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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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While we're at it...
This is by a dear Atlin friend, Kate Harris, who has just finished a book for Knopf titled "Lands of Lost Borders - Cycling Out of Bounds on the Silk Road". We'll hear a lot more from her. For some amazing writing, check her out on <kateharris/ca>. Read her essay "Contours of Cold". Some incredibly poetic stuff in that one.
NIGHT SONG
all the insoluble night the crickets repeat their questions
not expecting answers not learning lessons by rote
but dismantling loneliness carefully like a bomb
these mantras are the oldest imagination of prayer
minds like little moons exerting force across immensity
tugging at Truth Certainty God all the usual truants
all the absolutes skipping school this time around the universe
desire is suffering Milarepa tells us through the nettles
stuck in his teeth lisping wisdom like slow water
over stones but the fact we will all someday die
argues the danger of longing for too little
when the sun rises it is not a reply but a rephrasing
of the mystery a closing of distances with light
shadows so much vaster than the shapes that cast them
the crickets are quiet loneliness is in pieces
all over the lawn tiny shards precious as gems
one pretty edge short of shrapnel.
-Drunken Boat issue #16
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 17, 2016 - 04:42pm PT
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The Drake
A female duck is called a duck,
The male is called a drake.
He’s loaded with testosterone –
He’s something of a rake.
He’s big and strong but not too bright,
He’s arrogant and loud.
He makes himself conspicuous;
He stands out in a crowd.
He pokes and dabbles in the muck,
And gabbles all the while;
Though he’s a bottom feeder, he
Pretends to have some style.
His foolish bird-brained fan club feeds
His monstrous self-esteem,
His id and ego grow apace,
He struts and quacks and preens.
And when migration time has come
And summer’s nearly spent,
He’ll fly away to Washington
And run for President.
WM
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Oct 19, 2016 - 01:40pm PT
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The World is so like Autumn to me Now
I found pieces of my yard all over today
They were brown or tan, some yellowing
There was an odd owl wing
And a broken metal alligator toy
Another was a piece of yesterday
Something political
I swept them all in a pile
And lit them for an altar
Then sat to pray
"Oh autumn
Don't be afraid to linger
You know I'm melancholy when you are
With the fading light of summer
The doldrums come so easily
If I was an old fishing boat
My mold would be so much worse today
But I'm not
I'm just a man
I'm like a man a moldering
More and more each year as I get older
Pruney skin and creaking withers
I'm like the tree who'd bring back summer
At the first sign of a good rain
It's the same for every season
Where I usually regret the change
Until a few weeks have gone by
So forgive all my transgressions
Oh Autumn
And may we still be here this time next year
And may we mostly have forgotten
This rotten election
And please don't forget
To watch over my family, my pets, and my friends
Amen"
I don't expect that autumn
Should pay me too much credence
-bushman
10/-9/2016
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Oct 19, 2016 - 01:49pm PT
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"And when migration time has come
And summer’s nearly spent,
He’ll fly away to Washington
And run for President."
^^^^
Or more like this:
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 19, 2016 - 05:32pm PT
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Not sure I dare try this format but whatthehell, it's all fun. A tanka string. Like haiku, but 5 lines,
5-7-5-7-7.
Winter coming
aspen’s gold has flown
greyness owns all earth and sky
we long for light
snow can not come soon enough
white will light our world again
***
dark limbs wave helpless
arguing with icy wind
pull the chair closer
pine chunks crackle in the stove
stretch toward the sun’s old warmth
***
hard frost furs the roof
north breeze hurries mist southward
I blink sleep away
savouring rich coffee scent
planning now for coming snow
***
the first flakes drift in
perch on the deck and cling there
we dig in the closet
wool and fleece are warm to touch
down can wait for sharper cold
***
all is white at dawn
new snow muffles earth and sound
turn from the window
find the skis in the rafters
waiting for that first long glide
***
put back the new skis
lacking soul of living wood
pull down the wood skis
torch in the bubbling pine tar
inhale taste of winters past
Wayne Merry, August 2016
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 21, 2016 - 12:26am PT
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You pulled that off well, Wayne.
Hats off to winter
Though it's blowing mighty cold
You're warm and toasty
And that string is worth another read plus.
A melancholy bit from the depths of depression.
Food for Thought, Food for Worms
My family moving south
from north
by leaps and bounds
along the 99
and coming to rest
here
I have lived on the 101
and there are comparisons
two degrees of separation
by the numbers
but there is no place
that is a home to me
like here
Where I sit
where I make my stand
where I will probably lie
under the hardpan
if not mixed
into the sand of Mt. Clark beach
which I can see from
here
For that is my true home
as I see it
in the pines and rocks
of the incomparable place
amid the pure rare air
up there
But of what good is that
splendid air
to a corpse
especially one whose death
was caused in part
by breathing bad air
here?
Something
to occupy my thoughts
if any
after I take my rest
whenever
wherever
if not
here
--MFM
Someone you know may be suffering depression.
I hope it's not you.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Oct 21, 2016 - 02:43am PT
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With Nary a Trace
The cold night air blankets me
Chilling in a good way
Like the places I see
Some
But we are in between
All the vastness
And temperature extremes
Too far away, disgrace
Would I were a light beam
I were
My mind, my thoughts, my essence
A glowing crown
Iridescent and circular
Ever present
Would I were all of them
Simultaneously
Limited, brief
A flashing tiny spark
As great as all my thoughts are, to me
This kaleidoscopic space
Between two ears, way out there
Somehow escaping
I'm laughing now at both worlds
So sad, they slip away
-bushman
10/21/2016
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 21, 2016 - 09:18am PT
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Mouse, Bushman - you guys just keep getting better!
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Barbarian
climber
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Oct 21, 2016 - 09:42am PT
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An old rooster crows
in the frosty grey dawn.
I turn my collar up
against the chill
take one more look
down that lonely white line
knowing part of me is already gone.
I know the pain
a sailor must feel
dreaming of some other land
a Prodigal son
map in my mind
a stranger longing for Home.
October leaves are falling
softly
I stir them with my boots
the sky is November...
it looks like snow.
Sitting on my roll
in a pickup truck bed
sharing the wind
with an old man's dog
whining of the tires
a Highway Song
The hours pass by me
to the ticking of fenceposts
At dusk
I wander away from the road
to the trees
and as night scatters stars
I push back the cold with a blanket
a guitar
and thoughts of you...
There's a Princess
warm in her storybook
a King
cold
out on his Road
I'm hitchhiking to Colorado.
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 21, 2016 - 02:14pm PT
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Good stuff!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 21, 2016 - 07:24pm PT
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Wonderful memory, Scott.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 23, 2016 - 02:30am PT
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Norman MacKaig writing about the Cairngorms.
Don't know if there's a title.
I saw it in this blog.
https://heavywhalley.wordpress.com/
Glaciers, grinding West, gouged out
these valleys, rasping the brown sandstone,
and left, on the hard rock below — the
ruffled foreland —
this frieze of mountains, filed
on the blue air — Stac Polly,
Cul Beag, Cul Mor, Suilven,
Canisp — a frieze and
a litany.
Who owns this landscape?
Has owning anything to do with love?
For it and I have a love-affair, so nearly human
we even have quarrels. —
When I intrude too confidently
it rebuffs me with a wind like a hand
or puts in my way
a quaking bog or a loch
where no loch should be. Or I turn stonily
away, refusing to notice
the rouged rocks, the mascara
under a dripping ledge, even
the tossed, the stony limbs waiting.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 26, 2016 - 06:50am PT
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As long as we are on the opposite side of the pond, here's a pretty one from Ireland.
The Pretty Girl of Loch Dan
Sir Samuel Ferguson (1810–1886)
THE SHADES of eve had crossed the glen
That frowns o’er infant Avonmore,
When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men,
We stopped before a cottage door.
“God save all here,” my comrade cries,
And rattles on the raised latch-pin;
“God save you kindly,” quick replies
A clear sweet voice, and asks us in.
We enter; from the wheel she starts,
A rosy girl with soft black eyes;
Her fluttering courtesy takes our hearts,
Her blushing grace and pleased surprise.
Poor Mary, she was quite alone,
For, all the way to Glenmalure,
Her mother had that morning gone
And left the house in charge with her.
But neither household cares, nor yet
The shame that startled virgins feel,
Could make the generous girl forget
Her wonted hospitable zeal.
She brought us in a beechen bowl
Sweet milk that smacked of mountain thyme,
Oat cake, and such a yellow roll
Of butter,—it gilds all my rhyme!
And while we ate the grateful food
(With weary limbs on bench reclined),
Considerate and discreet, she stood
Apart, and listened to the wind.
Kind wishes both our souls engaged,
From breast to breast spontaneous ran
The mutual thought,—we stood and pledged,
“The modest rose above Loch Dan.”
“The milk we drink is not more pure,
Sweet Mary,—bless those budding charms!—
Than your own generous heart, I ’m sure,
Nor whiter than the breast it warms!”
She turned and gazed, unused to hear
Such language in that homely glen;
But, Mary, you have naught to fear,
Though smiled on by two stranger men.
Not for a crown would I alarm
Your virgin pride by word or sign;
Nor need a painful blush disarm
My friend of thoughts as pure as mine.
Her simple heart could not but feel
The words we spoke were free from guile;
She stooped, she blushed,—she fixed her wheel,—
’T is all in vain,—she can’t but smile!
Just like sweet April’s dawn appears
Her modest face,—I see it yet,—
And though I lived a hundred years
Methinks I never could forget
The pleasure that, despite her heart,
Fills all her downcast eyes with light,
The lips reluctantly apart,
The white teeth struggling into sight;
The dimples eddying o’er her cheek,—
The rosy cheek that won’t be still!—
O, who could blame what flatterers speak,
Did smiles like this reward their skill?
For such another smile, I vow,
Though loudly beats the midnight rain,
I ’d take the mountain-side e’en now,
And walk to Luggelaw again!
Got milk?
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Oct 26, 2016 - 08:20am PT
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Insight comes in many forms.
Wisdom too
I'm never sure that I understand it
What is that we do?
We search and play
We lay out under the stars for fun
We catch the sun set and the moon rise
then the sun rise again the moon fade in the rays.
Understanding comes to some
Not me
Humbled by the great walls I climbed
And that the nature I took in so deeply
Took to mean the essence of my soul
Of ephemeral flames that described me
the same ones that Defined me, also
Take a girl from whence she be a beauty +
To when all is said and done no less haggerd,
But just as much a hag as this
Setting son, a man once bright and young too
Now a stooped hag too
All the while a twinkle in the eyes that see no reason to
Rest inside when the night comes on
there is still time to be young 'nd things to do
Goin' where the wine is dry, sweet the buds are green
No father no husband no cause for alarm
At peace in the bosom of the beast
That cast him out
Only at last to see the error of that folly
Some deserve their place in the
Glorious fabric of the halls
The walls of the cathedral echo
Charles Victory Tucker is,
CHONGO.
A King among us all.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 26, 2016 - 10:02am PT
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^^^^Where, and under what bushel basket, have you been hiding your light?
DUDE!!!!
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 26, 2016 - 12:21pm PT
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Maybe not a poem, but just an observation from the front window.
Bohemian Waxwings
The waxwings sweep in through the swirling snow,
Attack the bountiful berries of the rowan.
The berries have fermented.
The birds are partying.
Two hundred fluttering wings shiver the tree.
Two late robins join the party.
Their cohort has long gone south -
These waited for the right vintage.
Magpies join the bacchanal -
They scorned the berries earlier.
Party crashers.
Power of suggestion.
A pair of hulking ravens flare in like thunderclouds,
Swaying precarious on the tiny twigs,
They ignored the berries all fall.
The waxwings caught their lofty attention.
The tree is almost stripped.
The birds are happier now.
Avian crapulence tomorrow.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 26, 2016 - 04:51pm PT
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Asking $350.
I'm posting another couple of photos of Ocean Jones' work on the ARt tHreaD, if you're interested.
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 28, 2016 - 12:10pm PT
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I like that one.
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Nice, rrider!
This time year a lot of us northerners like to head south. We did for several year, beach camping in Baja. Which provoked the following:
Song of the Snowbird
There’s a playa called Ligui just south of Loreto.
It’s a fabulous spot, but not easy to get to.
The highways are narrow and most don’t have shoulders,
And are littered with shrines, burned-out autos and boulders.
They’re patrolled by acquisitive Mexican policia
Who invent every possible reason to fleece ya.
And at times you must rush past some glorious vista
To search for a rest stop, ‘cause you’ve got turista.
But once you’re established amongst Ligui’s dunes
You can relish the seascapes, the stars and full moons,
To seaward the beautiful Isla Danzante,
Behind you the mighty Sierra Gigante -
The frutas Jose brings and Gloria’s burritos,
The campfires, friends, and of course the Hornitos.
And even Canadians have nothing but praises
For Tecate, Modelo and other cervezas.
If by Baja midnight we’re slightly borracho,
We weave carefully back to our camps mas despacio -
The night may be sweet but it well might distract us
To tread on a serpent or fall on a cactus.
The frigate birds hovering over the sea
Agree with the gulls - there’s no place like Ligui.
If the ocean gets rough or the wind starts to blow
We have only to contemplate forty below.
No one in his senses would trade the beach life
For snowfall, short days and political strife.
The only darn thing that I think we did wrong
Was not doing this sooner - what took us so long?
WM
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