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Leggs
Sport climber
Made in California, living in The Old Pueblo
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Apr 30, 2017 - 05:22pm PT
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I just woke from a dream
long curls
piled on pillows
danced upon
by tiny feet
In my dream
you looked the same
perhaps taller
because
that’s how dreams work
Your scent was familiar
after one hug
in real life
body pressed to mine
tentatively
just for a moment
in case we gave up secrets
far too soon
strangers in a crowded room
You looked the same
except you looked in me
eyes locked together
for a split second
giving up secrets
that only we knew
We danced
around each other
without touching
our bodies drawn
together
losing the fight
no longer strangers
tonight.
I had a dream
I hated to see end
As a phone rang in the distance
long curls off white pillows
in an instant
eyes squinting in protest...
Until I felt your soft skin.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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May 18, 2017 - 09:10am PT
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In the Heart of a Poet
In the heart of a poet
Goes a song with music heard
By only the muse and the birds
Hanging in the air
And hinging on a word
There is more to this life
Than the myriad things we've done
When feeling kind of blue
Of those things we haven't tried
We can chose and let it run
On the page of a novel reads
Unfinished sentences and words
Like the turning of a page
The language unwritten
With thoughts yet unheard
In heart of a writer
Some long to tell a tale
Of adventures that unfold
Accounts of grave misdeeds
Or heroes conquering hell
In the heart of a poet
Comes a thought like a seed
Unexplained and or unquestioned
That would cause the heart to sing
Or to fill a simple need
Oft' in the hour of despair
One finds voice of lilting solace
Or echoes of bravado
Weaving intricate mystic themes
Inherent beyond free choice
Beyond yearning of it's author
In the heart of every story
The heroine often falters
Which belies a greater challenge
Contributing to it's history
What was written was a word
In truth or in fiction
Of passion or reconciliation
The reader must decide
Where they find a connection
In the heart of a poet
Plays a symphony of rhythm
Like the crickets and the birds
Building in the air
Illuminating like a prism
There are feelings underlying
Every thought and every action
Though in the heart of a poet
With the final draft
There is rarely satisfaction
-bushman
05/18/2017
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jun 10, 2017 - 08:55am PT
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Soundings of Defeat
I've been trying to see the good side
Of society as a whole
But the void that beckons darkly
Falls away to the unknown
I am shouting into the darkness
And wonder what the owl knows
Beyond a lonely echo
There is no redeeming spirit
Guiding o'er some shining path
There is nothing I have seen so far
Beyond the grave and death
Nothing spurs my inspiration
Like the tidbits I have found
Of endeavors cheating death
What electrifies the rare air
Of a life of risk and dare
Isn't recklessness or drama
Or a lack of love or care
But a knowledge of the fine line
Shared by people everywhere
For most are unaware
To inspire a heart that's empty
When the answer is at my feet
Requires an x equation
Some connection to complete
There is nothing to really complain about
For one as lucky as me
Only soundings of defeat
I've been trying to see the good side
Of society as a whole
But the void that beckons darkly
Falls away to the unknown
I am shouting into the darkness
And wonder what the owl knows
Beyond a lonely echo
-Bushman
06/09/2017
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Jun 12, 2017 - 12:33pm PT
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Lord Byron
The Witch of the Alps
(Manfred, Act ii. Scene 2.)
A lower Valley in the Alps.—A Cataract.
Enter MANFRED.
IT is not noon—the sunbow’s rays still arch
The torrent with the many hues of heaven,
And roll the sheeted silver’s waving column
O’er the crag’s headlong perpendicular,
And fling its lines of foaming light along, 5
And to and fro, like the pale courser’s tail,
The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death,
As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes
But mine now drink this sight of loveliness;
I should be sole in this sweet solitude, 10
And with the Spirit of the place divide
The homage of these waters.—I will call her.
[MANFRED takes some of the water into the palm of his hand, and flings it into the air, muttering the adjuration. After a pause, the WITCH OF THE ALPS rises beneath the arch of the sunbow of the torrent.
Beautiful Spirit! with thy hair of light,
And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form
The charms of earth’s least mortal daughters grow 15
To an unearthly stature, in an essence
Of purer elements; while the hues of youth,—
Carnation’d like a sleeping infant’s cheek,
Rock’d by the beating of her mother’s heart,
Or the rose tints, which summer’s twilight leaves 20
Upon the lofty glacier’s virgin snow,
The blush of earth embracing with her heaven,—
Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame
The beauties of the sunbow which bends o’er thee.
Beautiful Spirit! in thy calm clear brow, 25
Wherein is glass’d serenity of soul,
Which of itself shows immortality,
I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son
Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit
At times to commune with them—if that he 30
Avail him of his spells—to call thee thus,
And gaze on thee a moment.
Witch. Son of Earth!
I know thee, and the powers which give thee power;
I know thee for a man of many thoughts,
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both, 35
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings.
I have expected this—what would’st thou with me?
Man. To look upon thy beauty—nothing further.
The face of the earth hath madden’d me, and I
Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 40
To the abodes of those who govern her—
But they can nothing aid me. I have sought
From them what they could not bestow, and now
I search no further.
Witch. What could be the quest 45
Which is not in the power of the most powerful,
The rulers of the invisible?
Man. A boon;
But why should I repeat it? ’twere in vain.
Witch. I know not that; let thy lips utter it.
Man. Well, though it torture me, ’tis but the same; 50
My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards
My spirit walk’d not with the souls of men,
Nor look’d upon the earth with human eyes;
The thirst of their ambition was not mine,
The aim of their existence was not mine; 55
My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers,
Made me a stranger; though I wore the form,
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh,
Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me
Was there but one who——but of her anon. 60
I said with men, and with the thoughts of men,
I held but slight communion; but instead,
My joy was in the Wilderness, to breathe
The difficult air of the iced mountain’s top,
Where the birds dare not build, nor insect’s wing 65
Flit o’er the herbless granite; or to plunge
Into the torrent, and to roll along
On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave
Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow.
In these my early strength exulted; or 70
To follow through the night the moving moon,
The stars and their development; or catch
The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim;
Or to look, list’ning, on the scatter’d leaves,
While Autumn winds were at their evening song. 75
These were my pastimes, and to be alone;
For if the beings, of whom I was one,—
Hating to be so,—cross’d me in my path,
I felt myself degraded back to them,
And was all clay again. And then I dived, 80
In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death,
Searching its cause in its effect; and drew
From wither’d bones, and skulls, and heap’d up dust,
Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass’d
The nights of years in sciences untaught, 85
Save in the old time; and with time and toil,
And terrible ordeal, and such penance
As in itself hath power upon the air,
And spirits that do compass air and earth,
Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 90
Mine eyes familiar with Eternity,
Such as, before me, did the Magi, and
He who from out their fountain-dwellings raised
Eros and Anteros, at Gadara,
As I do thee;—and with my knowledge grew 95
The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy
Of this most bright intelligence, until—
Witch. Proceed.
Man. Oh! I but thus prolong’d my words,
Boasting these idle attributes, because
As I approach the core of my heart’s grief— 100
But to my task. I have not named to thee
Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being,
With whom I wore the chain of human ties;
If I had such, they seem’d not such to me—
Yet there was one——
Witch. Spare not thyself—proceed. 105
Man. She was like me in lineaments—her eyes,
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone
Even of her voice, they said were like to mine;
But soften’d all, and temper’d into beauty;
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, 110
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind
To comprehend the universe: nor these
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine,
Pity, and smiles, and tears—which I had not;
And tenderness—but that I had for her; 115
Humility—and that I never had.
Her faults were mine—her virtues were her own—
I loved her, and destroy’d her!
Witch. With thy hand?
Man. Not with my hand, but heart—which broke her heart—
It gazed on mine, and wither’d. I have shed 120
Blood, but not hers—and yet her blood was shed—
I saw—and could not stanch it.
Witch. And for this—
A being of the race thou dost despise,
The order which thine own would rise above,
Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 125
The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink’st back
To recreant mortality——Away!
Man. Daughter of Air! I tell thee, since that hour—
But words are breath—look on me in my sleep,
Or watch my watchings—Come and sit by me! 130
My solitude is solitude no more,
But peopled with the Furies;—I have gnash’d
My teeth in darkness till returning morn,
Then cursed myself till sunset;—I have pray’d
For madness as a blessing—’tis denied me. 135
I have affronted death—but in the war
Of elements the waters shrunk from me,
And fatal things pass’d harmless—the cold hand
Of an all-pitiless demon held me back,
Back by a single hair, which would not break. 140
In fantasy, imagination, all
The affluence of my soul—which one day was
A Crœsus in creation—I plunged deep,
But, like an ebbing wave, it dash’d me back
Into the gulf of my unfathom’d thought. 145
I plunged amidst mankind—Forgetfulness
I sought in all, save where ’tis to be found,
And that I have to learn;—my sciences,
My long-pursued and superhuman art,
Is mortal here—I dwell in my despair— 150
And live—and live for ever.
Witch. It may be
That I can aid thee.
Man. To do this thy power
Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them.
Do so—in any shape—in any hour— 155
With any torture—so it be the last.
Witch. That is not in my province; but if thou
Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do
My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes.
Man. I will not swear—Obey! and whom? the spirits 160
Whose presence I command, and be the slave
Of those who served me—Never!
Witch. Is this all?
Hast thou no gentler answer?—Yet bethink thee,
And pause ere thou rejectest.
Man. I have said it.
Witch. Enough!—I may retire then—say!
Man. Retire!
[The WITCH disappears.
165
Man. (alone.) We are the fools of time and terror: Days
Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live,
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.
In all the days of this detested yoke—
This vital weight upon the struggling heart, 170
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain,
Or joy that ends in agony or faintness—
In all the days of past and future, for
In life there is no present, we can number
How few—how less than few—wherein the soul 175
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back
As from a stream in winter, though the chill
Be but a moment’s. I have one resource
Still in my science—I can call the dead,
And ask them what it is we dread to be: 180
The sternest answer can but be the Grave,
And that is nothing;—if they answer not—
The buried Prophet answered to the Hag
Of Endor; and the Spartan Monarch drew
From the Byzantine maid’s unsleeping spirit 185
An answer and his destiny—he slew
That which he loved, unknowing what he slew,
And died unpardon’d—though he call’d in aid
The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused
The Arcadian Evocators to compel 190
The indignant shadow to depose her wrath,
Or fix her term of vengeance—she replied
In words of dubious import, but fulfill’d.
If I had never lived, that which I love
Had still been living; had I never loved, 195
That which I love would still be beautiful—
Happy and giving happiness. What is she?
What is she now?—a sufferer for my sins—
A thing I dare not think upon—or nothing.
Within few hours I shall not call in vain— 200
Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare:
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze
On spirit, good or evil—now I tremble,
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart.
But I can act even what I most abhor, 205
And champion human fears.—The night approaches.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Sep 18, 2017 - 06:27am PT
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Funny about mortality. We don't know when our our expiration date will come due but we get notices almost every day about all the others.
The Trial
(with edits)
I once dreamed I sat in on
The trial of the century
The earth was accused
Of plotting to abandon us and go away
It lasted for weeks
Protesters came and went
The judge never ruled
The hubbub died and went away
I felt awakened
With a new lease on life
All hope restored
And found new energy from that day
But now the kids have grown
Our hair's turned grey
But for the dogs
There's no one home most of the day
The sink that drips
Needs fixing but
Like so many things
Who knows how long it's been that way?
Our loved ones near or far away
Deep down inside
The truth is that
We're all alone and know it's just that way
My two old dogs
Read how I am
And know me like
I know the sun will rise and set each day
As our life goes on
Eventually it goes away
We don't have to accept it
Until the threshold of our dying day
I wake before dawn
Most every day
And go out with the dogs
We listen to what the owl has to say
The owl just speaks
The truth to me
About who must deal
And so work with what I have each day
Though the darkest night
Remains perpetually dark
Far out beyond the stars
No light ever reaches there or finds it's way
But for now on earth
Where sunlight falls
Life begins anew
With every sunrise somewhere every day
I dreamt I stood
Greeting one by one
All the people I've ever known
But never gave a thought to what the last one would say
-bushman
09/17/2017
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 20, 2017 - 10:14pm PT
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Plan Gone A-gley
In planning for our latest Climb of Climbs
We demonstrate moves using pantomimes
You crimp this nub to move up to there
Stepping on that block using utmost care
You Gaston this then you Levitate that
Easy it’s not--you can lose your hat
No one’s done it-—we could grab a first ascent
It’s been tried by several even Pat Ament
Old Bushy tried it twice once back in the day
I’ve heard that young Vitaliy even said No Way
It haired out Schmitzy and it freaked him so
He came back to camp saying No No No
No one’s tried the line in quite a long while
And we’re just the ones needed to do it in style
We won’t take all day like we did on The Nose
We’ll be sitting in Degnan’s before they close
The only thing we gotta do--the only thing we need
Is to roshambo for that nasty last lead
I know you won't try paper before you try rock
So I’ll just try scissors to give you a shock
You’ve fooled me with paper and that’s not right
But I feel I’m getting sick from that bacon last night
--Wee Beastie
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 24, 2017 - 01:27pm PT
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Pass The Piano, Pete
Good boogie woogie is hard to find
When you hear good boogie it will blow your mind
We heard some playing on The Captain one night
Some cats were wailing (but they were out of sight)
They were rockin' the Captain all night through
I couldn't stop tapping with my old tennis shoe
One big problem, though (and this wasn't all)
The boogie vibrations caused a giant rockfall!
--MFM
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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I hope it's not too soon for this one...
The Razor of the Great Heart Flake
Many walls ago
There once was a man
Who came from way south of Yucatán
The mightiest chieftain
Of his great clan
To bag the big walls was his goal and his plan
Well he almost bailed
From old Mt Conness
But finished with style and the greatest finesse
And was first to nail
With style and grace
A route missing now on Half Dome's Northwest Face
'Twas long before
The age of steel
When the men ate nettles for their every meal
They climbed the cliffs
With wooden spikes
Rotted with termites to their dislike
Their ropes were all woven
From maidens hair
And they climbed mostly free with the utmost of care
And they dared not to fall
For the pro was all bad
And their iron grip was most ironclad
But the El Cap routes
Though none went free
Were expanding and dangerous as they could be
And the southwest face
Had the boldest lines
Where a first ascent might prove most sublime
Here sat the fiercest
Down hanging flake
From Mammoth on up with no ledge to make
For eight hundred feet
A continuous test
Of expanding bombay without any rest
Above this great cleaver
The cracks looked quite sound
Where keys to the summit might surely be found
But the huge expander
Named the Great Heart Flake
Was a perilous difficult route to take
So the Chieftain trained
For many months on end
When the route became dry then the climb began
The lower slabs
Went with minimal aid
Arriving at Mammoth without accolade
His good partner by
The name of Crag
Had their secret weapon in a big haul bag
Two fine spun lengths of
Nine hundred foot rope
Were flaked out on Mammoth with all faith and hope
A continuous lead
With minimal pro
Up the the perilous flake if it ever would go
At five eleven plus
It would be the only way
Making all other routes like a leisure holiday
The Chieftain set out
With the mightiest of racks
Of many wooden pegs slung below his back
With fifty foot run outs
Between every peg
He was loath then to suffer with the Elvis Leg
On the lead of his life
He did the chicken wing hop
'Twas slickest technique to avoid the great chop
As he tapped in each peg
As if on a dare
In the massive expander with most loving care
The chimney narrowed down
To an offwidth hang
And was finally barred by a loose granite fang
Where the Chieftain swung out
And he layed it away
As the story now goes many years to the day
At that greasy lieback
On a quivering shard
At forty feet out the climb got way hard
The Chieftain freed higher
'Till his strength gave out
And he tapped in a peg as he started to shout
The flake quivered once
Then it settled to a groan
So he slotted his pegs just to quiet the moan
The last forty feet
Went aid five to a ledge
Where the towering flake hung by only a wedge
The haul line hung free
And when Chief hauled the bag
It nary would touch and it nary would drag
Pulling pegs with a tug
Crag cleaned the whole pitch
And swung ever so gently o'er Yosemite ditch
The Chieftain was nervous
And took the next lead
Deciding to bivvy he fired up some weed
As Crag cleaned away
The chief quenched his thirst
As he tapped a cold lager now only his first
As the bottle cap fell
It hit once and twirled
With the oddest vibration it arced and it curled
And just below Crag
As he carefully cleaned
The bottle cap struck as it wildly careened
A strange echoing noise
Sounded off the Cathedrals
As the party hung high in their airy dihedral
Then a small crack appeared
Atop the huge flake
With an audible grinding it started to break
The climbers looked down
Their mouths all agape
Both faces affixed in a silent scream shape
Below the flake pivoted
Slow-mo like a dream
Building momentum it fell and gained steam
The massive flake dropped
With a thunderous clap
Exploding in clouds on the slabs of El Cap
Thirty five million tons
Of boulderous debri
Plummeting out as it once more fell free
And it peppered the ground
It mowed down great trees
With nowhere to go people dropped to their knees
But the meadow was spared
As the clouds of dust cleared
No folks were below nor was anyone near
But two climbers in shock
Hung two thousand feet up
Their retreat was now missing and full was their cup
They climbed through the nights
And slept in short fits
Hanging in their slings with no option to quit
They topped out in a storm
At the end of day five
Hiking to Tamarack still glad to be alive
On return to the valley
To Camp Four in the dark
All the campers were missing not even a lark
In the morning they rose
And packed up their canoe
With no mojo left it was all they could do
As they rowed the Merced
Through that valley of bliss
Any climbers who saw them would let out a hiss
And they paused by the meadow
Seeing they never could brag
For the greatest disservice to the mightiest of crags
Once the loveliest of flakes
Formed the shape of a heart
'Twas now rendered asunder and ruptured apart
So the Chieftain and Crag
Slunk on back to their craft
No climbers bade farewell nor stifled a laugh
Though they might have been famous
And proud to a man
When the Great Heart Flake fell out of El Capitan
-Tim Sorenson
11/05/2015
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oodles of Poodles
Known far and away and round the world
Clever and talented and looking spit-curled
The dogs who search ways for us climbers to cross
Unspeakable patches of avalanche-prone choss
Are mocked and vilified and even abused
So that stoopid climbers will be highly amused
But the Canadian Miss had to pick and to choose
The canine heroes who must pay for our dues
I sit and I laugh at the cartoons she draws
The results echoing like thunderous guffaws
The last thing a poodle hears are his claws
Scritching and scratching now let's take a pause
To honor the Dead Poodles Society.
--Walt Singlemalt
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Out Of the Mouth Of One Of My Champs
In the light of Coleman lamps
With a case of sudden cramps
From the lips of young Bob Kamps
Poured a solid stream of some of the vilest invective ever to have been heard in Yosemite’s camps.
--Big Fan In Little Yosemite
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 23, 2017 - 03:11pm PT
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After Turkey
Look at all those
Swelling bellies
Full of turkey
Ham and jellies
Stuffed with stuffing
Dressed with care
You’ve been a piggie
Slide back your chair
Cut loose a burp
Forget dessert
Just loose your belt
Un-tuck your shirt
--MFM, Thanksgiving 2017
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Nov 23, 2017 - 07:57pm PT
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Mouse - glad you're still in the rhyming game! And Bushman - missed that last one, but love it.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 23, 2017 - 09:10pm PT
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Wayne, thank you.
As Old Lodge Skins would suggest, let us go and eat our fill.
My new Ute wife, Loves Turkey Neck, has a meal ready for us over the hill.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Nov 25, 2017 - 01:17am PT
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Kind words from a Merry old soul, always welcome...
The Wild Norwegian
A few years back in Idaho
as I walked along
the rocky scree
under cloudy skies on a mountain flank
I happened across a bighorn herd
moving swiftly down the landscape
or they happened on me
then I should say
Staring down at wildflowers
I looked up to see them trotting by
not more than twenty yards away
Effortlessly they moved on by
like gentle waves upon the sea
And someone followed at a distance
in the misted gray
A man in many layered coats
appeared afar
as the wind picked up
I raised my arm to greet him
But he disappeared
on the distant mountainside
Out west in the Sierras
on Shadow Lake at dawn
I pulled another golden trout
from below the frigid algae murk
And there across the way
another angler looked east on morning clouds
the golden light of sunrise
reflecting off his ruddy cheeks
He looked familiar
as I thought to speak
He turned and climbed the other bank
and as I looked again his way
only silence stared back at me
I haven’t fished there for awhile now
A cacophonous din wracked hard
on my headache
My eyes bloodshot as I stared
The nightclub rang with laughter
as a crumpled soul stood quietly
then began his act
This poet in leu of a comic
met taunting words
and angry scowls
Then the raucous tribe
met face to face with this man’s tale
as words flowed out his face
onto the crowd
Taken aback the customers fell silent
until
It dawned on them
how the poets words
described in crude detail
the empty cold half dead remains
of an alcoholic’s life
Though I’d heard his work someplace before
Some pissed off drunks in that crowd
stymied his rhythm
and he was out the door
I took my dogs
down to the beach one day
near Carmet north of Bodega way
Ate my baguette with some gouda
and salami in the sun as
the crisp wind blew my face
My male dog ran ahead
as a stranger knelt to greet him
The surf and ocean spray
hit my feet and wet my sneakers
And my dog charged back to me
The man was gone and to this day
I would swear I thought I’d seen him
somewhere else before
-bushman
11/25/2017
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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Nov 25, 2017 - 08:51am PT
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Let It Be Recorded
Let it be recorded
my wish to live
where I can sleep
in good weather or bad
upon a beach festooned
in the bric-a-brac
of the ages.
Perhaps a vanishing glow
far to the south
all that is left
of that common pestilence
known intimately
as a lifetime
of earthly dues
Now I am leaning with shoulders leeward
a ship's pilot
eyeing the reef submerged
steering his vessel
beyond the shoals
victorious
to the open sea
From breath to breath
I exhale the plague
once tyrannical
against every stemming cell
once dominant
over every
pulsing heartbeat.
The sea now
lives inside my cells
where time itself
tunnels the sun
through woven matrixes
a surface below
tethered skin
I can only hope
as I fall into sleep
that I soon be awakened
by sea birds squawking
at something of interest
in the tumbling
surf
WT
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 27, 2017 - 04:31am PT
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No Success
I recall when I met The Legend.
I was hoping to create my own and he was living his.
There was a spark in each of us with which we were born,
one common to all men in all places who perform athletic maneuvers high above the ground.
He gave me willingly what I thought I needed then
and I was grateful for his generosity and the small amount of time we spent talking.
But in the years following our meeting I met with little success and saw much failure.
I was willing to settle for what I’d done and then other things got in my way
and the dream faded to almost nothing.
Meantime, his legend grew and flourished, his brand became known internationally, as well.
The difference between The Legend and myself became clear to me, eventually.
He had the ability to remain fixed on his goals while I was willing to accept failure.
When The Legend died and the whole world cried I cried for myself as well.
My Main Chance never came again until later, but in a different discipline entirely.
I would like to say I will never cry for myself again.
For now that the lesson’s learned the hard way,
“I’ll never take the easy way again,” I tell myself.
But of course, like when making a New Year resolution, I’m only hoping that this will be so.
Wish me luck, for it takes some of that to become legendary.
Sometimes things are not in our hands, but that of Fate.
And she’s a fickle one.
The only thing about her which we can trust is her fickleness.
So let me tell you that I will try my best when I sit down to the desk,
quill sharpened, ink bottle full, and parchment scraped clean,
mind awake and waiting patiently for the Muse to come to my aid.
I still need all the help which I can find
but most of all from my own mind.
--MFM
Rest in peace, Royal. Thanks for everything.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Skittering STones
Slung with skill,
slick flat river rocks can kill
--just ask Golitath.
He won't dispute this, guaranteed.
In shallow leaps,
one-after-another
and leaving ripples
in a parabolic path,
a lith lain dormant for centuries
now seems like it is walking on water.
Banished to the deeps
of the river,
it has been there before
and will rise again someday
on a beach further on down
this river of no return.
And some day yet more distant
it will, like its cousins
on Mickey's Beach,
Waikiki, and North,
or its long-long-long-lost shirt-tail relation in Carpinteria
--the world's safest beach--
it will come to my hand once again
and maybe I will decide to take it home,
not throw it out to sea,
and put it in a jar with others like it.
Shelf-life expectancy:
up to one hundred million years
without refrigeration.
--MFM
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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A Poem For Royal
by Peter Stavrianoudakis
Up the mountain, down the river.
Touch a rock he hasn’t touched.
Find a rock he hasn’t touched much.
I dare you.
Train jumper, law breaker, self namer, mountain tamer.
Upright man in a vertical world.
Up the mountain, down the river.
Beware the flat ground.
Prospect’n, no regret’n, find a rock he hasn’t touched.
Find a river he hasn’t run.
Up the mountain, down the river.
Lord of the rings, lord of the rocks.
Swapped his pitons for a sling with chocks.
Renegade boyscout on the loose.
Glad that this one slipped the noose.
Up the mountain, down the river.
Name a tree, a flower, a rock.
Name a crack, a face, a route.
Up the chimney, down the shoot.
Pointy end of the rope.
Envy of every mountain goat.
El Cap, North Face, name a buttress, a pinnacle.
Camp 4 saver, Yosemite Fund raiser, never nay sayer.
Bolt cutt’n, head butt’n, fast climber, slow driver.
Beware the flat ground.
NOTE: Published in the event guide for the Oakdale Climbers Festival, 10/26-28, 2012.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Green Mountain
By Li Bai
You ask me why I dwell in the green mountain;
I smile and make no reply for my heart is free of care.
As the peach-blossom flows downstream and is gone into the unknown,
I have a world apart that is not among men.
Li Bai and Du Fu: http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-19884020
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