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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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May 13, 2014 - 11:01am PT
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The CLOD & the PEBBLE
by William Blake
from Songs of Experience
"Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
but for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."
So sang a little Clod of Clay
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet.
"Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heavean's despite."
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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May 16, 2014 - 03:15pm PT
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In dawn there is a man progressing over the plain by means of holes which he is making in the ground. He uses an implement with two handles and he chucks it into the hole and he enkindles the stone in the hole with his steel hole by hole striking the fire out of the rock which God has put there. On the plain behind him are the wanderers in search of bones and those who do not search and they move haltingly in the light like mechanisms whose movements are monitored with escapement and pallet so that they appear restrained by a prudence or reflectiveness which has no inner reality and they cross in their progress one by one that track of holes that runs to the rim of the visible ground and which seems less the pursuit of some continuance than the verification of a principle, a validation of sequence and causality as if each round and perfect hole owed its existence to the one before it there on the prairie upon which are the bones and the gatherers of bones and those who do not gather. He strikes fire in the hole and draws out his steel. Then they all move on again.
Epilogue, BM, CMC.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 16, 2014 - 09:35am PT
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SECOND SON
by Robert Rorabeck
God touched the
Charismatic youth on
His subtle shoulder and spoke,
“I like this one.”
And his light came down
And inhabited flesh
So very swiftly the young
Man ripened into a
Gifted artist
Whom the world adored
And remembered his name
In the vociferous gardens of
His art,
For centuries onward to
This day,
God's fond love still lingers for him
Passed from female vessel
Through womanly chalice….
That is the one I both
Admire and despise
As my hours anguish onward,
The futile trajectory of my
Words
Spend toiling the dry and
Brittle pages of the earth,
My back bent and aching from
False labors,
Beseeching God wordlessly
To reach down and bless me
As a father remembering he had
A second, less gifted son.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 16, 2014 - 10:45am PT
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Have some fun this midsummer, I say!
Play the sprite,
Enjoy the night.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act II, Scene I [Over hill, over dale]
William Shakespeare, 1564 - 1616
A wood near Athens. A Fairy speaks.
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander every where,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green:
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dew-drops here
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits: I’ll be gone;
Our queen and all her elves come here anon.
And drink Seven Up, not Sprite, because it likes you best.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 16, 2014 - 09:43pm PT
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"Thy drivel smacks not of bards but of dogberries, fool."--A. Bardini
WALKING ON SUNSHINE
Out walking to nowhere at a much slower pace
Than to be trying, in fact, to win any race,
I was ambling, like normal, admiring the place
When a technical marvel showed up in my face.
My neck had been bent
From scoping cement
It seemed all sparkly--
What pure amazement!
What caused this? I wondered as I walked along
Who thought up this one was not very wrong
It was because of the sun—the angle was long
And because of this late light my heart filled with song.
The crystals align
In the bright day’s sunshine
But just after three
And just before nine.
Winter hours are different, of course.
It still feels good, though.[Click to View YouTube Video]Oh, yeah!
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Jun 22, 2014 - 11:31am PT
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In every Now Being starts
Around every Here the globe of There is rolling
The Middle is everywhere
Bowed is the path of eternity
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, CA
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'The Sea of Dogs'
They lie around upon my floor,
They fart and burp and start to snore,
And bolt upright to greet the door,
With every noise I can't keep score,
They roil around and tumble forth,
Like angry waves from south to north,
And scrambling for all they're worth,
To settle once again to earth,
They spread out into every space,
With bait like breath to lick your face,
You might consider in this case,
My love of canines no disgrace,
They flow in dreams until I wake,
The sea of dogs a living lake,
Of friends I've known and friends I'll make,
This wolfy kith and kin I'll take.
-bushman
10/20/2013
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, CA
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‘Mother Earth’
How wowed the people are all now with matters spiritual and small,
The pope, the royals, movie stars, all wealthy go before the fall,
The wars unjust and lost enthrall and rally those who hear the call,
To pile before the alter all who sacrificed and stood up tall,
Let not the silenced voices wane,
Nor wash away the vanquished stain,
Of blood and flesh and splattered brain,
Of those who fell, and those in pain,
What once was purpose sure and true,
Now hardly counts, cannot undue,
Those wasteful habits doth imbue,
The emigrant who must eschew,
To take the banner dashing down,
The false, untruth, and symbol found,
In every circle all around,
T'wards sanctity and hallowed ground,
For what I speak it can't be told,
In proclamation, loud or bold,
For whom I represent is old,
And orbiting through path so cold,
The home and namesake of my birth,
For whom I know it's all been worth,
Cast no aspersions nor unearth,
My own true mother, Mother Earth.
-bushman
03-19-2013
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, CA
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'The Murdering Old Whore'
Up and down from ditch to ditch,
And to and fro the wobbly witch,
Would deign to thrash the field much slower,
With her rusty little rider mower,
The land was pocked and overgrown,
With brambly thistles full of thorn,
She presided o'er the crude demesne,
As dusk surrendered to the rain.
Engendered by the dragon's eggs,
At night she oiled her scaly legs,
And slathered thickly with a trowel,
Her makeup framed the ugly scowl,
With every victim she beguiled,
And everyone that she defiled,
Within her castle full of cats,
The infinitude of flies and gnats,
There feeding off the foul remains,
And dried the proximal blood stains.
The gentlemen and drunken louts,
Arrived with prose and angry shouts,
To find the mistress in repose,
Their preservation at dispose,
And adding to their own confusion,
The wretched hag cast the illusion,
Of comeliness with such profusion,
They stalked her with a rapt delusion.
Now of this warning I must stress,
And with immodesty confess,
So never mind the awful mess,
Of such details you need not worry,
It happened in a sudden flurry,
You see the murdering old Whore,
Took no time to keep the score,
For as she snuffed out every life,
And wiped her long stiletto knife,
There crept a specter to the floor.
She took no heed the ugly whore,
Not noticing the open door,
Or who crept so softly on her floor,
This thing in shadow to abhor,
For as she drained another fool,
The temperature began to cool,
She noticed not the stench of drool,
And rancid breath of undead Ghoul.
Her house was living not for those,
Who walked upright or on ten toes,
Or paid attention every night,
With baited breath and knuckles white,
This house had witnessed every crime,
Though all would meet their end in time,
The house with all its history,
And long string of calamity,
Had left a stench in every room,
Of young lives wasted in their bloom,
By this whore who practiced treachery,
And preyed on their infidelity.
The whore was prone and languid when,
The specter struck his fangs went in,
And drained her life and every word,
Her cries unheeded and unheard,
And so it was with no surprise,
With no sunset and no sunrise,
The murdering whore met her demise,
With final breath and cold dead eyes.
-bushman
06-13-2013
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, CA
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'The Monument'
I came home from work today,
A day like others I must say,
Where nothing functioned as it should,
No matter how I tried it would,
Not start or run or operate,
Or stay together in a state,
That served a purpose or a fate,
As everything left me irate,
I looked for comfort from my dogs,
But they just laid there like two logs,
Eyeing me with apathy,
And no apparent sympathy,
My work load it would not desist,
More duties waited like the law,
Both legally and morally,
All business as I set my jaw,
And clenched it most spasmodically,
And breathing periodically,
I set to work to right my mess,
With dreadful silence I confess,
And noticed then the monument,
Of all the hours I had spent,
Accumulating merchandise,
And gadgets of every devise,
Of furniture and habiliments,
And fixtures and impediments,
With cookware and in my defense,
Some hygienic accouterments,
Assorted native crockery,
Created with no mockery,
The clothing hanging here and there,
My hats were hanging on a chair,
The dingamabobs and doohickeys,
The watchamacallits and thingamajigs,
The rubber ball that's way too big,
To store someplace or give a fig,
All the doodads and the gizmos,
And 40 feet of firehose,
The contraptions and collections,
Of a lifetime of affections,
Left me feeling most fatigued,
Whereupon it was agreed,
That I had way too much crap,
Most of which I didn't need,
This monument to shopping,
And a proclivity to hoard,
Was a monument to detriment,
The best of which was most abhorred,
So if you care to visit me,
This warning you must heed,
Please bring with you nothing else,
More stuff to store we do not need,
What's edible is forfeit,
For of that you would surmise,
But adding clutter to my junk,
Might earn you a surprise,
And if one more dreaded salesman,
Sells me something I detest,
They'll leave implanted in their ass,
Perhaps my Christmas best.
-bushman
12/05/2013
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, CA
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'Self examination of a would be peasant revolutionary'
The Contract signed upon our birth,
The paper's price and all it's worth,
‘Twas wrote in blood from dying hand,
That drenched the beach and stained the sand,
On foreign shores across the sea,
So bound by ideology,
The soldier's hearts did skip a beat,
So sounding drums would spell defeat,
For despots that would subjugate,
The people's right to congregate,
And choose where they would come or go,
Or speak so freely what they know,
Rights we might think so little of,
Bequeathed through pain with mother's love,
Were balancing our liberty,
And flight from aristocracy,
Those boundaries that we tread upon,
As treacherous the Rubicon,
Our political affinities,
And worn out tired theologies,
Won't save us when the people rise,
When they all finally realize,
Disparity for rich and poor,
Was not what we were fighting for,
So hold your freedom close to heart,
And know that from us it should part,
If charity and clarity,
Too give with love and eyes to see,
Are blocked by those who'd obfuscate,
Who fear that we might integrate,
Casting off all humanity,
For profit and insanity,
The lawyers and the bookkeepers,
Have only numbers in their eyes,
For every buck earned someone dies,
It's time that we all understood,
Bricks or straw or made of wood,
And houses made of glass or stone,
Would render from us flesh and bone,
Should we forsake all that was earned,
In battlefield and those in-firmed,
With ears unturned towards their plight,
And swept under the rug at night,
The citizen and soldier both,
Have seen the statesmen break their oath,
Not caring for or unaware,
What troubled waters they tread there,
Where revolution rears its head,
Democracies ideas are dead,
Where chaos reigns over the land,
And burning crosses lead the band,
Of angry mobs so discontent,
Forgotten was their purpose sent,
For retribution and revenge,
Like drunken sailors on a binge,
So guard your freedom with respect,
For sacrifice and don't neglect,
That freedom's never truly free,
Unless for all there's liberty,
From 'cross the street to foreign lands,
Our freedom rides on joining hands,
And wiping out inequity,
In every place where it may be.
-bushman
02/10/2014
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, CA
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'A Climber's Heart'
I climbed a cliff all by myself,
And there I found upon a shelf,
The beating heart of someone dear,
I thought I knew it was not clear,
I placed it in my little pack,
And stopped to have a little snack,
I looked around and tried to find,
More pieces of the friend of mine,
I scrambled up and down the route,
I found his head it wore a pout,
I found more pieces there about,
His arms and legs and trunk no doubt,
And tied a bundle with a knot,
The jumble of the friend I got,
I climbed with him down from that spot,
And took him home to save from rot,
He fit the freezer in my shop,
Displacing food and other slop,
I told my wife about the friend,
Of how he lived and of his end,
She told me what I knew was true,
In any case what I must do,
I went into my little lab,
And laid my friend out on the slab,
I started with a simple plan,
To reassemble my good man,
To sew him up with every part,
And reattach his beating heart,
The final stitch was in his nose,
A painful murmur then arose,
A mournful cry and then a shout,
His body trembled all about,
And then he lurched and sat upright,
I shuddered with a dreadful fright,
He stared and looked me in the eye,
And slowly he let out a sigh,
"Why did you take me from that place?
From where I slipped and fell from grace,
Where I found peace and knew that I,
Would meet my fate and I would die,
"While doing what I loved the best,
Climbing was the purest test,
Of all I was and all I'll be,
From here until eternity,"
And then he stopped and said no more,
He crumpled up upon the floor,
I tried to wake him from his rest,
Then left him for I thought it best,
And went to sleep and dreamt of stones,
And whipper falls and broken bones,
Of those I've loved and those I've lost,
No matter how they paid the cost,
And woke at dawn all wet with sweat,
And knew my task with no regret,
I bundled up my broken friend,
And took off hiking 'round the bend,
I muscled him up to that spot,
To where his beating heart had got,
I laid him out upon that shelf,
And said a prayer not for myself,
"I don't believe in God and such,”
I spoke to him and said as much,
“Please take my friend here if you dare,
But of this caveat beware,
"A climber's heart could never be,
At rest or in captivity,
The heart and mind and all the hope,
Are something tested by the rope,
"To part with mediocrity,
A salient verticality,
The climber's heart will never rest,
Even when they're at their best,
"A climber's heart will always be,
On mountain top and apogee,
Or scrambling across the scree,
Bound to earth but always free,
"So take and keep him if you would,
You see I've done all that I could,
To honor him and wish him well,
I've said all that there is to tell,"
And in that place I climbed a bit,
And climbed some more in others yet,
But found myself returning to,
That place I saw the world undo,
My dearest friend and rend askew,
All he would be or ever do,
His beating heart a testament,
Of what the climbers heart had meant.
-bushman
06/07/2013
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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356. Auguries of Innocence
William Blake (1757–1827)
TO see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.
A robin redbreast in a cage 5
Puts all heaven in a rage.
A dove-house fill’d with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro’ all its regions.
A dog starv’d at his master’s gate
Predicts the ruin of the state. 10
A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.
A skylark wounded in the wing, 15
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm’d for fight
Does the rising sun affright.
Every wolf’s and lion’s howl
Raises from hell a human soul. 20
The wild deer, wand’ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus’d breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher’s knife.
The bat that flits at close of eve 25
Has left the brain that won’t believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever’s fright.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov’d by men. 30
He who the ox to wrath has mov’d
Shall never be by woman lov’d.
The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider’s enmity.
He who torments the chafer’s sprite 35
Weaves a bower in endless night.
The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother’s grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgment draweth nigh. 40
He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar’s dog and widow’s cat,
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.
The gnat that sings his summer’s song 45
Poison gets from slander’s tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy’s foot.
The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist’s jealousy. 50
The prince’s robes and beggar’s rags
Are toadstools on the miser’s bags.
A truth that’s told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so; 55
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro’ the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine. 60
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The babe is more than swaddling bands;
Throughout all these human lands
Tools were made, and born were hands, 65
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;
This is caught by females bright,
And return’d to its own delight. 70
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,
Are waves that beat on heaven’s shore.
The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes revenge in realms of death.
The beggar’s rags, fluttering in air, 75
Does to rags the heavens tear.
The soldier, arm’d with sword and gun,
Palsied strikes the summer’s sun.
The poor man’s farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric’s shore. 80
One mite wrung from the lab’rer’s hands
Shall buy and sell the miser’s lands;
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.
He who mocks the infant’s faith 85
Shall be mock’d in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne’er get out.
He who respects the infant’s faith
Triumphs over hell and death. 90
The child’s toys and the old man’s reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.
The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt 95
Doth put the light of knowledge out.
The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar’s laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour’s iron brace. 100
When gold and gems adorn the plow,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle, or the cricket’s cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.
The emmet’s inch and eagle’s mile 105
Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne’er believe, do what you please.
If the sun and moon should doubt,
They’d immediately go out. 110
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.
The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation’s fate.
The harlot’s cry from street to street 115
Shall weave old England’s winding-sheet.
The winner’s shout, the loser’s curse,
Dance before dead England’s hearse.
Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born, 120
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.
We are led to believe a lie 125
When we see not thro’ the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.
God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night; 130
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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TO MAKE THE PORTRAIT OF A BIRD
Jacques Prevert
First paint a cage
with an open door
paint then
something pretty
something simple
something beautiful
something useful...
for the bird
then place the canvas against a tree
in a garden
in a wood
or in a forest
hide yourself behind the tree
without saying anything
without moving...
Sometimes the bird comes quickly
but he can also just as well wait long years
before deciding
Don’t be discouraged
wait
wait if necessary years
The rapidity or slowness of the arrival
of the bird having nothing to do
with the success of the picture
When the bird arrives
if the bird arrives
observe a profound silence
wait till the bird enters the cage
and when he’s entered
close the door gently with the paintbrush
then
remove one by one all the bars
taking care not to touch a feather of the bird
Then do a portrait of a tree
choosing the most beautiful of its branches
for the bird
Paint also green foliage and the freshness of the breeze
the sun-dust
and the noises of the beasts of the field in the heat of summer
and then wait till the bird decides to sing
If the bird doesn’t sing
it’s a bad sign
a sign that the picture is bad
but if he sings it’s a good sign
a sign that you can sign
Then you pull out very gently
one of the bird’s feathers
and sign your name with it in the corner of the picture
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drljefe
climber
El Presidio San Augustin del Tucson
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Jul 13, 2014 - 09:47pm PT
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we straighten our bookshelves
organize drawers
we dust discard donate
a protocol of distraction
we walk miles alone
work the puzzle alone
not wanting to finish the puzzle
hoping it gets harder
that suddenly there are more books
more dust less holds
that nanometers get smaller
that our bended knees
our hands in prayer our songs
somehow work
that our tears were for nothing
but a salty kiss for Rose
7.13.14
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 13, 2014 - 10:31pm PT
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^^^^^^^
BOOKSHELF HOLDS
A look between my knees
Is pretty durn revealing
A book between my knees
Is looking more appealing
A quick look between my knees
I am fooking peeling!
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Leggs
Sport climber
Made in California
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Jul 14, 2014 - 07:34am PT
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drljefe... nice writing.
I wish so very much I could take away the worry from your heart and mind as you navigate this road of uncertainty and natural fear. Please know you’ve got an amazing support system, are well loved and that your heart is handled with the gentle and understanding care it needs and deserves.
"I have passed a mountain peak and my soul is soaring in the
Firmament of complete and unbound freedom;
I am far, far away, my companions, and the clouds are
Hiding the hills from my eyes.
The valleys are becoming flooded with an ocean of silence, and the
Hands of oblivion are engulfing the roads and the houses;
The prairies and fields are disappearing behind a white specter
That looks like the spring cloud, yellow as the candlelight
And red as the twilight.
The songs of the waves and the hymns of the streams
Are scattered, and the voices of the throngs reduced to silence;
And I can hear naught but the music of Eternity
In exact harmony with the spirit's desires.
I am cloaked in full whiteness;
I am in comfort; I am in peace."
~Kahil Gibran
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 15, 2014 - 07:37am PT
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EL VIAJE
Carlos Pellicer
Y moví mis enérgicas piernas de caminante
y al monte azul tendí.
Cargué la noche entera en mi dorso de Atlante.
Cantaron los luceros para mí.
Amaneció en el río y lo crucé desnudo
y chorreando la aurora en todo el monte hendí.
Y era el sabor sombrío que da el cacao crudo
cuando al mascar lo muelen los dientes del tapir.
Pidió la luz en hueco para saldar su cuenta
(yo llevaba un puñado de amanecer en mí).
Apretaron los cedros su distancia, y violenta
reunió la sombra el rayo de luz que yo partí.
Sobre las hojas muertas de cien siglos, acampo.
Vengo de la montaña y el azul retoñé.
Arqueo en claro círculo la horizontal del campo.
Sube, sobre mis piernas, todo el cuerpo que alcé.
Rodea el valle. Hablo,
y alrededor, la vida, sabe lo que yo sé.
I am not at all "fluent" in Espanol.
This poem is not translated. I could not find a translation. The images which come when using the Google Translator tool are strange and make me think more and guess more, which is entertaining, if you like that sort of thing...
Y era el sabor sombrío que da el cacao crudo
cuando al mascar lo muelen los dientes del tapir.
This comes out as
And it was dark flavor that gives raw cacao
as the chewing teeth grind tapir.
The average Mercedian (American) doesn't know a tapir from a taper and spells cacao wrong ninety percent of the time.
Nor does he read more than greeting card poetry.
Why do we even bother?
WHERE IN LEBANON?
Joe Philistine
Was feeling mean
Yes, he felt far from fine.
I asked him why
He gave a sigh,
"They say I'm a PhilisTYNE!"
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