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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Jul 15, 2014 - 10:00am PT
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"He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth, Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it."
As an act of balance...
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 23, 2014 - 11:11am PT
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Thank you, Marlow.
I have one I wrote in response by an American genius (me) about felinity.
It's a world of predators out there.
Raining Cats & Frogs
The cat comes with little frog feet.
The more he has, the more he’ll eat,
With such big lunches
He sleeps bunches.
Mr. Sandbag LIKES!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 29, 2014 - 07:34am PT
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You like theatree?
You want to danes with me?
THE YOUNG DANCER
by Black Francis/Josh Frank
(a capella, but clap your hands and sing along)
She’s prepared now for the dancing
But he isn’t even glancing
She requests a little music
But he says, Please, no excuses
That’s how you get your chance, sonny
Working for Mr. Milk & Honey
So why do I go on?
A girl has got to eat.
Some folk have brains or brawn
I’ve got curves and feet
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 29, 2014 - 02:55pm PT
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pb
Sport climber
Sonora Ca
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Jul 29, 2014 - 04:35pm PT
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there once was a man from Ningbo
who longed for a summit or two
he intrigued ST readers
with his struggling meters
or he may have just played us for fools
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 31, 2014 - 11:43pm PT
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ON MONSIEUR'S DEPARTURE
by Queen Elizabeth I
I grieve and dare not show my discontent;
I love, and yet am forced to seem to hate;
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant;
I seem stark mute, but inwardly do prate.
I am, and not; I freeze and yet am burned,
Since from myself another self I turned.
My care is like my shadow in the sun --
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands, and lies by me, doth what I have done;
His too familiar care doth make me rue it.
No means I find to rid him from my breast,
Till by the end of things it be suppressed.
Some gentler passion slide into my mind,
For I am soft and made of melting snow;
Or be more cruel, Love, and so be kind.
Let me or float or sink, be high or low;
Or let me live with some more sweet content,
Or die, and so forget what love e’er meant.
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susu
Trad climber
East Bay, CA
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"First Song" by Galway Kinnell
Then it was dusk in Illinois, the small boy
After an afternoon of carting dung
Hung on the rail fence, a sapped thing
Weary to crying. Dark was growing tall
And he began to hear the pond frogs all
Calling on his ear with what seemed their joy.
Soon their sound was pleasant for a boy
Listening in the smoky dusk and the nightfall
Of Illinois, and from the fields two small
Boys came bearing cornstalk violins
And they rubbed the cornstalk bows with resins
And the three sat there scraping of their joy.
It was now fine music the frogs and the boys
Did in the towering Illinois twilight make
And into dark in spite of a shoulder's ache
A boy's hunched body loved out of a stalk
The first song of his happiness, and the song woke
His heart to the darkness and into the sadness of joy.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Two Songs from Nora, A Short Story by Ring Lardner
“Somewhere in the old world
You and I belong.
It will be a gold world,
Full of light and song.
Why not let’s divide our time
Between your native land and mine?
Move from Italy to Spain,
Then back to Italy again?
“In sunny Italy,
My Spanish queen,
You’ll fit so prettily
In that glorious scene.
You will sing me ‘La Paloma’;
I will sing you ‘Cara Roma’;
We will build a little home, a
Bungalow seren.
Then in the Pryenees,
Somewhere in Spain,
We’ll rest our weary knees
Down in Lovers’ Lane,
And when the breakers roll a-
Cross the azure sea,
Espanola, Gorgonzola;
Spain and Italy.”
….Morris played another introduction, strains that Hazlett was sure he had heard a hundred times before, and Moon was off again:
“I want to go to Alabam’.
That’s where my lovin’ sweetheart am,
And won’t she shout and dance for joy
To see once more her lovin’ boy!
I’ve got enough saved up, I guess,
To buy her shoes and a bran’-new dress.
She’s black as coal, and yet I think
When I walk in, she’ll be tickled pink.
“Take me to Montgomery
Where it’s always summery.
New York’s just a mummery.
Give me life that’s real.
New York fields are rotten fields;
I mean those there cotton fields,
Selma and Mobile.
I done been away so long;
Never thought I’d stay so long.
Train, you’d better race along
To my honey lamb.
Train, you make it snappy till
(‘Cause I won’t be happy till)
I am in the capital,
Montgomery, Alabam’.”
....'Harry,' he said, "what kind of whiskey have you got?"
"Well, Mr. Hazlett, I can sell you some good Scotch, but I ain't so sure of the rye. In fact, I'm kind of scared of it."
"How soon can you bring me a case?"
"Right off quick. It's the Scotch you want, ain't it?"
"No," said Hazlett. "I want the rye."
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susu
Trad climber
East Bay, CA
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"Three Moves"
By John Logan, 1923 - 1987
Three moves in sixth months and I remain
the same.
Two homes made two friends.
The third leaves me with myself again.
(We hardly speak.)
Here I am with tame ducks
and my neighbors’ boats,
only this electric heat
against the April damp.
I have a friend named Frank—
the only one who ever dares to call
and ask me, “How’s your soul?”
I hadn’t thought about it for a while,
and was ashamed to say I didn’t know.
I have no priest for now.
Who
will forgive me then. Will you
Tame birds and my neighbors’ boats.
The ducks honk about the floats . . .
They walk dead drunk onto the land and grounds,
iridescent blue and black and green and brown.
They live on swill
our aged houseboats spill.
But still they are beautiful.
Look! The duck with its unlikely beak
has stopped to pick
and pull
at the potted daffodil.
Then again they sway home
to dream
bright gardens of fish in the early night.
Oh these ducks are all right.
They will survive.
But I am sorry I do not often see them climb.
Poor sons-a-bitching ducks.
You’re all f*#ked up.
What do you do that for?
Why don’t you hover near the sun anymore?
Afraid you’ll melt?
These foolish ducks lack a sense of guilt,
and so all their multi-thousand-mile range
is too short for the hope of change.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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A GOOSE AND A DUCK
(DEDICATED to Papa Duck, Dated June 05)
Jade Elizabeth Trainor received a poetry.com award for this poem
A goose and a duck walked through a farm,
Holding each others wings like arms,
The farmer froze and watched them cross the yard,
His wife stock still and staring hard.
A dog started to bark loudly at the two,
It startled them so into the air they flew,
Past the farm and into the town,
It never occurred to them to look down.
Past the town and into the city,
The air smelled stale and slightly gritty,
They landed in a large flock of birds,
But neither could understand a single word.
Into the sunrise they set off the next day,
They didn’t have time for the slightest delay,
Side by side the flew through the air,
The city folk all stopped at once to stare.
Upon their return home to the farm,
The cold night air still and calm,
They flew into the barn to sleep,
Wings around each other not a peep.
© Jade Elizabeth Trainor
Visit Jade at her website: http://www.jades-world.com
After all, it's WERNER'S BIRD DAY...
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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REQUIEM
by Hope Meek (MHope)
Jim Baldwin from Washington Column 1964
Mating calls hung from frosted stars:
the Valley’s granite walls held them in tension.
Bucks in spring bugled renewal.
Unzipping our sleeping bag you left me
in a crackling blue midnight shivering.
You pissed your name in the snow
and then returning you warmed me
‘til, like the river, warmer than the air
we spread above us misted sweet breath.
Like angels going home we climbed Middle Cathedral that day.
Bridal Veil Falls put pearls in your beard.
You laughed as I licked them away.
I was gone from the valley the day you went wheeling,
caroming off granite falling,
raining beeners and pitons in your dead face.
RIP, Hope.
RIP, Jim.
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susu
Trad climber
East Bay, CA
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Wow that's exquisite. Tfpu Mouse.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Aug 13, 2014 - 03:43am PT
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For my/our "Busted Valentine."
A salacious smooch frozen in time.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Yep: Swing and a Miss.
RIP, Bacall.
See ya 'round, Ruby.
Marlow, that was lovely, but I'm still in a panic!
Am I really Gunnar Dye? so
[Click to View YouTube Video]If I gotta die from impact, I would like to be the one who initiates that "unique fall," rather than some other...
"kid."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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JUST DEAD NOT GONE
There’s no one who’d go visit my grave,
No reason then my corpse to save.
Please spread my cremains o’er Mt. Clark’s flanks.
For this I give undying thanks.
As it’s been in life, it’ll be in death:
One long fight to draw a breath.
In “the end” of course I’ll lose that fight
But glory in what’s in my sight.
There’s Half Dome there and Cloud’s rest, too.
O! What a place. O! What a view.
If visit you must then take a walk
Up on the flanks of old Mt. Clark.
I’ll still be there when once more
Glaciers claim the valley floor;
And move around that holy ground
Where Galen’s slept so very sound.
Parts of me may reach the sea;
It might could happen eventually.
Who’s to know or who’s to say?
I might could only reach the bay.
-MFM
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Leggs
Sport climber
Made in California
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Bare
In the breeze
Under muted moonlight...
Music
My constant companion
As mosquitos
Dance on my knee...
Wednesday.
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