas presents.
That's the spirit, consumers.
But Chuck Buck isn't Chuck Berry.
Some of his visions are way too scary
Let's just wait till/for rock 'n roll to really die.
In a Patrick Sawyer internal-view
Which I am watching, he is asked:
Who's likeliest to read you?
Who's likliest to heed what they read?
Who's Next, do you like that album?
It turns out that Chuck's checkbook
Is loaded with signatures of those who read him.
Marlow, for one, a Euro; Lolli, for two, disgusted;
And Mouse, who just had to check him out.
Like follows like like drink follows drink.
I thought I was Swedish, but I was just borracho, Dios mio!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 26, 2012 - 12:43pm PT
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Downward Monday Spiral
Poor damned Monday
Wants it still to be Sunday.
Not too happy in its own calendric skin
Wants like hell to be free of all out sin.
Long holidays are OK, for Monday can then still come out and play.
Monday isn't guilty of a thing except having to follow a sanctimonious day like Sunday.
In a parralel universe it might be Sinday,
But why be such a bitch?
It might you get voted off the team, like poor Grenday,
Named for that one, yep,
Whom was shown the door by Bolt-Tosser for making light of the Dark.
But we heard that story second-hand and read it in AP English, freshman year.
Well, history didn't really exist back then,
When ever back then took place back, back, back in the Day-Daze,
When in spite of our modern outlook,
Days didn't mean much and Truth and Whimsy consorted more equally.
Time was asleep at the wheel.
We had eight days here on Earth.
Now there are just seven and we may have it right.
Only Time will tell, but he's over at Starbucks with ChuckBucks.
Sobering us up is Monday's job.
Monday is the Salvation Army of the span we call the Week.
In fact, the muses suggest, the eight-day version was called the Weak,
Signifying Earth's relative place in the Cosmos.
Pretty heavy stuff for a Monday,
But I haven't much time myself,
So I just play like I know these things
And hope like the Prodigal Son
That you laugh and think
"Monday, Monday, such a tragedy."
Yep, Monday used to be another kind of day of the Weak.
Now it's the worst for many.
Unlike Black Friday.
Now that's something to think about, shoppers.
Think about returning the Charles Buk book,
And order one of neebee's Jake's Ranch series.*
You'll thank Grendel/Grindl, Greenday,
And A Confederate General from Big Sur.
Have a peachy day, Americans, in the Amazon jungle.
* The story of Jake and his twin sister's love, will touch your heart forever...
* http://jj-ns.read-jake-and-donate.com * http://go.neebeeshaabookway.com
Blatant commercialism? Not in the least. It's the least I can dofor our beloved nature-praising, God-fearing lady of charm.
What else can I say to thank her for us?
Hey there say a prayer or draw a cartoon
For the little lady of the haiku moon.
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neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
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Nov 26, 2012 - 02:41pm PT
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hey there say, mouse...
well, my my...
what did i spy, with my little eye...
as the kids' games goes...
well, now you 'knows'...
i spied a mention of my book...
well--after YOUR mention, to take a look...
:)
say, all, the one link though, i had to sadly let go...
it was doubled in the pay, up to 25.00 for the year, i think it did a show...
but the 'go.neebeeshaabookway.com' is still good...
and this one, (soon to be below) is for you to see which
books, you may want, or order-should:
http://neebeeshaabookway.com
(go to the STOREFRONT link, on that page...
and see the 'lastest rage'...
we, as to neebee books, that is...
in your spirit, they really will a'fizz...
:)
see if this works, as a storefront link...
i say and hope, with a wink...
http://neebeeshaabookway.com/id31.html
(if not, just hit STOREFRONT on the main neebeeshaabookway.com deal_
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Nov 26, 2012 - 03:34pm PT
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To Mouse himself
No poetry here:
Be kind to Mouse
Don't judge too harshly
Know it or not?
It's there.
Thrives outside
...at the center?
There's many ways...only...
Be kind to Mouse
make his day...
his way...
The legislator
Edited:
Yeah, shucked simile is just one of the strengths of the text and fitting it's subject quite well.
hehe...
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 26, 2012 - 05:11pm PT
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The legislator's rule of thumb! ha-ha! heehee!
A 'haha' is a fence set in a ditch (Scrabble dictionary).
And they don't make no mo Ho-Hos.
Part of the Hole Mouse Story:
He made his way into the Ditch, down the south bank, then under the NPS haha made of withies, vines and sticks. It was laughable how easy it was. "Ha-ha," he laught to his left mouse, while his inner mouse was most hopeful. Heeding his instincts now, he followed the Ditch for some ways before he climbed out the north bank near Turtle Dome. He would find that left thunb in Thuolumbne Meadows eventually. Or one like it. Tome thumb things are just not too important, except it had to be a left. Color, length, strength, none of those mattered to him. He just wanted to play his guitar like a normal guy. Gladly, badly, radly, it didn't matter. As long as he could bar the frets!
Not to worry, this story is never-ending, too.
Pottery in prose is the next subject. Shards of shreds of shucked simile lend distinct grace to your text, a must-see for musetry lovers.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The rock doesn't care what I think
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Dec 15, 2012 - 02:00pm PT
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Wish I didn't feel inspired to post this today. But it needs to be out there.
Eric
Dirge without Music
Edna St. Vincent Millay
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost.
The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dec 15, 2012 - 06:52pm PT
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On a much lighter note
I dance my fool head off to entertain people and to educate people, most of whom can barely bring themselves to notice
Who live in the cross-hairs, always on the brink, addicted to both the bottom line and the summit
Can't go a day without chasing power, humbling or being humbled.
Why do I dance for them?
What choice do I have?
You either dance for them
Or become one of them.
--Jules Feiffer, 1999
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dec 16, 2012 - 04:17pm PT
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EPITAPH
Having lived long in time,
he lives now in timelessness
without sorrow, made perfect
by our never finished love,
by our compassion and forgiveness,
and by his happiness in receiving
these gifts we give. Here in time
we are added to one another forever.
--Wendell Berry
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection:
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is lead forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action —
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
~ Rabindranath Tagore ~
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Fire Maples and Epitaph... very good Mouse and DT!
Eric
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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For Presence
Awaken to the mystery of being here
and enter the quiet immensity of your own presence.
Have joy and peace in the temple of your senses.
Receive encouragement when new frontiers beckon.
Respond to the call of your gift and the courage to
follow its path.
Let the flame of anger free you of all falsity.
May warmth of heart keep your presence aflame.
May anxiety never linger about you.
May your outer dignity mirror an inner dignity of
soul.
Take time to celebrate the quiet miracles that seek
no attention.
Be consoled in the secret symmetry of your soul.
May you experience each day as a sacred gift woven
around the heart of wonder.
~ John O'Donohue ~
(To Bless the Space Between Us)
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Does doggerel qualify? I rather enjoy Ogden Nash.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Not quite poetry, but.... ahhhhh all Rumi is poetry. What was I thinking?
“Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.”
Should be the official taco motto!
Eric
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Anastasia
climber
InLOVEwithAris.
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wash his sheets
and wipe him clean
and in his misery
I reach for the better
to nurse and to heal
I'll take it all
through the sleepless nights
the rough days
into a better tomorrow
tomorrow you will feel better
my sick and weary child
tomorrow will be your day
today let us heal
for all the tomorrows
when you won't need me
when you will rarely see me
I'll gladly take them
for all the good tomorrows
that will be there
for you my child
for you
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Anstasia, how mellow a mom you are. I think "yer in" to something good.
Today's the feast of the Epiphany, BTW.
Epiphany - acrostic
by Grey Mouser
Energy cascades within synapses of thoughts
Pure and shining whispers of unclear attention
Instances of measured words that disappear
Purpose riddled spectacles of transition
Hemorrhaging conceptual perceptions
Avalanche of meaning brilliantly surmised
Noesis clear to sparkling realization
Yellow has become the color of love
Author notes
Noesis - the psychological result of perception and learning and reasoning
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