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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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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Super Topo
Filling station for the imagination
Waste not your youth
For surely it, youth, was wasted on me,
That I regret not shuffling farther than I did
Seeing at least twice as much would still not be enough
Said to have only an hour to see Yosemite,
The rangers tell it over and over
Just sit down right here, and cry.
--Gnome Ofthe Diabase
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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So you're saying in your way that Siciliano from Flute Sonata No 2 in E flat major, BWV1031, has poetry.
It has that vibe, certainly.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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This poem is too good not to be saved here!
10-09-14, following Coz' rigging accident.
"for YOU scott"
by neebeeshaabookway
some days may seem, they never end...
they drag on, just a tedious blend...
perhaps a blend of discomfort-and-pain...
BUT--cherish this thought, it all LEADS to a gain...
you are the captain--no matter, if hospital-staff, be the crew...
you can TAKE charge of your 'innerman', in your tasks, that you do...
sail your self, as if a ship...
ride-out every: lift, roll, or dip...
as the storm subsides...
you will catch glimpses of warm, gentle tides...
bask in those, and catch more wind, to mend...
and hold tight, to each hope and hand, from each friend...
and know that the north star, never falters to 'lead'...
an example of god above, to use, as we need...
sail and master the troubled-waters, charted, that you face...
and later, no matter how later, smile, and thank god, for such grace...
you can't keep supertopo-climbers at bay...
they are sailing, 'round about' FOR YOU, even if/or at play...
you are in our thoughts and hearts, you see...
and if you need anything, well--here they all be!...
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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nICE THOUGHt
take a bearing on the Barents Sea straight from the Bering Strait
straightaway from there to your household,
for the bare, warm breast that I there see
calls stronger than any sea I've seen.
--thebravecowboy
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 10, 2014 - 04:29pm PT
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A Waltz with Walk Whitman
I used to go to Pfaff’s nearly every night. . . after taking a bath and finishing the work of the day. When it began to grow dark, Pfaff would politely invite everybody who happened to be sitting in the cave he had under the sidewalk to some other part of the restaurant. There was a long table extending the length of this cave; and as soon as the Bohemians put in an appearance, Henry Clapp would take a seat at the head of the table. I think there was as good talk around that table as took place anywhere in the world. Clapp was a very witty man.
—from an interview with Walt Whitman, July II, 1866, The Brooklyn Eagle.
The butcher-boy puts off his killing clothes, or
sharpens his knife at the stall in the market,
I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and
his breakdown.
Walter crosses the Fulton Ferry as usual, views the waves and the sky as placidly, contemplates the forests of tall masts, the laboring tug-boats, the big ships bound in or out, and the details of that great picture, our busy bay, with the same studious and undazzled vision. Walter exchanges his accustomed joke with the deck hands, and winks to the pilot just the same as ever, and over at Pfaff’s, where the convivial coteries of Bohemia are wont to congregate, no happier soul shines forth its radiance o’er the festive scene than Walter’s.
And speaking of books, here comes Walt Whitman, author of ‘Leaves of Grass,' . . . His shirt collar is turned off from his muscular throat, and his shoulders are thrown back as if even in that fine, ample chest of his, his lungs had not sufficient play-room.
Tall, large, rough-looking man, in a journeyman carpenter’s uniform. Coarse, sanguine, complexion; strong, bristly, grizzled beard; singular eyes, of a semi-transparent, indistinct light blue, and with that sleepy look that comes when the lid rests half way down over the pupil; careless, lounging gait. Walt Whitman, the sturdy, self-conscious microcosm, prose-poetical author of that incongruous hash of mud and gold, ‘Leaves of Grass.'
Washes and razors for foofoos. . . . for me freckles
and a bristling beard.
They who piddle and patter here in collars and
tailed coats. . . .
I am aware who they are. . . and that they are
not worms or fleas,
I acknowledge the duplicates of myself under all
the scrape-lipped and pipe-legged concealments.
For none other than Walt is it who, in response, turns up with springing and elastic motion, and lights on the off side top of the stage with his hips held against the rod as quietly as a hawk swoops to its nest. . . As onward speeds the stage, mark his nonchalant air, seated aslant, and quite at home. —Our million-hued and ever changing panorama of Broadway moves steadily down; he, going up sees it all, as a kind of half dream. —Mark the salute of four out of five of the drivers, downward salutes which he silently returns in the same manner—the raised arm, and the upright hand.—
The old Whitman said: “I suppose the critics will laugh heartily, but the influence of those Broadway omnibus jaunts and drivers and declamations and escapades undoubtedly entered into the gestation of ‘Leaves of Grass.'"
Whitman would have dropped off the Fifth Avenue near Bond Street and then strolled over to Broadway, heading for Pfaff’s. Past Bond Street on Broadway he would go by a line of newly-built hotels, theaters, and institutions as the new entertainment district had moved to “upper Broadway," going up as far as Fourteenth Street. At No. 677 Broadway on the west side stood the Metropolitan Hall, rebuilt and renamed after fire had destroyed it along with a companion building in 1854. (The companion building was renamed the New York Theater and Metropolitan Opera House.) At No. 659 was the Egyptian Museum, housing a private collection owned by a scholarly Englishman, Dr. Abbott, with whom Whitman spent many hours and who inspired the poet to read books on Egyptology and other ancient civilizations and religions.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 19, 2014 - 11:37am PT
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I deleted a thread to place what was (apparently) unread
In this graveyard of thoughts that came here to die.
dude
u no who
i will say no more say no more
like monty python crawlin' under ur door
if u will just listen to my story 'bout a man named u
i am flexible about ur choice of pronouns
but what's this reality gig?
are u not secure in ur fantasy?
are life's persistent questions beginning to need answers?
this is not an intervention, by the way
it is an invention
it has a real title and everything
Das Kapital of Misery
Hey there, say, masochist for the ages
I'm talking to your ass
So turn around and grab your ankles
You've been naughty
A neo-khan came to ride horde on the Walking Taco today.
He never said his name. Nor do I remember it.
We’ll call him Jingus Con.
He was dressed up in some weird orange Mexican jumping suit
Said he’d been to Bumfuk
Wanted to die there but they kicked his ass out
disregard those civil moments.
the ones that are assigned hyper-meaning;
the ones shoved into my mind by
the bored universe.
He needed a break
So I cut him some slack
I gave him some bark tea
I made him promise to grow into a bright young man
With more promise in him than the arch-fiend liar
Who got to him in the first place
A paradise of words with no worn-out phrases
And lots of silent listeners
To his troubles in El Foresta del Paradiso
Which is just a jumping-off place for the big-tme
At the end of the line
Exclamation Point Beyond
And what do you think he did
he snubbed the protection
and entered the bath naked....
Use your imagination on this one
It’s really not hard to do
Just lay down your guitar and pick up that double-bit ax
And start chopping
Don’t worry where the chopped bits land
We are all just sawdust on the floor of the wood-shop
Cow turds in the mountain of manure at the dairy
Tat on the anchors of our routes through the Province of Real
Soiled pillow cases in the laundry hamper of this smelly old world
Less than perfect but with more potential than Tesla ever had
More than Edison ever dreamed of
We are incandescent bulbs of beautiful flowers
It’s just some are dimmer than others
It’s not time to turn out the lights
This party is far from over, neithernorwegian
There are many more logs floating down into your pond
Don’t let them roll over on you
The tide will come in on little mouse feet
And drown you in front of your brothers
And you will be forced to become a new man
Don’t forget to turn over in your grave
And I won’t forget to put flowers at your door
And try to keep the tip of your tool out of the mud
Nawmean?
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Oct 19, 2014 - 12:00pm PT
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And when it's time to rest...
Elisabeth Schwarzkopf: Vier Letzte Lieder- Beim Schalfengehen (Strauss) - "Going to Sleep"
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 19, 2014 - 04:23pm PT
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A friend, having delved into the Oxford English Dictionary web site, challenged me to create some doggerel using the only five words in the English language ending in uum.
Well, I failed. The first result was not in good taste. If she will accept 4 out of 5, padded with a couple of Latin words and a few which end in ium, here’s a shot at it, which almost strangled my spell-checker.
Opprobrium
or
The Deluge)
Earth once was an Elysium
Within the space continuum
Which stretches in perpetuum.
It’s now a fouled residuum
Which orbits in the vacuum.
Said Yahweh, during triduum,
“That place is Pandemonium,
I’ll cure that rank contagium!
I’ll quench that foul effluvium -
I’ll send down a diluvium!
“An inundating menstruum
Dissolves that human odium
And brings back equilibrium -
And for the next millennium
I’ll have an oceanarium!”
(And sea level is rising. Hmmmm.)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 19, 2014 - 04:33pm PT
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Encomium
Cutting edge
Avant garde
On the ledge
Wasn't hard
Wayne Merry
Sees you through
If it's hairy
Or five-two
Fossil owns
The big prize
His big stones
Are giant-size
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 19, 2014 - 08:32pm PT
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I remember with moans
That I once had great stones -
Those huge painful lumps
Were a symptom of mumps.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 20, 2014 - 01:42pm PT
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Is Gnome “Staring Into the Abyss?”
So quietly he squats, kneels, assumes the pose.
The lemon tree, kumquats, grapes, surround his soul.
Then he suddenly smiles, sniffs, this is no rose.
He comes to see, neath the lemon tree, the mole.
Holy Moley, pastor of the garden of fun on the Isle of Repose
"This sure beats thinking of bird-eating spiders," he muses.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 21, 2014 - 09:35am PT
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I have heard BooDawg's sung tale twice now, a capella around a fire.
Nancy McQuacken, hand upon the wheel.
DR. MCQUACKEN
Dr. McQuacken (To the tune of “Casey Jones”)
Come all you dieters we have right now
A program to help you lose some weight, and how!
If you have excess baggage that you’d like to lose,
Sign up with us for the Doctor’s cruise.
Chorus:
Dr. McQuacken, hand upon the wheel;
Dr. McQuacken with the jib-sheet in his hand;
Dr. McQuacken has the weight-loss program for you,
And you can’t get off it ’til you reach dry land.
Oh, the doctor’s wife, Nancy, she’s a mighty fine cook.
She’ll whip up any meal from the old cook book.
She’ll make up any meal that your heart could wish,
But you still lose weight because you feed the fish.
The exercise program is a mighty fine treat.
You dance rock & roll to a windward beat.
You do isometrics with each move you make.
And to lose your cookies is a piece of cake.
You’re up after midnight in the pouring rain.
The doctor’s orders are to reef the main.
You pull in sail ’til you’re soaking wet.
And there goes another seven pounds in sweat.
And when you’ve arrived at your port of call,
Your excess baggage, you’ll have lost it all.
At the celebration party, there will be no lack,
And in one night of feasting, you will gain it back!
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