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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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May 29, 2016 - 10:43am PT
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Cool...
From the blog:
"In some ways getting lost was my goal from the start. Growing up in small-town Ontario, where the tallest mountain was a haystack and the broadest horizon a field of corn, I’d felt wilder than the world in all directions. It wasn’t until university that I finally stepped beyond the borders of my home country, finally saw a mountain and a desert in more than pixels or words on a page, and there was no looking back. From then on my greatest joy has been wandering the planet’s rough peripheries with a tent and a backpack full of books. My greatest fear is having to work, heaven forbid, in a cubicle. To avoid this I mostly subsist on instant noodles, and I travel whenever possible by my own two legs, enabling a vagabond life rich in every currency but money."
This is essentially my life's mission statement as excerpted from Lands of Lost Borders, a new essay of mine about wildness, borders, and cycling the Silk Road.
Lands of Lost Borders is to be published by Knopf Canada.
what goes up and up in us.
Before I sit down to write this morning, here's a brief blog post knitting together some favourite quotes from Wittgenstein, Adrienne Rich, and Jack Gilbert on the power and inadequacy of words as deeds, and on what goes up and up in us nevertheless.
***
“Words are deeds,” argued philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein.
Still, “we may feel bitterly how little our poems can do in the face
of seemingly out-of-control technological power and seemingly
limitless corporate greed,” writes Adrienne Rich. “Yet it has
always been true that poetry can break isolation, show us to
ourselves when we are outlawed or made invisible, remind us
of beauty where no beauty seems possible, remind us of
kinship where all is represented as separation."
Which is why “I crank my heart even so and it turns
over. Ranges high in the sun over continents and eruptions
of mortality, through winds and immensities of rain
falling for miles," says Jack Gilbert. "Until all the world is overcome
by what goes up and up in us, singing and dancing
and throwing down flowers nevertheless..."
***
The blog: http://kateharris.ca/blog/
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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May 29, 2016 - 11:19am PT
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Sällskapet (Thåström, Hellberg, Ossler) - Såg Dom Komma
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Kvinnan: Agnieszka Piasek
Pojken: Ludwik Okulowicz
Hamnarbetare 1: Krzysztof Gienieczko
Hamnarbetare 2: Mariusz Grochala
Soldaten: Jordan Pawlowski
Utkiksmannen: Radoslaw Szaraniec
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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The Fluttering
Yesterday
under leafy
undergrowth a
haven for the Labrador
I dug the soil beneath
the weathered thorns
of pyracantha
as it tailored my old hide
but then I heard
a fluttering
And moist beneath
my finger nails
I traced an old
water line
that beetles and
earwigs told
me how to find it
under the photinia
again I heard
a fluttering
Laced with
spider's webs
suspended there
I laid among the
crispy leaves and
dug the soft and loamy earth
beneath the gnarled
privet as
I heard the sound
of fluttering
As I lifted up
myself to grab
a branch to cut
from where I knelt
I peaked across
as sunlight splashed
across the feathered
wingspan of
the dove in flight
a fluttering
There lives in
hedge and trees
about the sheltered grass
where bullfrogs croak
as rabbits hide
from chasing dogs while
birds of prey fly overhead
who cry for all
the world to hear
a fluttering
-bushman
06/01/2016
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Susan--we were given short shrift on that dumped Blinny thread.
I believe there is some rancor and spite at work, but here are our two haikus back, Jack.
sun-warmed igneous
the staff of life for many
pie shops and breadloaves
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Long Santa Cruz days
Afternoon brewery time
Pleasure Point is next.
--SC Seagoat
And a plug for Discretion Brewery.
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Jun 14, 2016 - 08:40pm PT
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Understand that the warmer waters in many coastal areas have increased toxic phytoplankton blooms and thus the chance of paralytic shellfish poisoning for those who harvest clams and mussels. Had to say something about this:
Red Tide
(Gonyaulax toxicus)
There’s a pot of clams a-steaming on my venerable Coleman,
And they strained the intertidal till today.
But I spotted telltale dimples and I dug them from their burrows
And I rinsed the sand and carried them away.
Now the pot is gently steaming and my mind is softly dreaming
Of the chowders and the dips that lie in store,
And those clams are all through scheming of predacious filter-feeding;
They will threaten phytoplankton nevermore!
Now my appetite is sated and the clam threat is abated,
And the zooplankton have a bit more peace -
But I’m feeling nauseated and my gut is irritated,
And I wonder if this malaise will increase.
Have my motives altruistic reaped a poison paralytic?
My attempt to save the plankton been betrayed?
I fear some dinoflagellate may cause me to regurgitate -
Good intentions have betrayed me, I’m afraid!
WM
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 17, 2016 - 04:15am PT
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Deserves inclusion here.
Feb 5, 2015 - 07:07am PT
"Untitled Bastard"
or, untitled
and mrs. pacific is ovulating today
on this full moon
and she's sending us some land lubrication.
yes she's ripe for more forevers..
so i accepted her passionate
advance and broke my spell
of solidarity, entered her course
and now beyond is pregnant
because we failed to employ
precautions and now,
the future is gestating
within our moment.
should we abort it?
or shall we see it through
and then throw all of
our money at It.
and our time
so it grows
into a respectable
contributor unto
this reckless
and unimpeded disaster.
--norwegian (OCEAN thread)
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Jun 17, 2016 - 09:26am PT
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Good shot!
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jun 17, 2016 - 09:21pm PT
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A Dirge for Perished Travelers
He watched the strange birds
Coursing across the sky
They left behind their twin wakes
Crisscrossed and he wondered why
They never flew on down to fish
Or even to say hi
He was the master of the seas
The ocean his domain to fly
And delving down below the squalls
Though wind and rain was no concern
He liked to plumb the deepest depths
His massive lungs with air to burn
And lengthy dives did serve to quell
His cetacean need to learn
His findings broadcast to his pod
And their's to him in turn
But something odd and curious
Caught within in his sonar clicks
And as he rolled his eye to see
There littered all about like sticks
Were bodies foreign to his world
And strange within the mix
They looked like beings he'd seen before
But where it was he could not fix
Why had they come unto this place?
These hallowed depths to be enshrined
Feeding the fishes fathoms down
Under algae blooms where they now lie
On a sea floor which the whales hold dear
The travelers had come to die
And the whale sang a mourning song
Below a crimson sunset sky
-bushman
06/17/2016
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 23, 2016 - 08:56am PT
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From jumbo to tiny, just that easy.
Nice job, Bushman.
Flyer
Planes crash into mountains
Mountains fall into the sea
I sought to prevent a big fall
And in doing so messed up my knee
Left hand thrust in a jam crack
The other fumbling with pro
Right foot was jammed in the same crack
About five or six feet below
Til then I’d been making good progress
But here I began to slow down
I knew that I needed protection
I was very far from the ground
The crack I was climbing was varied
It went from off-width to fists
It narrowed yet further I could see
As it soared up and into the mists
So I slotted a number six stopper
It was marginal but passed my pull test
I saw another spot that looked better
In another crack off to the west
I ‘d not bothered to clip the weak stopper
As I switched my two feet around
I suddenly started to plummet
I was heading straight for the ground
But my lower-down placement arrested
My fall just before I hit scree
My belayer managed to hold me
But I’d managed to bang my right knee
To this day I still walk but I hobble
I have only one speed and it’s slow
So always clip your protection
It could save your knee don’t I know
As far as I know that nut is still up there
Silent witness to my failure to cope
With a dangerous situation
On the sharp end of the rope
--MFM/6-23-16
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Jun 23, 2016 - 09:42am PT
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Bushman - Mouse - love it!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jun 23, 2016 - 09:58am PT
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Thank you, Wayne.
You know, you are my ideel, poetical-wise, just like Dings is my ideel travelogue-wise (the Rick Steves of Middle California).
One thing about your own work--I can see the earnest young biology student at SJ slaving to learn the nomenclature by the light of a horn lantern hanging from the rafters of his cot in some cabin loft.
You use Latin like no one I know, even Cosmic.
Looking forward to more of your elevated and refined vocabulary used in mellifluous and melodic ways, with careful attention to rhyme scheme and telling tales of which no man has ever dreamed, let alone encountered, excepting you, old Fossil.
With regards from all the poetry readers on ST, Mouse.
:)
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jul 10, 2016 - 02:03am PT
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It was three o'clock in the dawn of a sabbath day, I'm gonna go smoke pot.
I'm in need of the reprieve at before the cohk crows because
my captain o captain says again he has left the park
Say it not be so - Please make him not go - God
Who are you talking about there is no
Cohk to crow we are all just chickens
Harvested at will by who , we do not know.
In the open, where there is no cover, the snipers job is no easier than if he were in the jungle
Captain Soaring if it were me I'd take a remote flight, my eyes would see those things you saw when you were at half height.
Your take and sight are yours to share to our delight.
If your plight makes it painful or stops the flow of life then go, share your thoughts when ever you want to, or never again.
You don't need us this rabble of ill willed old men. Hell hath come to many of us
You re right to take your words and go away we don't deserve you
and you sure deserve better than us.
What time till the next show
It is a word that means male chicken. In case you didn't get that, meh!
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Jul 10, 2016 - 05:00am PT
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Bushman - I sincerely hope you don't mean to stop poeticizing!
You just keep getting better.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 10, 2016 - 03:05pm PT
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Many thanks for the tour of the other side of the pond, sir sycorax.
A noble gesture on your part.
Chrome Dome
or, bushman's scalp isn't as shiny as he thinks.
They never did it free.
It sits shiny-bright in the sun, saying in its fashion,
"I dare ya, anyone.
C'mon and have some fun."
Bring your daughter and your son.
Tell them it's not for everyone.
First ascent was done by no one.
It remains unclimbed and undone.
It will remain that way till our race is also undone.
Tradition means that "by any means" we must shun.
There is one route, called No Way but One.
Relaxation through meditation brings elevation.
Results come from technique, not strength of body or coordination.
(switching gears--avoiding tears)
Polished by nothing but sand the surface rejects the hand.
The shoes slips, grips, then slips some more.
The sweat beads and then it pours--
the headband soaks it in and you begin
To fall,
shoes chittering and squeaking a bit--
that is, until the ground you hit.
Chalk? Don't make me laugh. This is serious, Lee.
And it makes one furious, Dee.
Until one comes to the realization (some take days)
that some things were never meant to be climbed.
Impossible, you say? Have it your way.
But I double-dog dare you to try.
Swami belt not required, or harness,
but a helmet prevents a knock on the noggin, as Moss will tell you.
We once did a human ladder and we got a woman on the summit,
but there was no anchor, so we all down-climbed in turn.
It was a long morning. Water was an issue.
We were all a little pissed off till the keg showed up.
It rained and we had fun with bare feet
and several rolls of paper towels.
Then the sun went down and out came the owls,
singing in the rain,
"Who? Who? Why? Why? Who what why?
Look me in the eye.
Some things were never meant to be climbed."
And so we finished up and called it a very long day with a message.
--MFM
[Location of Chrome Dome is north of the Degnan range. You'll know it when you see it. That's all I'm saying on that.]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 10, 2016 - 06:43pm PT
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Take a bow, Tim.
I'll settle for an Oscar Meyer weiner. Keep your "good doggies," buddy.
And then take another kind of bow and shoot for the stars.
Double or nothing.
All in.
Chips on the table.
Blood on the floor.
Take a deep breath and write an encore.
If the Muse moves ya. The Muse is a fickle mental laxative.
Ya never know if constipation will strike.
Coyote's shite stinks of shite.
I think he dines on it regularly.
He is patient, though.
Like the lichen, he waits like the stones.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jul 10, 2016 - 06:53pm PT
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S....old
Should I say what I really think?
The mind's a frazzle
With nothing to dazzle
I shot my kazoo
And must bid adieu
Besides there's so many things I've left to do
Ah-choo
-bushman
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jul 14, 2016 - 11:46am PT
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Death Wish of a Guide
You picked a fine line to climb here Bo Peel,
A blind guide who’s died and leads mostly by feel.
I’ve been on bad climbs,
But this was the baddest climb,
And this time your lead wasn’t real--
Smearing your shoes with old banana peel.
--Rodgers A. Breedlover-Leap
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jul 14, 2016 - 03:38pm PT
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Apologies all,
I deleted the last four poems that I posted here in the hopes that I would be able to submit them to a poetry magazine or another publication, but subsequently, I've had a change of heart and will repost them here like it or not.
The Seafarer's Lament
Part man part beast
I walk the plank
To descend to deep
The serpent's lair
Don't ask me why
But for a dare
Don't ask me why
That I should care
It started there
Or did it end?
In the tavern where
I was searching for
A long lost love
The girl I knew
With auburn hair
The cherub laughed
And called me out
My scaly limbs
And fishnet hair
The barnacles
And scabrous sores
Did put him off
I left not knowing
What if any
Ship I'd find
Or legion's oaths
Or where the fates
Would have me go
The China sea
Our merchant vessel
Seized upon
By pirates there
And now I stand to
Walk the plank
A man half beast
With fishnet hair
To Davy Jones
Or Neptune's home
And now once more
I've washed ashore
With thirst for bread
Hunger for mead
Has brought me back
To the tavern where
I'm searching for
My long lost love
The girl I knew
With auburn hair
The cherub taunts
And mocks me for
The pustules on
These scaly limbs
My scabrous head
With fishnet hair
What ship I seek
Or legion's oath
No regiment
Would have me there
Nor have a need
For a man half beast
With scaly limbs
And fishnet hair
The harbor masters
postings read
My ship's come in
A merchant vessel
I've seen before
As if I care
But I shall go
I'm needed there
And once again
As once before
Were bound for ports
'Round Singapore
I search to find
My long lost love
The girl I knew
With auburn hair
-bushman
07/03/2016
My Last Poem #1
If you've read this poem
With your spirits shining bright
Whether reading it by day
Or in the dark of night
On the long train to Lisbon
Or a plane that is in flight
When you're finally finished reading it
Then you can delight
This is probably the last poem
That I ever shall write
I used to white these love songs
All rambling and morose
Or on maudlin theology
Questioning the Holy Ghost
But reconciling godlessness
My writing gained more meat
Yet the work became more difficult
Without human history to repeat
If you've read this poem
With your spirits shining bright
Whether reading it by day
Or in the dark of night
All Snuggled with your books
Under your sheets of white
You'll be grateful you're through reading it
Then you can delight
This is bound to be the last poem
That I will ever write
I found solace in writing poetry
And wrote poems every day
Until one day I started stumbling
Over what I had to say
I was side tracked by every shiny thing
That flashed along the way
So I sat down on my writer's block
And wrote about my day
If you've read this poem
With your spirits shining bright
Whether reading it by day
Or in the dark of night
Or on a bivouac dangling perilously
Up on the mountains height
When you're finally finished reading it
Then you can delight
This is definitely the last poem
That I will ever write
The bad thing about politics
Religion and TV
It's the same with social media
As far as I can see
People rarely solve their problems
With what they have to say
By arguing on endlessly
Until the end of day
If you've read this poem
With your spirits shining bright
Whether reading it by day
Or in the dark of night
Well I've written with such blasphemy
Never fearful of his might
So if the lord decides to smite me
Then you can delight
Because then it will be the last poem
That I would ever write
It dawned upon me yesterday
I had nothing left to say
I've been writing about everything
As though it were all a play
Pretending I was Shakespeare
In England back in the day
But my woman keeps reminding me
That my writing doesn't pay
If you've read this poem
With your spirits shining bright
Whether reading it by day
Or in the dark of night
I've written too many words
Now some bitter and in spite
You'll be glad when you're done reading it
Then you can delight
If it is the last poem
That I shall ever write
-bushman
07/09/2016
My Last Poem #2
Capitulate; cap-it-too-late.
If this is the last poem that I ever write
It forebodes what's beyond the terrors of the night
It also is the story of the hawk and the asp
About the demise of a snake who spoke with a rasp
Forget not the tall tale of Chongo and Pete
Chongo is now gone because Pete had to eat
And also the story of a storm tossed boat
The hull was so stove in that the boat wouldn't float
Alas it is a poem about final closure
If I write no more due to overexposure
A poem about pain and a poem about death
If the last that I write before I take my final breath
Would be short of detailing any nightmares endured
Of regretting a thing to which I have become inured
But most of all it is a poem about loss
Being never too gracious and as often I have been cross
Like the recurring dream about car repairs
One thing leads to another and then I am there
Skating disaster wherever I stare
But a story of misfortune can be found everywhere
My story of life though no chronicle of woe
Is not unlike that of many others that I know
But quite opposite to those with their Christmas card news
Where folks are less likely to sing about their blues
So please forgive me if all is not roses
If upon your happy thoughts my story imposes
Regretful not grateful is my motto of late
So to most of my horrors I shall now capitulate
Like I said before I have many regrets
The list has grown longer along with my debts
I am deeply afraid that the worst of them yet
In my final demise I will lose on that bet
I made with the devil in a one way deal
Trading tomorrow for yesterday I gave him the steal
So here I am with a poem but no song
Nothing for cadence to lead me along
No guiding light or a principled tune
But more like a coyote who bays at the moon
So if this be the last poem that I ever write
I'll stop wasting your time soon and bid you goodnight
Which reminds me of something that George Burns once said
About success and about failure before we are dead
It's not the exact quote but is one I can relate
"To rather fail at what you love than to succeed at what you hate"
To stop writing these poems would be like holding my breath
Or you could say it is unhealthy how I dwell so much on death
As if choosing to write my last poem were intellectual suicide
And something I should wait to do 'till right before I died.
-bushman
07/10/2016
The World's not Black and White
Some believe the world is black and white
They're just the marketers of greed
Who would have us all believe
The clothes upon our backs
Or the color of our skin
Dictate who we are
Or the products that we need
But that's just shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They are just the people being led
And whenever that's pointed out
They are quick to defend
Believing violence is justified in the end
All for the one who would incite
Who would do anything to prove that they are right
But that's just shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
We are often told this by the rich
Who'd try to prove that we aren't worthwhile
Unless we play into their game
Of amassing power and wealth
While leaving to the wolves the innocents in the night
But it's just not true
And that's just shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They are those who use religion as a tool
To say that people are not equal for the color of their skin
Or for their sexual identity
Or for trying to have dominion over their own bodies
Or for the names of their different gods
Or for their age or for their politics
But that's just shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They are the governors and lawyers
Who write laws that favor their wealthiest friends
That they might steal and profit in the end
While enslaving and branding those who do not fit in
Punishing those who won't agree to enrich the wealthy
With their millions of little laws
But that's just shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They are the CEOs and brokers of the largest corporations
Who don't care who they hurt
And practitioners of arbitrage
Who don't care who gets laid off
And the criminal polluters
Who don't care about the planet of our kids
But that's just shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They are the traffickers in humans and of sex
They are the traffickers of the world's children
And that's just sick
Then there's the traffickers of real estate
Some think that is so nice
As if all the world itself should have a price
But that's just shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They would tell you they defend our way of life
But the masters of war curry from every front
Whether you're Muslim Jew or Catholic
They would send us to the point
While they plan their major battles as if they were a game
They have no shame
But that's just shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They're all the entertainment moguls
Who spoon feed the world with their shock and awe and fluff
Rarely giving a real glimpse of the true pain and suffering
Going on worldwide under our snouts
All while starving writers and artist have something worthwhile to say
Who sometimes get their shot on PBS
And that's no shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They are those of us who like to take consensus
While we base our opinions on what the rest of our group would think
We won't go against the crowd no matter if it stinks
They are you and they are me when we wont stand against injustice
Or what we think down in our hearts is truly right
When sometimes faced by a bully we're too afraid to fight
But that's just shite
The world's not black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They are the old guard in power who won't give up the reins
No matter what the circumstances they always tell you the same thing
That their experience is necessary and your best interest is paramount
But young people and families are left out in the rain
Unless you're from a powerful family or you have a famous name
I'm telling you it's always the same
But that's just shite
The world cannot be black and white
Some believe the world is black and white
They would tell you chose a side either you're for or you're against
For an idea or for a cause or for a right
And granted that with this life it's always been sink or swim
But not everything we believe is all so cut and dried
Except when we compromise our logic out of hatred
And it's not winning when so many others stand to lose
That's just shite
The world is not just black and white
-Tim Sorenson
(aka bushman)
07/10/2016
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