Discussion Topic |
|
This thread has been locked |
mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
|
|
This one's for when the "Wind Is from the South" and the climate suits your clothes, but the climbing just isn't helping you out of your mood. I been there.
Bert's Blues on the Rocks
a Donovan rip-off
Been a-lookin' for a good climb, but it's taking time
A-Been a lookin' for a good line
A-one to please my mind as well as my time
I've been singing in the evening
Flying through the night
But I hurt my good hand
I hope I make out right
Flying through the night
I've been picking up the sunshine
I've been drinking down the rain, girl
I've been picking up the sunshine
A-Makes me think on when I'll climb here again
You know time could bring a change, now
It ain't for me to say
A-You'll soon be out of range, now
A-This could only be the way it's meant to be
Fairy castle stark and black in the moonlight
The jungle jangle jester rides his stallion
Seagull flies across my eyes forever
Sadly goes the wind on its way to Hades
Would I, should I, could I be a stranger?
I shall walk right by and sigh goodbye
Lucifer calls his legions from the hillside
Sadly goes the wind on its way to Hades
thanks to zBrown for that one
and Norwegian for the 'inspirazione alla Dante' (wind)
|
|
Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
|
|
Psalm for the 4th
Psalm 122
I rejoiced when I heard them announce,
“The time of warfare is past.
No more will brother hate brother
or violence have its way.
No more will they drown out God’s silence
and shut their hearts to his song.”
Pray for peace in the cities
and harmony among the races.
May peace come to live on our streets
and justice within our walls.
With all my heart I will pray
that peace comes to live among us.
For the sake of all earth’s people,
I will do my utmost for peace.
(The Psalms, trans. by Stephen Mitchell)
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
|
|
|
Aug 22, 2012 - 02:00am PT
|
Hoppy's Favorite
Chocolate martinis.
Buttermilk schnapps.
The Grack arrack attack.
I'm too schnockered.
Let's go a rappello!
Great idea!
Find us battered and bruised like an olive.
For we went pub-crawling on the Apron.
We will never do it again, winos literally on and among the rocks.
See the blood pooling in my socks.
We heard but had not listened.
Splashed on the rubble, our blood glistened.
Echoes of an epic rock fall surround my phantom.
It's curious that the dying trees can hear me, but you cannot.
[Drinking is dangerous. Drink and climb at your own risk.]
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
merced, california
|
|
|
Aug 25, 2012 - 01:26am PT
|
//Ewe, Eye, Yew, We, Us
"Uiouious"//
Stimulus hummus hump us humorous generous ludicrous succubus homuculus impetuous.
You bet you us, you infectious Austalopithecus.
Omnibus obvious zealous contemptuous religious impecunious pernicious precious fatuous languorous platypus/octopus eucalyptus from Uranus.
St. Lous suicide issue Sue sous le mousse souffle shuffle.
Extemporaneous thus plus the must of crust in the dust.
Discuss the dangerous rhinocerus,
Lustrous in the cirrus above us.
Will you still love me when I'm super-annuous, cantakerous, a dependent in pendulous Depends?
Ridiculous and infamous, anything but both fast and bulbous.
Dean Rusk, autonomous, but not anonymous;
St. Nicholas, mysterious, luminous, despite his love for chimneys;
Marcus Aurelius, glorious, sagacious;
Los Angeles, rebellious, obvious.
Dude says: Great plan, Walter. That's f*#king ingenious.
Dennace the Menis, amorous emeritus;
Ambrus Americus, golden opportunist, or so it would seem to us;
Ponderous Ludovidicus and gracious Amadeus, each vicious and vivacious;
Jebus Bombz and zBrown, bogus zavior y zilly le Bruce, voulez-vous du Mateus?
Jesus and Beelzebus, ambitious and ambidexterous:
They all got together, did the dishes, and send best wishes.
So why fuss the discus, Justus? It's useluss, and less than unless. It's obstreperous and aduterous and nauseous and gaseous. I'm delirious. I'm serious. Aren't you curious?
Imerious furious bilious scandalous horribilis.
Germanicus and Britannicus and Arabicus cum Africanus.
Justice must bust in early August.
Amicus Mus mus is friends with us.
Captain Caribou, Leviticus' mucous blunderbuss, Meniscus, assures us,
t*r is a courageous narcissus.
(u*r no daisy, u*r a daffodil.)
Like. (Stop liking this.)
The Dreaded Credits:
Word architecture and meticulous punctuation inspired by Weej.
Lewd thoughts of Melissa Theuriau and a look at her thesaurus are mentioned here, gratuitous.
Reading group:
Use thesauri in a sentence. The sorry son of a bitch...
Suggest an -ous, -us, -uss, word of your own, climbing-related or not, spelt right, if you pleeze.
|
|
hillrat
Trad climber
reno, nv
|
|
|
Aug 25, 2012 - 09:39am PT
|
I once thought I'd go be a climber
Bought all the gear, and did try some
But my partners were lame
They all put me to shame
Now I'm just a pathetic old whiner.
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
ed, you posited that last poem on the 25th. I just now read it and Mr. Hine is way up there, isn't he?
He reminds me of Bucky Fuller on a lot of really strong coffee.
The food for thought I removed to my plate is contained in this sentence.
The past cannot matter except as an abstraction,
A flattering cariacature of happy lands
Wherein is many a grand imaginary castle
In fact turns out to be a tourist trap,
A vast palace that adrastic phantoms inhabit.
I'm candid in saying that "adrastic" does not appear in the standard online dictionaries and I have no clue, except its an apposite of drastic.
This is my food for thought.
The line speaks for itself and needs no interpretation, but I wish someone else who cares about poetic expression who reads it might say something. After all, it's a discussion forum.
What's writtten in the past stays not in the past, but goes on into the future sooner or later.--High-brow Yogi-ism
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
One granite ridge
A tree would be enough
Or even a rock, a small creek.
A bark shred in a pool.
Hill beyond hill, folded and twisted
Tough trees crammed
In thin stone fractures
A huge moon on it all, is too much.
The mind wanders. A million
Summers, night air still and the rocks
Warm. Sky over endless mountains.
All the junk that goes with being human
Drops away, hard rock wavers
Even the heavy present seems to fail
This bubble of a heart.
Words and books
Like a small creek off a high ledge
Gone in the dry air.
A clear, attentive mind
Has no meaning but that
Which sees it truly seen.
No one loves rock, yet we are here.
Night chills. A flick
In the moonlight
Slips into juniper shadow.
Back there unseen
Cold proud eyes
Of Cougar or Coyote
Watch me rise and go.
Piute Creek by Gary Snyder
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Sep 17, 2012 - 05:30am PT
|
Barcarolle pour mi bemol peigne et du papier
(modestomente mais jivey)
Play your hearts out as I spout
And meanwhile I will fish for trout
And tell you of a night that started with a nightmare
In my dream of going to the Valley,
When my dark imagination led me astray
And I had to listen hard on my way.
Suite Myra Breckenridge!
Is that Vidal lying on his own bier,
It's sure to bring to my eye a tear.
They cried for Mozart in Salzburg, too.
But what's a dirtbagger going to do?
...if the musik dies.
Wipe the tears, dry the eyes.
They're at a Generous Donors for American Musik Sociey
All Comers Giving Appreciation Night bash
Lying side by side midst all that cash,
Grinning at each other,
The maestro and his ardent admyra.
Not that I can handle much of this classical "musik,"
But I'm bummed isn't here. it makes me sick.
Well, Chuck, you Farley. It's free, too, man.
It's no skin off my nose.
And the Toole Royale is stuck in Traffic
On Highway 4, Frosty in the back seat
Striking a pose, prolly thinking of the Nose,
Sleeping like a lullaby gone night-night.
A smile on his lips as always...
That was four days ago, dream-time.
On the fourth day they turned around,
Drove home to shower and came back within the hour
Only to find the road empty.
Suffering like on Watkins,
CM blandly reaches for the Cobar cooler,
Hauls out a frosty one,
Conserving musik for generations to come.
Reveling in his reserved private box,
With overtones of Doom and Conspicuous Consumption,
He is consumed with gobbling Peanuts
While never gaining a pound from all that brew,
Only more glory.
He's the lone audience other than creepy lurking mice.
He turns to me and says,
You must share the musik. Be the musik.
Love the musik as much as the musk.
It's audible love, the way I hear it.
Take my word and just listen to this:
[Click to View YouTube Video] Son, musik, if I learned anything from climbing and drinking and conserving and writing, sought to be shared like beer at a Camp 4 keg party. Except late at night when people are crashing. Use your Buds, your buds, your ear-buds wisely and you will be a happy man. A loving man. Go and honor Amadeus.
Then Royale and Frost and a musical mouse are back on the Mozart again,
Kerouac on the brain, hearing Tchaikovsly in the rain,
Fahey and Kottke and Rawls are over by the Falls...
Altamont II, read the signs, singing, pointy little markers looking like baby angles,
The Ironmonger's children.
But they're keeping out the dirtbags from this one,
Only yuppies and wetbacks and sport climbers can attend.
Charlie, Mick, and Keith have all sold their souls to one another.
This is the real stuff of nightmares, then.
All the Tubers respond: tu.be/pwC8v-evDyQ. Wouldn't you, tu?
Tourons pile in through the day, hoping for their lottery tickets to do them some good,
For this concert is just like the Revolution,
It will not be televised.
But in ever-increasing numbers
And in ever-multiplying rates,
The Tourons and the Morons are pouring through the gates.
And then the Crescent Arch crescendos
And thunder rocks my brain
And lightning strikes my eyes
And I'm howling out in pain.
Then I'm driving through Modesto,
Immoderately. Shotgun goes to Farfel
Looking farly in the side mirror
And he smells Chawklitty Goodness
Orff to the side of the road.
We must stop for a pit.
We're not in that large a charge
To get with the gods. Not yet.
O, melters-in-my-mouth in the gorp mix,
I think you have some competition for my favor.
You'd better ratchet up your flavor.
I can only signal for a left and say,
"Hot Dog Chocolate Mutt, mmmmmm-mm."
Sneeze! A-choo!
Dachsunheit!
Vee had a hund,
Heidi vass her name,
Unt a golden-red cat.
Tigger vass his own downfall.
He had to go for biting Mamma.
So away he went that awful Lent.
Raus-mitten, kitten. Marche!
No fickle friend of mine, Tigger liked me best.
And it was his tail Ma trod,
What would Henri the Nihilist do?
Blame it on the white fool?
Mike, come shoot this fiddle-dee-dee cat,
Mamma's deathly sentence said.
A Latin mass, I said,
Aiming to please the Father-Almighty-of-All-Cats-and-Mice.
And good Heidi wept.
I bet the cows were looking at the moon that night,
Nostalgia in their cuds.
So I grabbed old Farfel's shotgun and blew my mind.
You ran over it the last time you drove to the Vale of Yo.
And I didn't even know you then.
Such a brief, strange friendship on Highway 132.
But you renewed it on the way back to da City,
Trying to get there by dawn
And you drove right through my center mass.
You prolly don't know Latin, so it's cool.
And the dead sheriff swags up and confronts me.
Fine opera, you sing to yourself, mouse.
Who else is gonna listen? Haw!
Do you call that "musik?"
"Meow, miaow, miow" and
"PS I love you."
"Gay Paree," unt zo on, roll out of my mouth.
I do. And I love these songs.
And the more orffen and the harder I listen the better, Pigboy Six.
And then I awakes
Just as she awakes
And spreads her arms
And The Music blends your mind with hers.
How wonderful to she he's now
Orfferin Bach to her my orphan's cry, Mamma!
"I love you, Annie. Read between the lines as all good poets intend.
Know I love you by listening to The Music hard. And without end."
//"Sauvarde a tu, mon pursuivant. Mon cher pursuivant.
Oui can. Oui can. Oui can. Nous allons faire de la musique, musik, ou music. Es-tu le maestro, cher souris?" //
So much to say. I think she thinks she's French today. Encore. So for a time we play "Tag."
She is '"it,' but it is as she wishes.
She is my it, your it, their it, if only they knew it.
She is The Music in my soul.
And then I am still up for "it." TAG. You're conducting.
TAG. I'm conducting. TAG. I'm conducting. But I want my skin flute solo, s'il tu plait.
We are a team: We pronounce our love amid the very best sexy little adjectives, but mostly she is My Object and I am her Odd Verb.
"Merci bien, Annie. Would you like a cup of coffee? We can start a game of Scrabble while it's brewing."
"Bien. Y at-il du cacao? Ya know, I really am craving hot chocolate."
Mais oui. The right and only possile answer.
From the work She Understands French, Right? by Anne Sowego, soprano and reat friend of Fenbach, noted devotee of the French styleDedicated to Gore Vidal and my late wife, Elizabeth Ann.I loved writing this. I hope you enjoy it.All props to the icons mentioned. I am sorry for the typos. they are beyond by control, even if I am the maestro.
This was Liz's only real musical talent, kept under wraps:
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Peigne et papier.
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Sep 17, 2012 - 03:43pm PT
|
Heh. Now you're all bloated and stunned by my freaky dream...
http://grammar.about.com/od/spelling/a/spellcheck.htm
I hadn't ever read this goodie. Swere too Bhuddha.
This baby was worded on 9/17/2012.
and
I foondly deadicate it to Norweejuju, president of all the woods' genii.
The while I am cooopying I belisten to "Deadicated" songs--below--of Jerry covered by Manny Zgood et Al Arrestides. Born to be Kerouac, settling for Cassady or Cassidy. Real tough choice? I still can't decide which to be. What would my speel-schrekker spray, Hoppy?
Angered in Spite of his/her spell-chukkar
(His account)
Otto-enhanced, it taunts.
Go ahead, fake my day.
Use your spelf-chukkar,
But mine just makes me feel plane stoopid.
Like it is.
I named him/Otto-nomic.
So goe ahead and connect yourself sand
Collect the same. A name like Otto.
A Palin drone.
Or give it the fingus
To I.B. Em and Mike Rowsoft, Dingus.
Itell make you feel bettor.
We sent your letter
Before you wanted, sir.
But the punctoe is perecto,
Just not quite "reflecto" enuff for us.
And the positioning of periods
In a History Poem
Takes more tie 'em to learn
Than the tables of the turning of
The Moon and Tied.
I am bebounded by the differences
Twixt Thee and The
Midst Between and Betwixt
Among Mine and Thine
Amidst Plenty and Want.
I want plenty.
I get both and am left right behind.
Techno and pills do not mix.
Both contributed to this campaign.
And you'd continued
You'd thinked they'd leaved you alone.
So just put me to 'sleep.'
Fregedaboudit.
Off belie.
At least we agree on the spleelingo bivvy.
In your dreams or in mine!
Spell it how you'd want to be spelt.
Wheat the freak.
Sinistra don't care,
He's made it everywhar.
A sinistar, like Fred Astar.
A poet, a popper, upon and aching.
And I know this thing.
I can spell 'the shit' out of 't#*s: the.'
(Her Reply to His Assertions and Insertions
Or Express to Seattle)
Hitch-hiking with two thumbs is toff enoff
Let alone with just the right one
The docks by the bay left me.
Thank for leaving me my Poor Peter, Dr. lloyd "Pricey" Bever.
Your partner Dr. Earl the Eager
And myself commended you for restraint.
Beciding to visit Larry Scuzz Hodad Jokes up in C Attle
In Novembery-short daytime,
I was deliverately deliberated at the door.
42 hours ago I quit Merced.
Beat that, Kerouac!
(Add mission: Stay updated or fade away.)
I left my Airstream in the driveway of my mind.
Garage door wide open, dick hanging out,
I stand and twiddle me dee with my free hand minus one.
Wherever it has gone, I know it looks like me.
What the devil, what the heck.
I'll just spend the rest of my sentences in jail.
Friends not letting friends go when they pass
Is kind of hogging the road.
Let them bye.
"Olympia!" I cried.
It was like I was playing some quiet jazz to myself.
Alone in the Chico Chill of tule fog.
Being myself, by myself,
Selfishly begging the darkness for a lift.
The now-famous on-ramp where I caught a ride
Is lost in the fogetfulness of flowing time.
Time lost is not regained
In the song I heard refrained.
The Dire Warning that morning
Was just Timmy calling out in a nightmare.
I bolted awake when someone actually stoppered.
Another hexcentric Dood in a don't-give-a-f*#k pick-up truck
And we're off to the road.
Yippie-I-O! Yippie-I-A!
I'm gonna get to Seattle today!
Back in sixty-ate
Or forward on Five,
Either way my thumb kept me alive.
Five points
I go.
Through to Scuz
The friend that was
My over-the-back-fence buddy and fellow Flame.
He tutored me in the blues
Brought me my first stash
Took one in the nuts for me
And kept smiling.
The blues'll do that to ya.
They are friends like Hodad,
True blue.
And the blues NEVER lie!
I got where I was going
I'm sure that you will too.
It's a little east of Hatteras
Just north of Mugu.
You can see Seattle for less
Or Yosemite for more.
Just don't overstay your official welcome
If bagging in Camp 4.
Help! I'm stuck in Sixty-four.
I'm lost outside of Stockton
On State Route number Four.
"Oh, honey, that's ridiculous.
I have a map right here."
If your checker is a lady
It errs in favor of
The words that forever bind you
With silly words of luv.
Just follow the sines.
(See Instruction Manual.)
In an effort to stay current, updates have been made which may or may not reflect Ultimate Reality.
"Sound track"
[Click to View YouTube Video] Cassady/Suzanne Vega and Cassidy/1981 GD concert
[Click to View YouTube Video]
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Sep 21, 2012 - 11:01pm PT
|
I seem to be monopolizing this thread.
See here?
Friday Night Facepuke Ghosting While Drunk
If I like anything other than getting high
If I like anything other than praising 'I'
If I like anything that is 'flyy'
Then I'm not telling it like it is.
Like if I say I'm cool with that
It doesn't mean that it;s all that
But if you like,
Why a vis-a-vis?
We need to chat?
What's up with that?
You got a cat,
Go seek his 'Gee, Whiz.'
I am a Seven-Up fan,
In a bottle or a can.
It's part of their plan
To be liked. It is.
The bubbles fade,
The drinkers jade,
And I have made...
Synthesis.
I like wine.
I hate whine.
One more line.
There it is.
Like,
Lust,
Love,
Puke.
It's Friday, thank God I like Her.
Check out Her profile on Facepuke.
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
The Mouse
What I imagine a mouse to be
is a small, furry brown creature
that constantly poops itself
in every and any situation.
"I found a piece of bread!" it exclaims,
and defecates all over itself and its treasure.
It runs and it poops, it sniffs and it poops,
it stops and poops and the mouse is elated;
it cannot get enough of it.
"And to what do I owe this pleasure?"
it says to its poop, a neat pile left behind.
And there is just so much of it,
a mountain of it, warm and steamy,
the mouse imagines it animates
and cannot contain itself when it speaks.
"There is not enough of me! Work harder!
You filthy animal! I am unhhappy!"
And the mouse works harder.
It runs faster, it eats copiously,
it scurries and poops so much until
it shrivels and dies in the corner,
exhausted from the day's work.
Wesley Golangco
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
"Many Facelift is an old Indian with whom I spoke and smoked with one night in the forest at the mystically-numbered ninth gathering of the trash. Yellow Pine, he muttered,
to believe, with me, that there are many mysteries contained in poetry which of purpose were written darkly, lest by profane wits it should be abused
MFM (he's MiWok, so...) quoted Phil Sidney from the sixteenth century. I recognized it soon as I saw no caps, only punks. He seems knowlegeable about the English poets; not so much American, surprisingly. I've talked with him before. So have others. He is rumored to have lived in the Darker Taller Forest in what's now called Calaveras, but this is all beside the point."
End the fantasy, begin the real poetry thingie.
Just today I ran into this intro to a friend's first effort at an anthology of local poetry. It is called Tree and is free. She, Melissa Eisner, is the owner of Coffee Bandits in the arcade of the Merced Theater downtown. She is a very nice, interesting, all-that, gaily-adorned and somewhat whimsically coiffed poetry addict, as will be apparent even to the casual reader of her essay. In short, she's my type of person. She's yet another redhead, as well.
n.b.: OK, Melissa calls it An Apology for Posey. Sic. I sees it as not that, but An Apology for Poesy. Such. Typo? Am I wrong? Is she? I'm just taking a break from typing the essay...
I'm the type of cowardly writer who always requires a quote to explain before I can say anything of substance myself. And in this case, I chose a particularly expressive quote, to delay my own opinion as long as possible. Sir Phillip Sidney, the guy who said above quote, was a dandy courtier in the beginning of the renaissance in Europe. And even though (let's be honest) An Apology is filled with bigotry and too-purple prose, its aim meets its mark. It speaks to the heart of why poetry happens, and why poetry will always happen.
Poetry night in Merced happens, and has been happening monthly for almost a year now, because people in Merced write poetry. Phil Sidney was just the type of fancy-pants to lay it out for us: there are mysteries exposed in poetry that not everyone gets. And I don't mean that in the sick and twisted bourgeois perspective 'oh you just weren't EDUCATED enough dahling you never had a chance to get it' or the equally nauseating hippie 'my movement is more obscure than your movement' viewpoints. I mean broadly. We bring our own meaning to abstraction; this is at the root of the human condition, for Chrissake! When I hear a poem, I hear something "written darkly," that I share with the poet. And it isn't the same thing Richie Rich or Cheech 'n' Chong or Ben Franklin or Bob Marley would hear. It's the entirety of my own experience, echoed back to me momentarily through the concave medium of someone else's words. And that's really cool, and trippy.
And if you don't get that, the WTF.:/
Melissa Eisner
Owner, Coffee Bandits
Edit: I don't know if you're serious, furious or what, but you can express your thoughts, dahling, somewhat better. just don't do it here thanks
|
|
Wayno
Big Wall climber
Seattle, WA
|
|
Oh, fer cryin' out loud, let it go.
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
Far from defusing I find it amusing.
Get on with some "muse"-ing, Thalia from Visalia.
Muse America
Purple MMMMMMMMM mountains of majesty.
Above, the chemtrailed planes.
Look into the long San Joaquin horizon
Or down into the abyss on which we stand
It will f*#k you as stupid as you have f*#ked it.
It's National Park Service land.
And it's wild; it will kill you.
Like Jesse James. Like Vito Corleone.
Or the rest of the posse,
Tommy Jeffergun
George Washingun
Ronald Raygun
Old Betsy Ross
George W-shaped Ambush
Richard Six-gun
The Russian River is at flood stage, head guy.
What must we do?
Call out the cavalry?
Call out to calvary?
Whatever it is, vary the ca-den soh caaaare ful-ly,
and then do an about-face crossing the span
On reaching Bridal Veil Creek.
Halt. And have a good cry at Lizzie's bridge
For her sake and yours and the kids;
And recall that the creek weeps not,
It is the land weeping for itself;
And you must do so, as well.Thanks, Ken!
|
|
Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
|
|
Fresh
To move
Cleanly.
Needing to be
Nowhere else.
Wanting nothing
From any store.
To lift something
You already had
And set it down in
A new place.
Awakened eye
Seeing freshly.
What does that do to
The old blood moving through
Its channels?
~ Naomi Shihab Nye ~
(You & Yours)
|
|
Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
|
|
Scanning through here way to quickly this morning.
Some bits caught my eye.
Gary Snyder, Piute Creek. Right on target (for my small corner of the world, at least).
Offenbach's Barcarolle. Definitely caught that. Twas sung at my wedding.
In gratitude,
Eric
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
Summertimer in the Yosemite Museum
The fithools ooze tar from a mis-named weed
And the wild oats reflect the Spaniard greed
Which started a long-ago fire in Califarnotoff
There in the distances
The many distances
The many smoky, foggy, long egos
In the Golden Days state
We seem to be in now
See, I have some views and so do you
And the guys over there a-stare at Thomas Hill
They are looking at their own past
Though the eyes of a great painter
Who saw the same things they saw
Yesterday before they were born
Or before she was born
Lady-weaving-string-baskets
To entertain the people in her own past
She can and did explain
And remember how it was
In the museum of her mind
She was to me so kind
To tell me of her people
And why they carry on
Their work and play and song
As if it were a single thread
Made of many hairs
And some string added in
From the new guys
This was Julia Parker, who I met in the Yosemite Museum yesterday. What a lady. I did meet her years ago. She was making a red string and reed basket while we talked, or rather, she talked and I listened.[Click to View YouTube Video]
I had just come from speaking with Merry B. Two wise-women in two hours is just enough, let me tell you.
Thanks, both of you precious contrubitors to our community, for opening my eyes and broadening the skies for opening my ears and bringing home the years
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
http://www.supertopo.com/climbing/thread.php?topic_id=1054430&tn=1700
Based on Weej's latest expulsion:
New Thing Nor Northing
(Borrowed Intejections and Directions)
That question Norwegians ask when they get another year older: Huh?
That's the only interjection he needed.
Weej succeeded. I only needed to read it ten times.
Wood this been simpler?
Maybe. But not so much fun for him.
Or for you. Or me. I can tell it's a failed experiment.
Never up, never in.
You can try, but it ain't a sin.
A picture is worth a thousand words.
But not in Norwegian.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
[Click to View YouTube Video]
At least that's what I am taking away from this poem.
Huh.
|
|
|
SuperTopo on the Web
|
Let us know!