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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Thanks for posting that Marlow.
I had never read
The Prisoner of Chillon.
It was such an inspiring poem, as captivating as the
captivity of the subject within it.
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Jan 15, 2016 - 08:47am PT
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A Woman's Touch
I glanced upon my morning view
With nothing missing or askew
And saw the trees and morning sky
And light reflected to my eye
With racks of movies and of song
That we've collected all along
And there aligning window sill
Are boxes some with hopes we've filled
And some contain the dear remains
Of pets like children's tears that stain
Our hearts until the day comes near
They're cast in river's waters clear
Flowing from the glaciers melt
Where we'll hold sacred how we felt
When warm soft puppies tumbled forth
Warmed to our hearts for all their worth
And we can say goodbye to those
Of loyal paws and cold wet nose
Until then they'll stay on the shelf
Revered like spirits of woodland elf
But something there in window frame
Occurs to me and calls to name
The one whose feel for craft and art
Captured my eye and stole my heart
My wedded partner and my spouse
Whose touched in every part this house
Someone I treasure more I think
As time goes by with every blink
Reflecting on our lives I see
The love that she has brought to me
The warmth of family and of hope
Through darkened days I've learned to cope
And nurse to health my lifelong friend
Till I would see her smile again
And share once more her wants and wiles
Her mystery and how she beguiles
Like that which frames my morning view
As fleeting as the morning dew
And holds to promise dreams of such
The whispering of her woman's touch
-Tim Sorenson
01/15/2015
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MisterE
Gym climber
Small Town with a Big Back Yard
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Dark Bird
There is a dark bird
perhaps a raven
inside my head.
I open the cage sometimes
when I sleep;
my mind's eye
sees the shadow of wings
on my pillow.
EW 2/2/16
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Mar 12, 2016 - 11:49pm PT
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"Once a dream did weave a shade
O'er my angel-guarded bed,
That an emmet lost its way
Where on grass methought I lay.
Troubled, wildered, and forlorn,
Dark, benighted, travel-worn,
Over many a tangled spray,
All heart-broke, I heard her say:
'O my children! do they cry,
Do they hear their father sigh?
Now they look abroad to see,
Now return and weep for me.'
Pitying, I dropped a tear:
But I saw a glow-worm near,
Who replied, 'What wailing wight
Calls the watchman of the night?'
'I am set to light the ground,
While the beetle goes his round:
Follow now the beetle's hum;
Little wanderer, hie thee home!'"
A Dream from Songs of Innocence, William Blake
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Mar 13, 2016 - 06:30am PT
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Why Does Time Fly As We Get Older?
Why do we age and wither away
Does our expiration date always have to say
Time to go now you've had a nice stay
Fly into oblivion now be on your way
As if we had a choice anyway
We go where we go for our work and our play
Get used to the fact of our inevitable decay
Older and wiser sometimes much to our dismay
?
-bushman
03/13/2016
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Mar 14, 2016 - 01:40pm PT
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" Thou fair hair'd angel of the evening,
Now, while the sun rests on the mountains light,
Thy bright torch of love; Thy radiant crown
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves; and when thou drawest the
Blue curtains, scatter thy silver dew
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep.
Let thy west wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes
And wash the dusk with silver.
Soon, full, soon,
Dost thou withdraw; Then, the wolf rages wide,
And the lion glares thro' the dun forest.
The fleece of our flocks are covered with
Thy sacred dew; Protect them with thine influence."
Evening Star by William Blake
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Gary
Social climber
Where in the hell is Major Kong?
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Mar 14, 2016 - 07:25pm PT
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Death is a beautiful car parked only
to be stolen on a street lined with trees
whose branches are like the intestines
of an emerald.
You hotwire death, get in, and drive away
like a flag made from a thousand burning
funeral parlors.
You have stolen death because you're bored.
There's nothing good playing at the movies
in San Francisco.
You joyride around for a while listening
to the radio, and then abandon death, walk
away, and leave death for the police
to find.
 Brautigan
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MisterE
Gym climber
Small Town with a Big Back Yard
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Mar 21, 2016 - 09:32pm PT
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Wrote this one tonight:
BUSY FINGERS
I married a woman
with busy fingers -
fussing here, messing there.
Busy fingers
everywhere.
I sometimes look
at those hands when they are still,
study them intently
while she sleeps -
and wonder at the balance
of delicacy and strength.
Then,
they awaken.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Apr 30, 2016 - 04:03pm PT
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The Road to Onyx
(Fiction)
I was boy once who loved hunting
And mentored by a man named Red
Learned how to keep my rifle steady
And always aim right for the head
Taught me to track for elk and pronghorn
To only kill what we could eat
In east Nevada and Wyoming
Packing on horseback for a week
But I found girls and I went climbing
And on the weekend climbed the peaks
Life and its obligations found me
But still I'd disappear for weeks
I loved to follow my own foot falls
And let my heart ride on the wind
But when I heard that old Red died
I found myself back home again
He was my mother's only boyfriend
That ever treated her with worth
And I felt something in me dying
When he was covered by the earth
So then I set out to go hunting
Just to honor him in that way
To a place near the Bright Star Wilderness
Where we once hunted back in the day
Stopping at a bar east of Bakersfield
A woman for whom I didn't care
She followed me with her eyes
While she was playing with her hair
Something she whispered in my ear
Displeased the man across the room
Looked like he kept some ugly company
I left and knew it was none too soon
That day the mountains were so beautiful
And I had to go look at a horse
Way out on Ranch Lake Isabella
Though it was well to fear the worst
I kept on checking in my mirrors
There was one car also took my route
Up to that point fear had been a friend to me
Like the insurance in my boot
Turned off to Ranch Lake Isabella
Off highway one seventy eight
Many miles back I'd lost my tail
But at a turn off sat to wait
Some horses at the ranch were feisty
Of a strong gelding and a mare
The mare had time with trails and hunting
The gelding also to be fair
The rancher stared down at my hands
"There's something boy you ought to know
He spooks from things above eye level"
That said I loaded him up to go
As I turned east towards the pass
The moon rose full upon the crest
A dark sedan turned on its headlights
And pulled out towards me from the west
I wrote it off as paranoia
Dull to alarms by youth and pride
But I turned south five miles from Onyx
Killed the lights and stretched my hide
Then one lone car drove on east beyond me
It stopped a ways and there it sat
As it U-turned it killed its head lights
I was driving south before all that
Taking the back roads by the moonlight
Turned southwest to a gravel tract
I drove off road into a creek bed
And bought myself some time to act
Mounting my saddle with my rifle
I rode my horse a quarter-mile
Feeling secure that I had lost them
Dismounted then and walked a while
He went by Buck and in the moonlight
Though he was tan brown like his name
He had a white flame from his nose up
Between his ears into his mane
By first light we'd made our acquaintance
And made some distance just the same
Though over ridge tops and beyond
I checked my six time and again
I found some grass behind a boulder
Left Buck to graze and fixed the rein
Scrambling the rock I scanned the ridge lines
Something odd chattered in my brain
Dropped to my belly and heard the gunshot
Distant two figures I could see
I climbed down swiftly to mount the gelding
He spooked and then ran off on me
Boulders ran up along the ridge line
I ran to dart beyond the stones
Buck ran down into the next valley
I took a route all of my own
Finding high ground to spot my pursuers
When they saw Buck a shot rang out
They'd missed him neatly as he bolted
That's when I circled far about
I sprinted hard and gained momentum
My boot heels grinding on the grass
Beyond some trees o'er another ridge line
I found my horse standing at last
I took some time as I approached him
Calming my rasping burning breath
While speaking soft I watched the ridge top
My horse was life while the ridge was death
The trees had given us good cover
But trusted to no one again
That buck and I might find survival
So I thought to think like my new friend
One battered apple from my pocket
One hungry horse lest we might die
I took a bite and chewed it slowly
As Buck still had me in his eye
I took the bridle ever gently
Buck took the apple in his mouth
Riding saddle o'er the next ridge line
Heard two shots ring as we bolted south
There was a spot between two tree stumps
Overlooking the valley down below
The sunset quartered to southeast
That's where I reasoned they would go
At two hundred yards I had the drop
Adjusted minutely for the breeze
Last I remember one turned and ran
The other slumped down to his knees
I'd never hit a moving target
From anywhere close to this range
But when the shot rang out he stumbled
I felt something animal-like and strange
Buck walked behind and we tracked him east
I sighted him once but fired wide
We found more blood but he'd kept moving
We crept along as twilight sighed
The moon hung low now in the east
The breeze had settled to just a whisper
I heard his legs scraping the sage brush
He was up ahead then not too far
I'd never paid much heed to dying
But learned to listen on a curve
I knew what ambush laid in wait then
And that the wounded had way more nerve
I'd left Buck tied at an old mesquite
And in the moonlight on the scree
In darkness heard some labored breathing
There was a dark figure beneath a tree
Though my approach was slow and steady
He must have heard me on the sand
At forty feet a muzzle flashed
It felt like a hammer struck my hand
I saw my rifle at my feet
And limping towards me a tall man
That thirty eight from my right boot
Was something for which he hadn't planned
He had his rifle down as he walked
I aimed towards his head like I was taught
He wasn't a man to me right then
Just something dangerous to be shot
He took his last breaths on his back
And then I thought I heard him curse
"You mother f*#king bitch," he called me
I could have come up with much worse
Though he was dead I still felt sorry
For he had wounded me but good
His bullet had gone through my left hand
And one rib felt like splintered wood
I took my jacket off and tied it
To staunch the bleeding in my limb
I took a deep breath and passed out
I came to staring up at him
Maybe that horse had seen a raven
Whatever he saw I'll never know
I only knew was that he found me
And it was time for us to go
Don't remember getting to the road
Recalling only fields of hay
When a rancher found us Buck was grazing
I was passed out cold I’d heard them say
After three days sleeping in the hospital
I'd had my fill of loving care
The cops they asked me plenty of questions
Then suggested I wasn't welcome there
Said I pissed off some local gangsters
Two members had singled me out for play
With no clue what was in the bargain
When they went hunting me that day
I picked up Buck where he'd been stabled
With apples and two bales of hay
We headed east over to Ridgecrest
Three ninety five, then north all day
We only stopped for fuel and groceries
Slept once off road near Reno way
Heard there was lots of grass up in Oregon
And peace of mind, that's what they say
-Tim Sorenson
(Archived,
Writers Guild of America West
04/30/2016)
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Apr 30, 2016 - 04:46pm PT
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Good work, Tim! Great to get original stuff like this.
Just read your short life history - really liked it. I too have been a firefighter, EMT and worked in the trees. Can identify.
Wayne
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Apr 30, 2016 - 04:56pm PT
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Thanks Wayne,
I would never expect any compliments,
but that means a lot to me.
-Tim
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 30, 2016 - 07:02pm PT
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Wayne's REALLY interesting.
Fossil Climber, you ever grow your beard out?
I mean, when you aren't huffin' and puffin' over the Brooks Range on skinny skis, pullin' a sled like a draft animal?
Let me thank you in arrears
For helping me lose my fears
When I began to churn out verse
It could have been lots, lots worse
Except for your good advice
To young poets who are mice
Cheersies to you, Northman!
And to Tim, who's now the ST laureate by default in the absence of a certain other northperson, you're doing fine and probably don't smell like beer. (Never met either of you squirts, but have my own images/sensations created by your words).
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Apr 30, 2016 - 08:52pm PT
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I think Bushman and Mouse are terrific!
But I should be much more specific.
They are both immensely prolific
And deserve our comments honorific.
They produce verse of such excellence
That both should be “Poets in Residence”
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Apr 30, 2016 - 09:20pm PT
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Tim, you inspired me with your last.
I've always been afraid of free verse - never understood it. It has been described by cynics as like playing tennis without a net. However, I had to give it a try a while back, so I'll inflict this on y'all, with apologies. It's a true story though - in Yosemite, Bridalveil Cr. campground - I think it was 1957.
Lost Child
It is day three.
She is out there somewhere,
Shirley-Anne.
Three years old, in a sun suit.
Out in the subalpine woods,
alone at seven thousand feet
in the shivering night.
It is day three.
There’s a cannon ball in our guts.
In the dawn we gather, silent.
The parents are kept away,
kept with friends at the campground,
kept by the warming fires, the RV,
kept from reporters,
kept from our growing doubt,
our growing fear.
Chief assigns new sweeps,
closer spacing this time.
Call but don’t expect an answer.
He pauses, looks down,
Check out bear scats.
Watch for ravens, crows,vultures,
Watch for coyotes
...but keep calling.
We look at the ground.
We nod, silent.
Single-file up the mountain
to our base line coordinates.
Thighs ache from other steeps,
throats raw from calling,
skin torn by chaparral, by deadfall.
A rattler nearly hit Mike.
What about Shirley-Anne?
I felt guilty, warm in my sleeping bag.
How did she feel?
Did she lie hard on cold rocks
Under the icy stars?
Under a bush? Under a fir?
Tormented by mosquitos?
Did she shiver all night?
Is she shivering now?
Or is that... all past?
Bear tracks in sandy patch.
Cougar, too. And coyote.
Take a deep breath.
We line out, ten strides apart.
The whistle shrieks,
the line creeps forward, downslope,
scanning for sign.
We call as we go, and listen
without much hope.
A raven answers.
Ravens recycle children.
Thick brush ahead,
dusty clinging limbs,
a brittle wall, but we go in.
Kids do that, so we must.
Crash through, duck, dodge.
Watch for snakes.
Open forest again.
The whistle screams stop,
a pause for breath.
Warm now, almost hot.
Skin crawls, sensing ticks.
Canteen is still icy from night.
I munch a candy bar.
Arm stings, skin is ripped -
stick on a plaster.
The whistle wails again.
We move on, calling-
Mike shouts.
We stop.
He has fresh bear scat.
We barely breathe
while he pokes at it.
It’s okay, all fibrous, all vegetation.
We exhale.
A little stream lies ahead, a rivulet.
Willows envelop it, dusty green.
We call again.
A tiny sound from the willows
a bleat
maybe a fawn
maybe a child!
Jack and I break the line, race forward.
The child is there.
Looks up with startled eyes.
Sits by the trickle with her tin dipper,
Speckled with bites.
She is unharmed.
We laugh and cheer -
and choke up.
Jack scoops her up.
She clings to his warmth,
to his love, to his reality.
Frank calls it in. Found!
The radio squawks delight.
From miles away we hear it,
a chorus of car horns,
joy echoing from the peaks.
Has that sun been out all the time,
Or did it just come out?
Has it always been such a beautiful day?
Didn't notice it this morning.
We hurry toward camp,
vaulting deadfall,
feet skimming the ground,
almost floating.
Shirley-Anne rides Jack’s shoulders.
After her thermos soup, her candy bar,
she chatters,
tells us she drank with her dipper,
made sand houses,
cried,
slapped bugs,
cried all night.
Saw a bear.
Mother runs to meet us, weeping.
A hundred people cheer.
Some turn away head down,
shoulders shaking.
Not an eye is dry.
Can life hold a better moment?
In mom’s arms Shirley still chatters.
Tells mom that a bear came to see her.
Tells mom that the bear was lost.
WM
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Apr 30, 2016 - 10:57pm PT
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Not a dry eye, Fossil Climber.
Well done.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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In mom’s arms Shirley still chatters.
Tells mom that a bear came to see her.
Tells mom that the bear was lost.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Freak Climbing With the Merry Cranksters
Great is thy gift
Be it with verse or cliff
Flintstone of the riff, like
A beat poet
A bear poet
A ravenloon if ever there was one
A hardman with a soft heart
A Harding man with an early start
An observant servant
Holding the rope in the dark
So glad to be hangin' in the park
On a workaday thing
To Mister Harding
But to FossilBoy it was a lark
Muchas for your gracias-ness
I'm just a poet doing poetness
Maybe hoping to attract me a poetess?
NOT!!!
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