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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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wishes were horses
ghosts roamed my pockets
you remained as my friend
Jack Rosenblum's pretty cathartic listening.
He's a weird Dylanesque 'snew-age don't wannabe...but he is, fortunately.
"I can't decide what to shoot at.
Or choke. Is this some kind of joke.
I feel like a house detective who has lost his shopping bag.
I look like one too."
Jokers and thieves hang
Together, talking tacos
E-veh-ry dang day.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Soccer makes dads cry.
In spite, the kids laugh harder.
Don't you just love it?
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BLUEBLOCR
Social climber
joshua tree
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Oct 8, 2012 - 03:51pm PT
My Reality.
My reality is willy-nilly.
Having resonance with my creator.
I am in tune with the waves of control.
Feeling the rock is solid as my tooth.
My body is contoured to be a sacrifice for gain.
My mind is a flutter with the prescribed pain.
My spirit rockets on the hopes of the proposal of fame.
But my ambitions could be quenched by the verdict of shame.
Whilst my heart is playing another game.
My soul warns me that we are all the same.
I give thanks to the Lord, on a job well done.
And ask for strength, to keep hang'in on.
As he wraps his arms, around me and sez
I Love U Son
Jus Ryhm'in
BB
Edit
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neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
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Oct 10, 2012 - 10:59pm PT
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hey there say, flecher... say i saw the poem there, :)
love that robin! possibly, besides her and her mate, there just mayyy be another lone one that shows up later, not sure where her mate must be, though :O
well:
i enjoyed the poem, in both spots, as, it made me think of my mom...
she loves the greatoutdoors too, and worked in it... doing her
gardening things... is harder now, she is older--
like the old
clothes in this poem...
(and her sis, 79, that died fallling through the ice of her pond one year--well: her boots and clothes were old too--she worked hard in the greatoutdoors by walking through it, as she tended to it, and she loved these very things--she also had worked indoors, as oneof the main folks at the cleveland museum of natural history, since when it first started)...
thanks for sharing...
our true work IS to enjoy and to pass it onward...
money,though we DO need it, and must provide for our home of kids, after all, will NOT endure forever--but--love does, as we share it gleaning from our experiences and passing that love of life, onward...
gives a firm foundation of self esteem, for when the money times seems to
fail for a season...
:)
*oh--got the dreamcatcher email i just could not get the mail to work this eve, :( it DID work earlier, but i have to get off line now, so jjuust threw this in fast, :)
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neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
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Oct 10, 2012 - 11:01pm PT
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hey there say, ekat! i can picture you there, :)
as to your quote:
Montana big sky
Streaming in my log cabin
Fall is glorious
:)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 11, 2012 - 12:43am PT
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Point of Punctuation
? :) = 2 (syllables)*?
Symbols, icons, ideas.
Scannning the literature there are two accepted symbols for the building blocks of poetry, the syllables. A poem is a sentence, therefore, I is a poem because I is a poem.
It's a different concept than I am a poem or I am poem.
My motive herein is to show the breakage of the word ":)" into two short syllables, ":" and ")".
This yields the possibility that neebee's statement is a devilishly-conceived poetical conceit that could only arise from the fertile ground of Texas. Or it may simply be my imagination.
I admit, the word ":))," which neebee frequently uses, seemingly at whim, (but one never knows) but always to great effect, [ (> ] might have convinced me it wasn't so.
I am just a hopeless romantic, I guess. Boy, howdy!
[Did I say that right?]
I, poet.
* There are no "breve" marks nor "macron" marks on this keyboard, hence "syllables" is a substitution, which is the best I could do...But there is no substitute for neebee, I must say.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 11, 2012 - 12:58am PT
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Fletcher! Ha ha ha... "Mouse plumbing" Ha ha ha... I'm a sewer rat, a lawyer, but no plumber.
The Watergrate break-in, though, that was partly my idea.
Haiku, TX
Hey there say, eKat!
i can picture you there, :
) as to your quote
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Oct 11, 2012 - 02:16am PT
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A poem arrives like a hand in the dark. - Yahia Lababidi
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 11, 2012 - 02:51am PT
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A'S WIN!
The Athletics win
The Tigers roar like caged Lions
Tomorrow will tell
GIANTS TOO!
Lincecum, my man
This time, out of the bullpen
Just doing his job
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Oct 11, 2012 - 11:12am PT
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For all us type B's out there (you know, the one's that DON'T have heart attacks):
For Yaedi
Looking out the window at the trees
and counting the leaves,
listening to a voice within
that tells me nothing is perfect
so why bother to try, I am thief
of my own time. When I die
I want it to be said that I wasted
hours in feeling absolutely useless
and enjoyed it, sensing my life
more strongly than when I worked at it.
Now I know myself from a stone
or a sledgehammer.
~ David Ignatow ~
(New and Collected Poems, 1970-1985)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 11, 2012 - 07:30pm PT
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Old School Boy Blue
1
I have the old school blues
I've had 'em since the break of day
repeat
But I had 'em way before that, I had 'em back in the day
2
I know how to suffer
Been doin' it the whole damn way
Repeat
Ever since the Good Lord took my baby, back in the day
3
When if I come here broke
You gotta send me away
repeat
Cuz I never repaid anyone anything, Lord, way way back in the day.
4
My friendless life is nothing
Safe to say it's never even been
Repeat
Unfinished until then, way way way way way back in the day.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Oct 12, 2012 - 03:11am PT
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And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.
Pablo Neruda
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2012 - 10:38am PT
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A succinct tale tale of unsought success success, Eric Eric.
How cruel the shoes shoes of the poet poet who tries to create and is hardly ever satisfied with his output output.
The man man who is just sauntering through life life has a thought thought, a good idea idea. He writes it down. Each thought thought and idea idea he gets is not in his journal journal, but at least one thought thought or idea idea is in there from each and every day day of his life life.
When he retires he is pleased to sit down and write himself a poem poem each day day of his life life for the rest of his life life based on the thunk thoughts and ideal ideas he has in his journal journal.
That's one approach approach. I just wish that I had bothered to journalize. It's always something something or other other. So I just force myself to go with the flow flow and trust in The Mouse Mode Mouse Mode.
Mouse Mode Mouse Mode is hard to describe to a straight straight ora a mundane mundane. The key key is to not listen to other people people but to muse. A mouse mouse knows how to muse. It is instinct. People people can muse but it seems to take longer to get results results. I just put them down and reject them, the ideal ideas and the thunk thoughts.
It really doesn't matter if no one one reads them or not. I am pleased and this is my main goal goal. I know that not everyone everyone has time time to read these drivel drivels. Nor the time time to try to understand the convoluted convolutions.
But this is the real end reason reason. If they read and understand, by gosh, maybe they will improve their live lives and love their wifely wives just a bit and the world world will be a better place place to live.
I mean, it's pretty cool the way it is, but it could be better.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That's called "double-noun." There are stict rules. Read, observe, you shall see them. I invented it just now. I hope it will make my fortune and that of my heirs, but I am a poet now. If it doesn't work I try again. And if that doesn't work, I try again.
YOU SEE A GREAT DEAL OF REPETITION IN MUSIC. IT DOESN'T WORK THAT WAY IN POETRY. I THOUGHT I'D TRY TO CHANGE THAT, BECAUSE REPETETIVE MUSIC CAN MAKE ORDINARY CATS INTO ROCK GODS AND CLASSICAL MUSIC ICONS. IN POETRY EACH LINE NEEDS TO BE FRESH, IT IS EXPECTED, IT IS UNFAIR, AND IT WILL NEVER EVER CHANGE. BUT I TRIED.
"Mousie tried" should be on my stone but I don't plan on a stone. I plan on being dumped on the beach at the base of Mt. Clark's western face. Don't forget the tube of SP 50+ because it's hot up there.
Now is the time when we all casually observe. It's casual-observation and sit-around-looking-bored time, Karl Heinz. You look bored already, my dear. Just relax.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2012 - 12:21pm PT
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Massive Creative Epic V
Written by THE MANY MICE
Sponsored by Kalliope, "the beautiful-voiced" and Best Little Law Firm, in Brooklyn, NY, owned by "the melodious lady" Bevin, who suggests singing it to the tune of Lucy in the Sky-y With Stem Cells
http://io9.com/5950960/breakthrough-researchers-create-a-mammal-entirely-from-stem-cells
Edicated to John Lennon
Hooking glass headwalls in yellow and green
Towering over our heads
Using special glass tubes and genetic threads
Our lab is incredibly clean
Seeking a method to make up some mice
A presumptuous thing they all say
But we ignore them saying just let them pray
Our goal is incredibly nice
This world needed more mice it was so plain to see
But we need better climbers far more
And our new "Lynne's" Version Four
And by next month we'll have "Alex Three"
Imagine: Using just stem cell sperms and beautiful stem cell eggs could change the world. Then everyone can have a swimming pool. Zappa, the visionary genius foresaw it in 1965. And Lennon challenges us with his song.
A note on my creative process: this is the closest I have come to imagining a line and getting it down on paper and finished before my fourth cup of coffee. It kind of represents what I've been trying to do and have been too undisciplined and lazy to do. The ditty above is far from epic, so it is fair to say it is only sponsored by Kalliope, not inspired by her. No, it was inspired by my old friend, the demi-goddess Thalia. She pestered Kalliope into sponsoring me. And my daughter Bevin is my devoted daughter, so...That Thalia's a real pistol. She's flighty as hell and hardly ever sticks around to see the finished product. But you must love her.
A quote from Mark Rodell: "Dig on writing, it is a good and tough lover."
The same can be said for climbing.
Hey, I'm a poet and don't feel like a fruitcake. Must be doing something right.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2012 - 10:52pm PT
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I had an interesting conversation with my dad, Boomer.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2012 - 10:53pm PT
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Oh yeah? What did you talk about?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2012 - 10:54pm PT
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Poetry and verse and the distinction between the two. He asked me what I had been doing and I told him destroying a man's ego and writing poetry. He asked me to read him one of my poems, not a good idea, but I obliged.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2012 - 10:56pm PT
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What did you read to him? Did he like it? Did he criticize it? Did he venture and opinion?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2012 - 11:27pm PT
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I read to him Summertimer in the Yosemite Museum. He got lost. He didn't like. He said it didn't rhyme and he couldn't make out what I was saying about a woman after I'd been talking about some hill.
His opinion is that poetry should rhyme and he never cared for that which did not.
I explained that to him as the difference between poetry, which is not just rhymed, but is metered. Verse is a much broader realm and I asked him if he'd ever read any of the Eddas. He said he lacked the eddacation I had and that he hated Norwegians on principle because he tried lutefisk and his mother was scared by a Norwegian bachelor logger.
I often thought there was something weird about my verse, and it was because I thought it was poetry. Now I have reason to live.
And if you think I learned all this at some fancy-schmancy poet mill like old I.V. Leeg, the answer's no. I have The Complete Rhyming Dictionary by Clement Wood, and it is indeed complete. It's very first section, The Poet's Craft Book, begins with a chapter on Poetry and Versification.
It's rewarding reading.
Dad favored me with a poem he remembered and considered it his idea of what poetry should aspire to be. It is published yearly in all Hearst newspapers.
The Song of the River
The snow melts on the mountain
And the water runs down to the spring,
And the spring in a turbulent fountain,
With a song of youth to sing,
Runs down to the riotous river,
And the river flows to the sea,
And the water again
Goes back in rain
To the hills where it used to be.
And I wonder if life's deep mystery
Isn't much like the rain and the snow
Returning through all eternity
To the places it used to know.
For life was born on the lofty heights
And flows in a laughing stream,
To the river below
Whose onward flow
Ends in a peaceful dream.
And so at last,
When our life had passed
And the river has run its course,
It again goes back,
O'er the selfsame track,
To the mountain which was its source.
So why prize life
Or why fear death,
Or dread what is to be?
The river ran
Its alotted span
Till it reached the silent sea.
Then the water harked back
To the mountain-top
To begin its course once more.
So we shall run
The course begun
Till we reach the silent shore.
Then revisit earth
In a pure rebirth
From the heart of the virgin snow.
So don't ask why
We live or die,
Or whither, or when we go,
Or wonder about the mysteries
That only God may know.
--Wm. Randolph Hearst, d. 1951
Not bad for an entitled, shacking-up, yellow-journaling, walking-on-water ur-ego like his to even think in such terms.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2012 - 11:29pm PT
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If you say so it must be true. Did you explain to him why you write poetry?
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