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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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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Bare Leggs?
Boo Dawg?
ONCE I WAS MY BROTHER
Once I was “My Brother!”
Now I’m just your “Dawg!”
It confused my dear sweet mother
And she’s still all agog.
Language changes very fast;
It doesn’t take much time.
It often happened in the past
Through the medium of rhyme
Good old Geoffrey Chaucer,
Made much merry melody.
Though he had no bloody saucer
Nor had he ary tea.
He knew no “modern day”
Back in those days of yore.
Lingos change and seldom stay
The way they were before.
Speaking “cool” is not that hard,
Like falling off a log.
But be a friend, my dear Old Pard,
And please don’t call me “Dawg!”
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Sep 10, 2014 - 01:46pm PT
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^^^^Very nice, Sri Locker. Namaste today, ain't it?
[quote]http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Art-of-Blues/665837473465817[/quote]
[the original copy of this poem is herewith translated into norwegian]
blues and other colors
is this some of them blues?
is it what the bluest blue eyes can't see
because of the blue in them?
or is this some of them other colors?
is it what the reddest face can't admit
because of the shame of failure?
the greenest jealousy?
the purplest passion?
the yellowest cowardice?
the blackest hate?
or am i blind?
paint a picture of ur sour sorrow
emboss it with ur bitter tears
and caress it with ur soft fingers
and seal it with ur dry kisses
and just hang it on the wall of ur warped memory
i don't need ur reminding me of all that
u may be more fond of ur blues than anything, i'm thinking
--mfm
And
Red House Painters--Song for a Blue Guitar
When everything we felt failed
And some music soft in distant sails
But it don't sound like it did before
Then i know i'm left with nothing more
Than my own soul
When pretty pictues face back
But your coats aren't hanging on the rack
And blue water turns to
A place that i can't get to
A place that i can't
In a room all i feel
Is the cold that you left
Through the air all i see
Is your face full of blame
What's left to see
What's there to see
In the room all i feel
Is the cold that you left
Through the air all i see
Is your face full of blame
What's left to see
What's there to see
What's left to see
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Sep 11, 2014 - 12:02pm PT
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Morning Edition host Renee Montagne wonders how Keith Richards came up with these lines from "Happy":
//Well, I never kept a dollar past sunset / It always burned a hole in my pants / Never made a school mama happy / Never blew a second chance.//
"You can start off with one line, and you've got maybe two seconds to come up with another one. You're bypassing the thought process and you're just seeing what comes out," Richards says. "If it doesn't work, then you just rewrite. Other times, you wanna do these things on the knife edge — you really don't know what you're going to say next. It saves a lot of paper."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Sep 14, 2014 - 12:15am PT
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"You can start off with one line, and you've got maybe two seconds to come up with another one. You're bypassing the thought process and you're just seeing what comes out," Richards says. "If it doesn't work, then you just rewrite. Other times, you wanna do these things on the knife edge — you really don't know what you're going to say next. It saves a lot of paper."
what the wee dwarf miner said about his profession is very similar to what young master richards describes:
"you can start off in one vein and it takes forever to find a good one.
you're bypassing all the choss and you're looking for paydirt.
if yer engineering doesn't work, the crew don't eat.
then i'm not Happy anymore.
i turn into Grouchy.
other times, you want to let Dopey do the digging.
you don't know what's gonna happen when you open a vein.
then it's a good thing i'm a Doc, a lot of times.
it saves a lot of time and kleenexes in a cave-in, when you are breathing all that dust.
it always makes me Sneezy."
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Translation:
Someday my prince will come
Someday I'll find my love
And how thrilling that moment will be
When the prince of my dreams comes to me
He'll whisper I love you
And steal a kiss or two
Though he's far away I'll find my love someday
Someday when my dreams come true
Someday I'll find my love
Someone to call my own
And I know at the moment we meet
My heart will start skipping the beats
Someday we'll say and do
Things we've been longing to
Though he's far away I'll find my love someday
Someday when my dreams come true
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perswig
climber
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Sep 25, 2014 - 05:09pm PT
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low tide and fog
In two steps we are surrounded by silence,
sound tamped and skin dampened in an instant,
akin to a snowstorm smoothing light and sight but
warm and smelling strongly of salt,
of soul, of sex, of the sea.
We are embraced by a storm intimated only
and mixing with the ocean
unseen and unheard but near enough to spit,
returning saliva and salt back from whence it came,
from whence WE came and to which we’ll go.
But not tonight; tonight we sleep and wait to see
what tomorrow brings.
Dale
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