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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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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 20, 2015 - 06:33pm PT
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Natural Music
The old voice of the ocean, the bird-chatter of little rivers,
(Winter has given them gold for silver
To stain their water and bladed green for brown to line their banks)
From different throats intone one language.
So I believe if we were strong enough to listen without
Divisions of desire and terror
To the storm of the sick nations, the rage of the hunger smitten cities,
Those voices also would be found
Clean as a child's; or like some girl's breathing who dances alone
By the ocean-shore, dreaming of lovers.
--Robinson Jeffers
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Jul 11, 2015 - 01:00pm PT
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'Jack Manning'
As a teen I was a rebel,
And was angry to the bone,
With my family I had quarreled,
So I struck out on my own,
For I was just a boy then,
So wandering I did roam,
Uprooted from my family,
And far away from home,
I hitchhiked to Minnesota,
And met danger I should say,
I was hungry and was dirty,
And remember to this day,
The rumble in my belly,
But it soon would go away,
For I followed my directions,
And found instruction on the way,
I arrived at two am,
At a farmhouse in a glen,
All dogs put up a racket,
But the lights were on within,
My note was worn and tattered,
Written by a family friend,
"So you've come from California?"
As his wife ushered me in,
"You can sleep upon the couch,
In the morning you can ask him,"
He hasn't logged in years,
So on him it will depend,"
And I slept a fitful sleep,
With the demons and the din,
Of a chorusing of angels,
Who harassed me once again,
And I woke to see a figure,
Who was coming down the stair,
An old man bent and broken,
Who was stubbled with grey hair,
But his hands were veined and gnarly,
His steely gaze a stare,
The rumpled hat pulled low,
And his purple frown severe,
I made my introductions,
Feeling sheepish and afraid,
I explained my situation,
And the mess of it I'd made,
The old woman served me breakfast,
The orange juice was homemade,
The eggs all peppered black,
With toast and marmalade,
And afterwards he looked at me,
And offered me a smoke,
I believe it was the first time,
I remember that he spoke,
He told me it took courage,
Or craziness no joke,
To hitchhike 'cross the country,
So destitute and broke,
"So you want to be a logger?"
He asked me with intent,
"We could give it a go then,
If you work for food and rent,
And an extra hundred here and there,
If on working you are bent,
But we always rest on Sunday's,"
Wasn’t sure of what he meant,
For every yard of fresh cut pulpwood,
Paid a hundred dollar bill,
And before I knew my poplar,
I was sure to get my fill,
Of the toiling and the danger,
And before I climbed that hill,
For every log I rolled up there,
I was sure to foot the bill,
He taught me to drive the one ton,
Up the winding mountain road,
To a lot that he laid claim to,
And we started to unload,
In the damp and humid forest,
Sounds of crickets and the toad,
Then we fired up the chain saws,
'Twas the north woods loggers ode,
Falling them and bucking them,
And skinning every pole,
Hoisting them and hauling them,
With the dozer was our goal,
I almost lost my life the day,
A snag nearly took its toll,
As Jack yelled out to warn me,
I had clearly lost control,
The branch caught on the dozer stack,
While towing up a sled,
I ducked down when the stack broke off,
It near took off my head,
Jack had saved my life that day,
My face turned crimson red,
If he hadn't yelled to warn me,
I knew that I'd be dead,
Jack had seven children,
From sixteen to forty three,
And we always worked to help them out,
On every Saturday,
I plowed from dawn to dusk one day,
For sandwiches and tea,
Jack alway did what he would do,
For love and family,
On Sundays we would drive to town,
And the women went to church,
As Jack and I sat in the car,
Drinking whiskey 'neath the birch,
For Jack and I saw eye to eye,
God being handy in a lurch,
We accepting it for the present time,
And were contented with our perch,
Jack treated me as equal,
And respected me as much,
He had rode the rails in forty eight,
And knew of hardships in a clutch,
The railroad men had almost killed him,
As he’d camped out in a hutch,
The kinship that he showed me,
Was stronger than the crutch,
I was strong of flesh but wounded,
In my spirit and my heart,
But Jack stood out a legend,
As he gave me a new start,
And one day upon the homestead,
He blew my mind apart,
As we walked the wire fence line,
And he proved I weren't so smart,
The fence it was electric,
And Jack made me a bet,
That he could hold that wire,
As the voltage through him let,
And I watched him wince in series,
As two minutes came and went,
He never let that wire go,
To challenge me as yet,
He bet me half my paycheck,
That I couldn't do the same,
For even thirty seconds,
And I thought the bet was lame,
I grabbed into that wire,
Thinking I would win his game,
The first jolt knocked me back a step,
He knew that I was tame,
And then he grabbed the wire again,
And rubbed it in for luck,
I'd just been taught a lesson,
And was out a fifty buck,
He held on for a minute more,
And I felt like a schmuck,
For a man of over seventy,
Jack really had some pluck,
I worked for most the summer,
And passed my sixteenth year,
The work had made stronger,
In my body that was clear,
But mind was still confused,
And I found solace in my beer,
But whenever I had words to say,
Jack always lent his ear,
As the season turned to autumn,
And my thoughts returned to home,
The road was calling out to me,
I knew that I must roam,
I thought I was a man then,
Not afraid to be alone,
Jack's tutelage had bolstered me,
So I struck out on my own,
Back on the road once more,
I survived by tooth and nail,
And back in California,
I found trouble without fail,
Adversity was my friend no doubt,
At times I slipped and fell,
Into troubles with the law again,
I created my own hell,
My good friends and my family,
They loved me through it all,
The days went by as I grew up,
A few years later in the fall,
My thoughts returned my friend Jack,
I had to make the call,
My mentor sounded none too well,
For time exacting took its toll,
A few months later I called back,
To speak to him again,
His wife Maria answered and,
I intuited it would be grim,
She said the cancer in his lungs,
Took him finally in the end,
I set the phone down woefully,
And said goodbye to my old friend,
Somehow through all my hardships,
I wound up on my feet,
For big brother and my family,
It was a monumental feat,
They gave me opportunities,
To help save me from defeat,
So I grabbed onto my bootstraps,
And held onto my seat,
Up the hill and over dell,
I made compromise with strife,
And somehow in the thick of it,
Through love I found a wife,
The trees became my trade,
And the marketplace was rife,
By providence or confidence,
I finally made a life,
My kids grew up and grandkids came,
They're growing up so fast,
From time to time I think back on,
My adolescence and my past,
The lumberjack and mountain man,
Who befriended me back then, alas,
There's nary been a man I've known,
Who treated such a boy with class,
This lost and wayward runaway,
Whose self esteem was low,
He took and spent some time with me,
For what little did I know,
The man saw in himself the boy,
And knew how things might go,
He helped bring out the best in me,
With kindness helped the boy to grow.
-bushman
07/11/2015
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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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Jul 16, 2015 - 05:35am PT
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bushman you are the eyes of the word.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 16, 2015 - 06:15am PT
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Son, that's right up there with Robert Service, I swear.
What the 'L' are you talkin' about, neighbor Weej?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 24, 2015 - 03:18pm PT
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BRIEF EPITHALIUM FOR ROCK & ICE
by I. Sage
On a winter day in the month of May
They were wed in a sunless blizzard
Ice was cool and Rock just stayed
Silent like a sun-stroked lizard.
They’d been engaged when the world was new
Each a part of the Maker’s plan;
The time was right, they said “I do,”
And geology filled the land.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Aug 10, 2015 - 08:43am PT
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Three Serbian folk songs performed by three great female singers: Radmila Dimic, Kseniju Cicvaric and Mara Djordjevic
[Click to View YouTube Video]
The lyrics of the first song "Who has torn the jewelry" was written in 1907 by poet Aleksa Santic and describes a dialog between mother and daughter.
Translation by 'Zanzaguz', PdR:
Who has torn the jewels off your neck?
Mother: Who has torn the jewels off your neck?
Who has scattered your pearls and corals?
Daughter: Early this morning, o mother
I went to the garden to pick the first lilacs
of the season
A dewy branch got stuck in my necklace
And scattered jewels under the lilac tree
Mother: And why are your eyes so blurry,
as you haven't slept at all?
Daughter: From a tree branch, a nightingale sang all
night long
I listened to it until the break of dawn
Its pretty song captivated and enchanted me
Out of joy, I could not fall asleep
Mother: Oh, my daughter, oh, my sorrow
And who has undone your waistcoat?
Daughter: Do not scold me my dear mother
Once you were young just as I am now
My untamed youth and the break of dawn
Have undone the waistcoat for my lavish
bosoms to show.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Aug 10, 2015 - 03:26pm PT
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That is one of the most RESTFUL pieces of music to which I have ever listened, Marlow. Thank you so much!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Aug 14, 2015 - 05:19am PT
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THE SOUND OF WIND AND METAL
I shall buy a wind chime
And place it in the breeze
Hang it out the window
Above the moving trees
I crave the sound of another voice
This will have two or three
When the wind blows down the alley
Its sound will comfort me
In tandem with my neighbor’s chime
It might not sound too good
Their mingled sound may jangle
And not jingle as they should
But I can cut the tubes to lengths
That harmonize in sound
When the two wind chimes are dangling
Far, far above the ground
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Aug 22, 2015 - 11:41am PT
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SAT BELONELY
by John Lennon
I sat belonely down a tree,
humbled fat and small.
A little lady sing to me
I couldn’t see at all.
I’m looking up and at the sky,
to find such wonderous voice.
Puzzly, puzzle, wonder why,
I hear but I have no choice.
‘Speak up, come forth, you ravel me’,
I potty menthol shout.
‘I know you hiddy by this tree’.
But still she won’t come out.
Such sofly singing lulled me sleep,
an hour or two or so
I wakeny slow and took a peep
and still no lady show.
Then suddy on a little twig
I thought I see a sight,
A tiny little tiny pig,
that sing with all it’s might
‘I thought you were a lady’,
I giggle, — well I may,
To my surprise the lady,
got up — and flew away.
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Aug 23, 2015 - 11:58am PT
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Tunnel Vision
Where is the pathway?
Time in the present state being at a premium,
I cannot afford a lengthy deliberation,
My fear of myself keeps getting in the way,
It gets in the way,
I'm stuck in the present,
Of who I've become,
So where is that pathway?
The pathway I was looking for,
Before I lost my way,
For in the present time,
Am I just the X-ray,
Of who I used to be?
See my conundrum,
A wayfarer in the steam of life,
In a world so far from all the other worlds,
Am I so uncertain,
Of who or what or where I am,
Than anybody else?
The tree of lengthy deliberation,
Keeps putting down new roots,
While I'm dancing and dangling precariously,
From brittle limb to brittle limb,
Who am I exactly?
I've tumbled down from heights before,
To cling and climb my way again,
Back up to heights I've hovered at,
'Till heights like earth I've mastered such,
Like walking solid ground,
But tethered to my circus act,
But now I'm down,
Hobbling wretched on the earth,
I wear a frown like some fallen angels crown,
Waiting for a phone call,
Which never comes and won't go down,
To let me off the hook.
The tunnel is square and round,
It's under the bed and in the ground,
And travels beneath the rail yard,
Where the rumbly rumble of railroad tracks,
Keeps bringing sand a'sifting down,
And plugs my tear ducts,
With earth so brown,
Rounded at the edges,
The tunnel spirals down,
To meet with reversed sunlight,
At the edge of negativity,
In a world that's upside down,
I working my way back again,
The rumbling of the train tracks,
Impedes my upward progress,
Pushing my magnetically resonating image aside,
I grovel back up to the surface,
To the positive test of sunlight,
And the apex of my life.
-bushman
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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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Aug 26, 2015 - 02:37am PT
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here's one i just wrote,
while grabbing a leak
and a peek toward the sunrise:
take away the east,
so that no new day finds me.
take away the stars,
so that no heaven tempts me.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Aug 29, 2015 - 07:50pm PT
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WEALTH
by Sherman Alexie
When other Indians want to give thanks
For my poems, stories, readings, and movies,
They often give me Pendleton blankets.
I think I own twenty-five or thirty
And actively use ten or twelve of them,
Which is, according to custom, rather odd.
Growing up on the Spokane Indian Rez,
I never saw a blanket leave its box
Because my mom thought they were gifts from God.
.......
WHITE GIRL POWWOW LOVE, 1978
by Sherman Alexie
She was skinny and buttermilk-pale.
She wore her hair with a rattail.
And I knew I'd two-step to jail
For her love, which was the no-fail
Pick-up line that year. "Me in jail,"
I said. "Only you got the bail
To rescue me." She smelled like stale
Everything, and though I was frail,
I talked her into chucking the bale
And "later"-ing her Dad, a whale
Who thought everything was for sale,
Especially the sacred. So we sailed,
Her and me, on the powwow trail,
Until my dirty joke splat-failed—-
The porno punchline was "Snails."
White Girl Angry, she dug her nails
Into my skin and said, "Why males
Have to heave and hove and dog wail
Such awful sh#t?" She was a gale—-
A storm through a trailer park vale—-
An F-5 on the tornado scale—-
And I wanted to aside her veil
And touch and memorize her pale
Skin like a blind man touches Braille,
And so I did. Damn, I went flail
On her breasts, and that tough rail
Of a girl went all weakness and quail.
I thought I was all rez-prevail,
But then she put on her chainmail
Armor and golf-ball-sized hailed
Me with this confessional tale:
"My Daddy is a goddamn Whale
Killer," she said. "Ain't no scale
To weigh his evil. His devil pail
Is filled to the brim." She wailed
Tears like anvils and then bailed
On me. She ran back down the trail,
And I ran after her, but I failed
To catch her. Her pain gave her sails.
And though I never saw her pale
Self again, I pray, without fail,
When I think of her stuck in jail,
Or maybe still walking powwow trail—-
A white girl, skinny, hard, and frail—-
And likely wed to a killer of whales.
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Exquozen on Highway One
It's just a simple story and its not much of an ode,
Cruising out the hotel drive my wife and I left our abode,
We drove out on the highway and passed a croaking toad,
As a new American sunset led us down the open road,
Excuse me for a moment while I back it up a bit,
The telephone was ringing and it wouldn't seem to quit,
So I finally I picked it up and I talked a little bit,
About an invite out to dinner with a man and wife that we just met,
That's what was happening and as far as I could tell,
The story not so unusual and nothing fishy for the smell,
Turns out he was a friend of a friend named of Gabriel,
And for long as I'd known Gabriel I thought I knew him well,
The evening sky was darkening the color of blue slate,
On that warm Pacific evening as we headed to our dinner date,
And as usual on vacation we were fashionably late,
To find them at the bar in a most inebriated state,
Ed Larue and his wife Mary hailed from Morongo Hills,
And we exchanged the usual formalities and talked about the bills,
As the waiter found our table to a tune by Steven Stills,
Then I took Larue aside for he looked quite green around the gills,
I asked what was the matter did I need to call a cab?
The he told me he was fine and he faked an upper jab,
He said he wished his wife would put a muzzle on her blab,
And then he bantered with the chef about the status of the crab,
On returning to the table I was right behind in tow,
When he squeezed between the women and my wife protested, "Whoa?"
He paid her no attention as he blurted out, "Exquoozemo!"
He was so rude I should have told him then and there where he could go.
But before my sweetheart knew it he was laying on her a kiss,
And the next thing he was kissing was my good wife's swinging fist,
My hand was almost at his throat when Ed's wife screamed and hissed,
She bounced a left hook off my nose as I was clearly getting pissed,
We all jumped from the table as the shouting reached high pitch,
The waiters had to stop my wife from strangling that bitch,
Ejected from the premises I accosted him without a glitch,
An uppercut into his gut sent him vomiting into the ditch,
Dragging me to the rental car my wife's disgust was plain to see,
We backed away and left them there the palm trees framing eerily,
That drunken staggering couple no more wretched company could there be,
As we drove away I distinctly recall him yelling out, "Exquooze Meeee!!"
There was no long discussion nor a moments hesitation,
We checked out and continued to another destination,
And the next day we were holding hands and strolling along the ocean,
As speechless smiles and laughing eyes kept up our conversation.
-bushman
09/03/2015
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Sep 13, 2015 - 04:42pm PT
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I will repost the poem I posted here 'the Seafarer's first Dream' at a later date with some minor edits.
-bushman
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SuperTopo on the Web
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Let us know!