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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 17, 2015 - 05:10am PT
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'The Salty One'
The sawdust floated in the air,
It settled here and settled there,
Upon the floor and on the chair,
On wings and fuses everywhere,
Eyes focused with intensity,
For what seemed an eternity,
He sanded at the density,
And shaped it with tenacity,
"Here's the secret to how it's done,
It takes awhile yet more to go,
Go too far and you'll screw it up,
Then you'll have to start over you know,
Where are those other templates?
Use the strongest wood you've got,
I don't use power tools tools or else,
Looks like it's built by a robot,"
But I never knew a man,
That looked to land a punch,
Who knew how to take hunch,
Then take a break for lunch,
As when I met the Salty One,
And learned how building can be fun,
Never to be done in haste,
For time's too valuable to waste,
As fast as wood chips flew,
Off of his carving knife,
The expletives flew faster,
As he described the wood to life,
I could see it in his work,
And crafted in his art,
Built into every project,
Were pieces of his heart.
There's no other like the Salty One,
I call him for the C-Man knows,
That like the winter winds that come,
That words will come and words will go,
He's treated me like a brother,
He's like a train that's on a track,
And like some long lost relative,
I'll never send him back.
-bushman
04/17/2015
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Apr 17, 2015 - 05:33am PT
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The constant last, the watch-mans past shadows his dawn patrol,
The gates stay locked the cameras stocked twin machines on one and seven,
The ride out to the far gate is seventy minutes away.
The sun is coming up on a new day, as dawn arrives his crux will be,
To sleep or go climb rocks.
FOR 'LOBES'
I have not stepped up but thank you. Bushman
The wealth of emotions that your writing ranges over pursues me through out the day and I read your words into a cold at grade, basement. No man cave it holds the ruins of many lives, some living some not, but all well represented by the flotsam, trash from lives lived in-between
The current world while hanging on to a few things from the past.
One tool 'layed it down' on a sunny day in May. On a straight-away at eleven in the morning?
I have no idea how high he was or how bad he'd got ? The thing is, his - 'Tough old'- boy came back to him in his unconscious state, he faught death as it enveloped his body.
His mind seemed far away but still in the fight. He lingered broken, to me, he seemed to be/was re-climbing every pitch he'd ever climbed since the days of banging pins and star drives to the Shield, in his mind.
When I opened the box of stuff of his, the stuff that nobody wanted that was to be thrown away, I fond the sad remains of crushed love, emotional correspondences, mixed with boasts and wild tails of failure at the hands of fate and alcoholism.
The accident report was only for family. Three days after the fact, there was nothing to see at the spot of the accident. I walked it. A sunny stretch of pavement split by a grassy berm, the truck route is an easy goin' spot after the morning rush.
How or why a mad bad asz could put out his life here?! Compared to the rocky places where he had cheated death, only coming close to dying.
well now I see it was this that was to be . . .
Death by Harley - and a good thing in the end?
He was also known for silly bad stuff . . .
breaking a good friend 's thumb, is one of many,
Some very bad stuff! He drank too much for too long.
On the five twenty five of twenty fifteen I'll climb Duck!, Bob, and Weedge,
cleaned already, it may need chalk!
Scrappy face climbing for fifty feet, too a crack that widens as it gets steep and a good crack leads into a chimney.
The crux for most is working up and out and back I step across the gap three times,
Twice with mandatory gear, (the Weave) the thinly protected face climbing up left avoids harder climbing that goes straight up.
D. B. W. Takes the path of least resistance the natural , old school, line and stops short. . .
In the fond memories of my friend, LOBES.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 17, 2015 - 07:23am PT
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Prologue to The Canterbury Tales
When fair April with his showers sweet,
Has pierced the drought of March to the root's feet
And bathed each vein in liquid of such power,
Its strength creates the newly springing flower...
Like hell.
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 17, 2015 - 08:33am PT
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'I'm My Uncle Brother's Stepson'
Said the pregnant woman who gave birth to her mom,
"That the child is my parent is terribly wrong,"
To the doctor she said, "How on earth could this be?"
He said, "She came back through a time travel machine."
She said, "If I'm her mother and she is my mom,
Then what of my father to be name of Tom?"
The doctor then shouted, "Oy Vey, Tom's my son!"
The woman replied, "See here, what's going on?
If my son-in-law's my father then you're my grandpa?"
"Of course," he then said, "And I'm happy to say,
That I welcome my new daughter-in-law great granddaughter today!"
As it goes with time travel there's more than just fun,
You can be a big family all wrapped into one,
If you ask which came first was it the chicken or the egg?
Of my great uncle grandson is the question I'd beg.
"Oh Great uncle grandson, solve this riddle for me,
Who invented that crazy time traveling machine?"
"Well Great nephew grandfather," he asked to be true,
"There's only one question I'm asking of you,
If he came from the future might not then he be you?"
I said, "I've done no time travel that I can recall,
I'll have to ask Aunt sister my great great grandma..."
(Banjos playing in background).
-bushman
04/17/2015
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 17, 2015 - 09:23am PT
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Hey there Gnome,
So I tried to honor you a while back with a poem, the title was a twisted play on your name, Gnome.
I enjoy reading your writing, it's kind of like a riddle to decipher with a wacky Kerouac style, mysterious, both light and dark, and laced with the pain and memories of your life (I guess) and your adventures. And like a lot of us, a little scarred and somehow touched a bit in the head. Here I'll post again what I wrote... hope it isn't too offensive. It's not about you exactly, but based a little on the feelings and ideas I got after reading your writing.
'Knewm on the Dial'
As he was known,
Knewm was his name,
He had no other just the same,
A curious sort,
With his wicked game of some acclaim,
His deejay role his claim to fame.
Hosting jazz music in the midnight hour,
His phobias though dire,
Caused some to question and inquire,
His robust argument for funds,
To feed artistes long since deceased,
Their obligations long released,
Assuming not what Knewm had known,
Their first mistake,
His dirt would not their thirst to slake,
And for all his loyal following,
No different from his memory clouded,
Their deejay was in mystery shrouded,
Until that day in month of May,
He disappeared my dear friend Knewm,
And more than likely met his doom,
The mystery deepens year by year,
As I realize from womb to tomb,
Though I knew Knewm I hardly knew him.
-bushman
Mar 19, 2015
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Apr 17, 2015 - 09:37am PT
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as a play to the darker side a curse and I am one to suffer under the beatnick verse that glorifies the NO THING and dares one to jump instead of do it static, thanks of course and as you know I was most inspired by your brother. that as you saw when I posted the old magazine article and shared how much it had reached into me, when he, the hero for the coming generation, shook off his mortal coil.
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 20, 2015 - 02:12pm PT
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'Only a Stanley'
My banter so ingloriously,
One day it got the best of me,
Trash texting were the lot of us,
My words somewhat opprobrious,
Alluded to unnatural acts,
And unsubstantiated facts,
'Bout Kimo and a porcine's ass,
Of that I'll speak no more alas,
The things I said were all in jest,
Such crudeness showed my worst at best,
But still the sting was sharp enough,
My biting tongue one might rebuff,
Insults and innuendo such,
My vulgarity a bit too much,
How I sullied names of innocents,
I knew not them in my defense,
But then I thought to get some rest,
Resigned that I meant no offense,
I slept the sleep of guiltlessness,
And woke to business no less,
But there a message more or less,
Admonished me in friendliness,
'Twas met by me with some distress,
Appears I'd struck too close to vest,
I saw that Kimo my good friend,
Had texted I offended him,
My hurtful words somehow so grim,
Was it his faith I had condemned?
Or virtue of a faithful friend,
Defamed within my repertoire?
Had my rude slanders gone too far?
That my vulgar fiction might undo,
A valued friendship would not do,
I had to right these wrongs I'd done,
These insults that I'd poked in fun,
And now in haste I must endeavor,
Heartfelt amends unless I sever,
More than just our mutual trust
But comradeship so true and just,
For friendships earned is friendship gained,
With some not easily attained,
I sent this message to my friend,
In earnestness I would depend,
On his good graces and forgive,
My foolish words and bawdy banter,
And in it see I meant not to slander,
The views and people he held dear,
And so I left it lying there,
What's done was done and said was said,
And went to business in my head,
The day went by and not a word,
Of judgement and what it inferred,
That I had finally crossed the line,
Of something only hearts define,
O'er solemn wisdom's fickle grace,
That biting humor might deface,
A bond 'tween brothers and their faith,
That loyalty and trust embrace,
No message came and I resolved,
To take what came where chips may fall,
No message text or friendly call,
My phone so silent as the night,
My recompense a distant slight,
Compounding on my few regrets,
But roosting there like big egrets,
And there at dusk a single text,
With nervousness I thought, "what next?"
For what had Stanley Kimo sent?
With all sincerity I'd meant,
My words expressing deep regret,
But then at once it dawned on me,
Who could this man of virtue be?
A pious wholesome devotee,
Or flirtatious Don Juan wannabe?
Who's honor was never secondary,
But garrulousness so legendary,
What veiled enigma was there to,
This friend of mine I thought I knew?
I read his text so cautiously,
Three words they said it all to me,
His simple note was, "Got you sucker!"
That dirty rotten mother------!
-Bushman
04/20/2015
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Apr 20, 2015 - 05:12pm PT
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The things I said were all in jest,
Such crudeness showed my worst at best,
But still the sting was sharp enough,
My biting tongue one might rebuff,
Insults and innuendo such,
My vulgarity a bit too much,
STILL MID- READ
GWAD, Thats good!
Hope that 'ell has
a wordsmith worthy
when at last, With full
acrimony I die
and the Devil, my soul, he keeps
for letting me live out my life
With a view that was better than
the view from the cheap seats.
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 20, 2015 - 09:16pm PT
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'Nitrodiaperman'
See the Nitrodiaperman?
Sh#t happens when he wins,
The nitrodiaper truck he drives,
Is full of cats who wear Depends,
And each and every diapered cat,
Wears diapers in nine lives,
And the Nitrodiaperman,
Has fifty seven wives.
-Bushman
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 20, 2015 - 09:46pm PT
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and as you know I was most inspired by your brother
Brother!
I mean Father!
Relax, Jake, it's Chinatown.
You guys are rockin' the boat
Wearin' hip boots to wade the shallows
Wishin' you'd remembered to bring the marshmallows
Two guys remain to watch the dwindling flame
Bottle rockets at night what a stone delight
Memories made of stone last longest
Even scribbled down on bum wad
I give you each a vigorous nod
And one lost thumb up
A voter saint!
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pud
climber
Sportbikeville & Yucca brevifolia
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May 14, 2015 - 09:06am PT
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love not lost.
For all the times we missed,
for all the times we kissed
For all the times we never spoke,
for all the times we shared a joke
For all the help that wasn't there,
for all the times we showed we care
For all the memories we lost,
for all our love at any cost
For all the dreams we swept away,
for all the plans we share today
For all the hugs we never gave,
for all the memories we save
For all the experiences gone by,
for everything we want to try
For all the things we faced alone,
for all the years our love has grown
Through all these things our love stayed true
My heart and soul belong to you.
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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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May 14, 2015 - 09:09am PT
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pud thank you for
shattering my pane
of misconception
for i previously
thought,
based upon your
love of motorcycles
that you were made
of steel
and that your heart
pumped oil.
but now i know
that both you and
i are arranged
in a strangely
similar chain
of carbon.
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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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May 14, 2015 - 09:14am PT
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here's one:
my entire existence
is a favor to satan
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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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May 14, 2015 - 09:29am PT
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i offer another:
the new now,
is yesterday.
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pud
climber
Sportbikeville & Yucca brevifolia
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Why a lonely heart is better than a broken heart.
Lonely hearts hold treasures waiting to be found
Treasures leak from a broken heart
Lonely hearts beat in rhythm with their owner’s dreams
Broken hearts skip and jump in restless sleep
Lonely hearts build strength in time
Broken hearts wait forever for strength to return
Lonely hearts yearn for love and run to it
Broken hearts forget what they need and trip when they move
Lonely hearts open easily and wide
Broken hearts have rusty hinges
Lonely hearts breathe long and deep
Broken hearts cough and wheeze
Lonely hearts look back and smile
Broken hearts cry when they remember
Lonely hearts find new paths
Broken hearts lose their way
Lonely hearts reach out for love
Broken heart's arms don’t work
Lonely hearts speak loud and clear
Broken hearts stutter quietly
Lonely hearts see the future
Broken hearts regret the past
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Jun 19, 2015 - 04:00pm PT
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Just rolled into my home town for the in-laws party and jotted down this one;
'The Valley of Smog'
In the valley of Smog,
I rinsed out my eyes,
In the ocean of Petrol,
And dinosaur cries,
Not for one single moment,
Did I let my guard down,
Infected by traffic,
And the retrograde frown,
I was one with the hive,
And my sinister host,
Had no clue I was living,
T'was accepted by most,
In the city on steroids,
Of lost Angels in flight,
I'll was clutching my pillow,
On the concrete at night,
As i plotted my exit,
I remember well why,
I so desperately wanted,
For to leave lest I die,
From that city of Angels,
And those valleys around,
That insidious a hellhole,
Like none other are found,
I once was a child there,
But I left there one day,
From that insipid quagmire,
And then found my way,
From the valley of gargoyles,
From so garrulous a whore,
Who would suck out your life's blood,
Be you rich or be poor,
Please don't make me return there,
For I made my escape,
And I feared I would die there,
Where men plunder and scrape,
For a piece of existence,
And a place in the sun,
Where no light can enter,
Where some think it's still fun,
In that Big sucking blow hole,
Many millions call home,
Where the planet will open,
With a hideous groan,
And the oceans will bury
That city with foam.
-Bushman
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Jun 19, 2015 - 04:03pm PT
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'Love is Obsequious'
Love is a crapshoot
Obsequious is she
Tasking me endlessly
In all the wrong moments
I do her bidding
Love finds me parsimoniously
Able yet unwilling
More than I would do for me
She is not the woman
But what the woman requires
What I think of love
And what she actually is are not the same
Her deafening beyond desire
These deeds of madness that I do
I love the woman but the love itself is separate
Separated from rationality and reason by
The ever present passing of my life
Love is a bitch
-bushman
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 19, 2015 - 04:55pm PT
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Do It right
I've done all the numbers
but never in sequence.
I planned a vacation
and then took a powder.
I've read Huck Finn
but never Tom Sawyer.
I ordered Manhattan
but but got Coney chowder.
Life's zigged when I zagged
and Time's just the same.
I've been given a number
but can't think of my name.
Nothing seems to go right
and it all seems so wrong
I tried writing a poem
and it came out a song.
My rhyme scheme's a mess
to that I'll confess
If you told me it sucked
then I'd have to say yes
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 20, 2015 - 06:05pm PT
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Mountain Pines
In scornful upright loneliness they stand,
Counting themselves no kin of anything
Whether of earth or sky. Their gnarled roots cling
Like wasted fingers of a clutching hand
In the grim rock. A silent spectral band
They watch the old sky, but hold no communing
With aught. Only, when some lone eagle's wing
Flaps past above their grey and desolate land,
Or when the wind pants up a rough-hewn glen,
Bending them down as with an age of thought,
Or when, ‘mid flying clouds that can not dull
Her constant light, the moon shines silver, then
They find a soul, and their dim moan is wrought
Into a singing sad and beautiful.
--Robinson Jeffers
Ansel wrote of his friend's poetry:
"Jeffers' poetry deeply affected me...the extraordinary grandeur of the images invoked and the profound music of his lines....The surge of the ocean lives in the flow of phrase and imagery...give an added dimension to the harsh bones of his creative vision, expressed in lines such as these from 'Night.'
The deep dark-shining
Pacific leans on the land,
Feeling his cold strength
To the outermost margins."
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