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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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A charming story of the love of poetry, Marlow. Thank you.
It is similar in many ways to the philosophy of the sage Epicurus from Greek antiquity.
from
"On the Nature of Things"
by Lucretius, 1st century BCE Roman poet who subscribed to Epicurus' ideas
What then has death, if death be mere repose, 940
And quiet only in a peaceful grave.
What has it thus to mar this life of man ?
Yet mar it does. E'en o'er the festive board.
The glass while grasping, and with garlands crowned.
The thoughtless maniacs oft indignant roar, 945
" How short the joys of wine ! — e'en while we drink
Life ceases, and to-morrow ne'er returns ! "
As if, in death, the worst such wretches feared
Were thirst unquenched, parching every nerve,
Or deemed their passions would pursue them still. 950
https://archive.org/stream/onnaturethingsd00carugoog/onnaturethingsd00carugoog_djvu.txt
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Dec 11, 2017 - 04:43pm PT
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Little Loch Broom
When the sun sets down over Little Loch Broom
You know I’ll be waiting for you
On the path above the cliff I’ll stand
Looking out to the ocean soon
Where once I tried to followed the moon
A boy who once stood trembling
Ran away from his ma and da that day
By the mouth of Little Loch Broom
For the world and the water horse
Are at odds whatever they do
When our journey has gone full circle
It is liken you’ll call for him too
When the water horse comes a ‘calling
You know I’ll be waiting there too
On the path above the shore I’ll stand
At the mouth of Little Loch Broom
-bushman
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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Dec 20, 2017 - 10:04am PT
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Great Horned Owls
Many many moons ago
leaving the porch
of a south-facing canyon,
I hiked to a place
where the foothills
narrowed,
Where the asphalt road
ran astride the reservoir lake
into which kingfishers
dived at will,
and Great Horned owls
hooted at passerby,
And crickets chirped
in the castor bean
in the broom grass,
in the sumac and sorrel
and the scrub oak
and the sage,
I walked with gathering dusk
upslope to the ridge
where one lone bat
in diving approach,
plunged to air
as kingfisher to lake,
As owl to moon
or as moon to owl
or as owl to owl,
two owls upon the perch
fated couple
to a lifelong mate.
At this very place
I saw my mission unfold
in ceremony of solemn joining
in deepest respect
this wedded pair
framed aside starlight,
Framed within angles
of better aspect
placing male to left
female to right,
then married them there
till death do they part,
He in a cassock of feathers
all attention to duty
she with a blink
of a solitary eye,
I with a wave
of the official hand,
"I decree thee man and wife"
I the chaparral poet of authority
captain on this ship
I do wed thee,
witnessed by bat and kingfisher
cricket and castor bean.
And so my sudden voice
startled both to flight
he with wings to eclipse
the moon, the sky
she in silence
winged forever to his side.
W.T.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Dec 21, 2017 - 07:13am PT
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^^^^^
Ward, that was excellent in my view...
The Reverend of the Field
(For the Right Reverend Trotter)
When he wed the two owls
Unlike domestic fowl
They both startled to flight
And they soiled his new cowl
Now he only enjoins
Goats and pigs for a coin
On occasion he’s married
Some chickens less harried
By such ceremony and pomp
Though they’d like a good romp
Or a roll in zee hay
Much to some folks dismay
For the reverend of the field
The fornicators must yield
And delay all their furgling
‘Till their union’s been sealed
-bushman
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Dec 21, 2017 - 09:50am PT
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Things just keep getting better around here!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dec 21, 2017 - 10:51am PT
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It's now your turn, FC...post'em if ya got'em.
Merry Christmas to you & Cindy!
--MFM
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dec 23, 2017 - 09:04am PT
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nothing too profound
it’s neither here not there
it’s vanished to thin air
it’s not where i’d thought it left
perhaps there’s been some petty theft
like the loom and warp and weft
it’s all a mystery to me
furthermore
like when is it too much
to ask you not to touch
my toys and tools and such
i thank you very much
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Dec 23, 2017 - 10:51pm PT
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It’s Just the Oread Again
By the firelight I noticed it
Such things I thought most clear to me
Not conflicting
Nor uncertain
Referenced only in mythology
But oh what other could it be?
In the darkness through the window
‘Twas the Oread who came to me
The Oread she beckoned
And through the glass she whispered
Directly to my inner mind
Drawing every inner thought from me
She communicated wordlessly
And struck me with a viral seed
Of nightshades otherworldly
To my knees I crumpled feebly
By the firelight I then wept
Fearing loss and painful death
So pitiful
So fruitless
So open and so shamelessly
Though I knew that she was watching
I stepped out to the night
Where she hovered there ethereally
Whatever did she want I asked?
Whatever would she take from me?
I implored from her this shimmering form
Though she returned an empty stare
And turned her back as if I’d know
For many days she did not return
Until one evening by the grotto
There beneath the weeping willow
When I approached near to the shore
She was waiting by the water
A flickering
A hovering
In silence as I met her gaze
Those burning eyes pierced through mine
There were no secrets left to share
As she diminished in the haze
That evening by the firelight
She brushed by me and appeared
A shimmering the same as last
Like memories once lost it came
The recent trip to windswept slopes
On a mountain high o’er my abode
That’s when I first had noticed
An aberration I could only hope
Stepping across a snow bridge
I had fallen to an icy creek
Then a flickering
And Shimmering
What injury did befall me?
The assault upon my senses rang
Only ankle deep the water ran
You’d think I’d gotten off Scot free
And I never gave a thought to it
That day out in the wilderness
When something brushed beside me
Stalking me for some reason
Haunting me so unaware
A brick might land upon my head
Several stitches more or less I’d say
And shrug it off without care
Now the Oread hovered near me
Assessing me as was her way
Not judging me
I’m guessing
But waiting there for my next move
I was tiring of this standoff
Rising suddenly I pushed past her
Not caring if she’d disapprove
I struck out for the mountain
Donning boots and overcoat
And hiked the trail by moonlight
As the sweat poured from my brow
And hoping she would follow
With naught but dread anticipation
Of the outcome or the cost
Of abandonment and sorrow
There upon the snowy bank
I trudged to a depression where
That flickering
And Shimmering
Transcended to crescendo
And I cried out to the night
That she finally take her leave of me
But I heard nothing but the wind blow
Many years have come and gone
Since the Oread first appeared to me
And I sit beside the fire at night
With reverie and some solitude
Wondering at how it might’ve been
And hear a rapping on the window pane
It’s just the Oread returning home
Oh how it’s nice to have a friend
-bushman
12/23/2017
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dec 24, 2017 - 04:33am PT
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Stepjack
Young Stepjack was a climbing lad who ran the Highland glens
He tore it up in the land of lochs on tor and fell and fens
He’d climb any thing that was taller than him and do it quite handily
He’d shove projectors aside and then he would glide to the top--so effortlessly
No one was better than this eager go-getter at speedy ascents in a day
But once word got out there were others no doubt who did not see things that way
It led to a series of climb-offs that did the Old School not much good
Folks did not care who they saw in the air they simply were there to see blood
Old Stepjack stepped away clean in each race he was in--a marvelous sight to take in
The others all lagged and became sorely fagged and Stepjack kept on for the win
His streak it got long and just like this song it one day came to its end
He parted the crowd as he walked away proud and that was that. The End.
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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Dec 24, 2017 - 12:27pm PT
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Thank you kindly, Bushman. My ears easily detect good rhythms in your poem as well. Keep up the good work.
Quote from The Nature Conservancy : "Great Horned owls take life-long mates."
Clearly I've deliberately picked an animal requiring less marrying work.
Seaweed
All along the bent and angling coast
seaweed strands in sunken coves
abandon their beached forms
from wave to wave
I always chase after them
their strewn bobbing heads
roll as dead bodies
from wave to wave
What seaweed does not hide
short stories of unknown depths?
submarine worlds where time itself
folds into layered shelves
Under every rubbery leaf
striped then strung to tether in running bands
veins on my father's arm
long long ago
An unseen drift marks the sea's closing line
to leeward straits where I now stand
feet in the sodden growth soil
hand against the shaded bulb
A frothing whirlpool gathers all the seaweed
roped and braided in dulsing patterns
soft crests fall soundless into outstretched arms
then slap against the burying stone
W.T.
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unlocked gait
Gym climber
the range
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Dec 25, 2017 - 09:18am PT
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i was asleep.
and then i wasn't.
and then i was.
and then i wasn't.
and now i'm wasn't.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 15, 2018 - 04:56pm PT
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The Ballad of Billy Bominalong
Walking down the street was Billy Bombinalong
who had a head full of visions about Miss Suzy Wong
a virgin according to the Chinese tong
He muttered in his beard in a mild sing-song
all buzzed on some tea we know as "Dan Cong" *
a very high grade of Guangdong oolong
The time was pretty close to Evensong
and he heard the sounds of a gamelan gong
not too distant maybe one furlong
From the other way came walking along
the famous dwarf ape they call Little King Kong
strolling with the character actor named James Hong
They were trying to sing an old love song
but the ape got tripped up by a tough diphthong
that came out like some kind of raucous birdsong
He was reminded of the time he met Erica Jong
whose zipless f*#k needed something one foot long
maybe like the one on old John Long :0)
Then he stopped to see the gang at the Cafe Hussong
who were celebrating new years with a crowd of Hmong
and they were eating what was left of a roadkill dugong
He didn’t stop though and kept going along
because he felt he didn’t really belong
so he took out his cell to call Kaholatingtong
Hello there, son, he said in a voice of sing-song
have you decided to buy this 4 inch bong-bong
or are you gonna just keep trying to string me along?
No sir not at all and don’t get me wrong
I wanted it but then I’m headstrong
Just give me more time, it won’t be overlong
How about we meet up for some games of Mah Jong
or maybe we could play some of that Donkey Kong
or some other competition like maybe ping pong?
Oh that might be cool like a sesh of quigong
I know a devotee who calls himself Fong
He wears no top but has a sarong
Sometimes he’ll dress in a blue bikini thong
like some soldier of the Viet Cong
and he’s willing to work for a Hostess Ding Dong
Billy hung up after saying “So Long”
and stuck his right eye with an antelope prong
and he proceeded with singing his swan song
The tune was one by the virtuoso Lang Lang
and was neither too short nor was it too long
and involved several forms of a Chinese triphthong
He passed into the state known as b’donkadonkdong
And he assumed a shape like a short oblong
And was reborn to the tune of a cradle song
--Ching & Chong & MFM
* Dan Cong is the champagne of Oolongs and the higher grades can fetch fantastic prices.
Picked from old trees grown around the town of Chao Zhou in Guangdong,
it produces a rich, orange-brown liquor that can explode on the palate
with intense flavors of apricot and honey
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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The Fisherman
Lowering down he would not swear
But wore his grimace silently
Pulling EB’s from his blistered feet
He wiped the sweat off of his brow
And tears away from sunburnt cheeks
I’ll get it next time he’d say
Bowing his head in a quiet prayer
Mumbling a psalm or favorite verse
His eyes lit up while he looked down
With a jubilance so unrehearsed
Years gone by and memories fade
But not so those of he and I
The blueness of two eyes like mine
Blood to blood and soulful sighs
I miss him still I would not lie
Do you know Christ the savior he
Was seldom ever heard to say
A message carried by his work
Firsts and far away pursuits
I still remember to this day
Friends who showed up from afar
Still wanting near though he was gone
Swapping stories of the fisherman
Held something of him in their hearts
But most a joyous young man’s song
-Tim Sorenson
03/02/2018
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Mar 14, 2018 - 03:45am PT
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Don’t Call Yourself a Job Creator
When I was just a boy
We went to church
And went to school
On Saturday there was fishing
And the fireworks were cool
We weren’t wealthy
And we had plenty
At least my grand folks did
All the poor folks smiled
When we came around
Though just a child
I was not so easily fooled
When we worked we worked
And when we played
Or rested up
No one spoke
About catching up
Debt was debt
That’s all it was
But when the bosses came around
Reminding us what work we had
As if we owed them for our jobs
I hated them
The heartless slobs
And when full circle
Came around
I started my own business
No more working for crumbs
Having lived on less
I tried fair play
With those I hired
Never lording over them
And I rarely fired
Remembering those days
I’d been abused
By some arrogant employer’s ways
So when I hear those
Political speeches
There on the news
All their corporate bosses
And the terms they use
Claiming they are the job creators
Emphasis on creator
It’s just theatre
The bottom line is
It’s their only concern
Their profits they’ll take
While your future burns
The men in the suits
The conceited bastards
They’ll haul in the bread
While you toil and sweat
Or they’ll have your head
The workers are the true job creators
For selling the product
Is all they’re after
Those capitol men have it figured out
You’ll be just a pawn
Or you’ll do without
Then you’ll be gone
If you own a business
That you’ve built from scratch
Don’t ever forget
Who deserves the credit
Or you’ll come to regret
And rue the day
When retribution comes
Because you’ll be next
So don’t lie and say
Like a loathsome jerk
That you’re a job creator
Like you’ve done all the work
-bushman
03/13/2018
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Mar 14, 2018 - 03:47am PT
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Bowinkle’s Drive-Thru
Coming soon
to a neighborhood near you
You won’t have to wait
and even if you do
They don’t serve them dogs
they don’t serve up fries
They won’t even serve you
a cockroach no lies
So come on down
to Bowinkle’s Drive-Thru
And get you a selfie
with Suzie Wazoo
A close confidant
to the man with the doo
You can drive-thru today
at Bowinkle’s Drive-Thru
The pizza ice cream
now the flavor of the day
And you’ll just have to taste
the fish yogurt soufflé
The sea urchin pudding
is featured all week
And those tree moss smoothies
to die for you’ll shriek
So come on down
to Bowinkle’s Drive-Thru
And get you a selfie
with Suzie Wazoo
A close confidant
to the man with the doo
You can drive-thru today
at Bowinkle’s Drive-Thru
-squeezeman
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Mar 15, 2018 - 11:15pm PT
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Space Force
Taking a queue
from the idiot in chief
It’s another lame idea
that’s beyond all belief
In his newest endeavor
if you believe the hype
He’ll declare war in space
while the cheddar is ripe
His ‘Space Force’ idea
don’t blink they’ll be more
The latest from one who
can’t spell ‘Marine Corps’
Don’t blink or you’ll miss
What this pompous moron
Has next on his plate”
Oh god I can’t go on...
-bushman
03/15/2018
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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Mar 16, 2018 - 11:11am PT
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As Little Boys
As little boys
we rode bikes
fast down the dunes,
on the vertical side
of Sand City
Big tires creased
deep furrows
in the down-slope,
same as boats trailing
wakes upon the swell
At the leeward portion
of the great sand hills
the long bronze
shadows of late noon
stretched to east
Meeting low pines
over ice plants
just as early suppers
smoked the spice
into mists above
Under which boys grew hungry
and boys grew weary
when drawn on-shore,
but grew bold again
when looking back to sea
Then fortified, soon returned
astride soft summits
as if to challenge
the long leading
boundary of night
A boundary against which
little boys are forbidden,
because bay breakers
rage half-seen
against the land
Because the turnstiles
of time get sand
in the gears and
the rising moon
comes fully into its own
Because the dusk sea
compresses foggy dimensions
into the unlearned territory
of young hearts
with full moon in the eyes
Of four-foot warriors
solemn in afterthought
huddled in a circle
as night overtook
a long day of handiwork
And even the bike furrows
grew silent at last
their contours to vanish
in darkening flatness
somewhere below our feet
WT
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Mar 16, 2018 - 07:01pm PT
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^^^^^
That's beautiful, Ward.
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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Mar 17, 2018 - 12:54pm PT
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Thank you, Bushman.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Mar 20, 2018 - 11:18am PT
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Rain will fall again
on your smooth pavement,
a light rain like
a breath or a step...
The breeze and the dawn
will flourish again
when you return,
as if beneath your step.
Between flowers and sills
the cats will know.
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