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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 20, 2018 - 12:43pm PT
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The Burning Of the Animals In America
The sacrificial smoke lies thick in the skies above the suburbs
As the sun begins to set and the smells of spices and herbs
And cooking meat all contend for our attention,
making my stomach rumble.
At this end of the block we have three grills devoted solely to burgers.
Down at the other end is a large fire with twenty chickens broiling.
And interspersed here and there, some fine steaks are grilling,
alongside various ribs, brats, roasts and fillets.
Not to mention all the corn, baking potatoes, beans and salads.
And in due course the fireworks will begin, celebrating the deaths of these animals,
congratulating ourselves on how well we eat in this country.
How’s dessert coming? Need a hand? 'nother beer?
--MFM
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Mar 31, 2018 - 09:01am PT
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The Vessel
Now such is our story as stories go
One Saturday eve when we had to go
With tickets to Verdi’s sad Rigoletto
While parking there before the show
The last garage was almost closed
So down and down and down we drove
To what level we did not know
Where deeper down my patience slowed
As several parking cones were mowed
God knows who else was indisposed
While swerving down those endless rows
To finally pull in by a nose
We parked somewhat all juxtaposed
Between the stairs and a firehose
We saw the elevator sign
Approaching as though by design
The light flickered just once then died
Which startled me I will not lie
As much as when a rat ran by
We found our way by cellphone light
To a stairwell chained and locked nearby
Where the elevator door was pried
All exit there on foot denied
Returning to our car to split
The engine stumbled once then quit
A single exclamation sh#t
Issued from my angry lips
As we resigned to wait and sit
Locked in our car as we took small sips
From a water bottle and ate some chips
With no cel transmission to emit
We settled down in our sunken ship
Discussing how we’d come to grips
With a war or zombie apocalypse
I did not know how long we’d slept
But the air was stale as a chill then crept
Suggesting I’d go search a bit
From the car door to my feet I leapt
In the silent darkness of that crypt
My feeble plan of action yet
To look for others in a similar fix
Her sigh prolonged then she let slip
Inquiring if I was so inept
To venture on out so ill equipped
With a dead cellphone and money clip
I bent the money clip around
Into a crude blade lest I found
Some conflict as I slunk around
Tip-toeing there without a sound
As darkness weighed upon my brow
Carefully as not to fall down
Where rats were likely to abound
In silence forward I made ground
From car to car I slowly prowled
But no-one coughed nor child howled
Reporting back to my curious wife
We talked about our new found strife
Adjusting to catacombs dark as night
How to adapt to the mole folk’s life
Regardless of outcome luck or tripe
Accepting whatever came down the pipe
We’d not resign as neophytes
But learn to live deprived of light
And not give in but fight the fight
And stepping out there from our car
We search the darkness near and far
Prying at car doors with a tire bar
We pilfered one old kit-kat bar
And three green olives in a jar
Two water bottles and a burnt cigar
Through silence as their shrieks did mar
I fought two rats with an old guitar
Until something cried out from afar
In an eerie timbre most bizarre
Like the mournful wail of big jaguar
In this loathsome pit as our last memoir
We’d declared our own little private war
Defended by keys and a lone crowbar
As exhaustion came in the endless depth
We retreated back to the car and slept
The eternal night had its own precepts
By such darkness we had come to accept
Old wrappers strewn in our unkempt mess
A garbage pit where we couldn’t care less
What belied our base inmost essence
Our wretchedness would describe it best
Night creatures abandoned to the crypt
As our dreams described us as much less
Now finding our way by torch pell mell
On another of forays around that hell
Going on three days we’d begun to smell
A condition we’d slunk to I’m loathe to tell
The heat requiring less clothing as well
As our grimy faces alone would dispel
The luckless monsieur or mademoiselle
As now we’d become more prone to excel
At car burglaries as one might foretell
This larceny drove our primitive selves
More than our common sense would allow
And our purpose once to exit this vessel
Abandoned for mayhem the final knell
At three days forsaken to this pit
I thought we dreamed a dream to wit
Around a bonfire of trash we sat
Roasting a can of cured ham on a spit
We sang out of tune ‘till our voices quit
After eating in silence we put on our hats
And got up to stare at the fire for a bit
Her dress a ‘tatter as no words were said
An old bandanna adorned my head
We wildly waltzed to songs in our heads
Then to and fro we do-si-doed
Between burning rows of trash we’d lit
As dreams are dreamt we’d never know it
So we danced awhile then slept a bit
So as not to bore let our fates be known
Lest yawns do stifle a wearisome moan
In furtherance of a loathsome groan
My story lambasted or harpooned
A dreadful tale sorely impugned
Or the very least mocked and lampooned
For so it was in the dark marooned
We found our second honeymoon
Awaking there in an amorous mood
With fumbling furtive and less crude
Than that first coupling of our youth
Where afterwards as things would go
We slept the sleep of angels woah
And did not wake for hours although
A light then shone upon us yo
A rap on the glass and a bright white light
Did pierce our near eternal night
As I saw out through sheltered eyes
A security guard of considerable size
Discovering us most compromised
Our sweat soaked nakedness unwise
As my spouse woke up and realized
Like teenagers caught out date night
Our awkward state most ill advised
She glared at me with nostrils wide
Assigning with fault who to despise
As I signaled we’d vacate our site
And the guard moved on without a fight
Well the engine started don’t you know
As we eased out of there nice and slow
With sunglasses and our hat brims low
In the bright sunshine and a blinding glow
Two moles at daybreak timid and slow
Squinting our eyes all the way back home
We slunk to the house at just past nine
And slept all day with the curtains down
Never rose ‘till night beyond supine
We dwelled indoors for a week or so
Only venturing out in the evening time
Well so it happened not so long ago
As date nights go a near fiasco
The opera comes and the opera goes
Still we haven’t gone back for Rigoletto
But to this day we still don’t know
If ever to a parking garage we’ll go
-bushman
03/30/2018
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 31, 2018 - 10:44am PT
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Submarine races are cheaper than opera, son.
You're giving Dante a run for his florins with this one. Enjoyed the tale.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 13, 2018 - 02:57pm PT
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Out, Out, Out!!!!!!!! Go!!!!!!!
(in memory of RIP Locker)
Locker, his glassy eyes blinking
Like a pair of crystal clear marbles in ultraviolet light,
Visions filling his vision,
Turning his thoughts to ones and zeros
And his dick to stone.
Bold faced and crude, hard not to like
Out in the sun but not wearing da Brim
While sitting next to the warm glue pot
Watching a hard-on develop between his legs
Made me violently sick
And ruin my newly resoled shoes.
Woe! I am crushed to bits
And my posts are all deleted
Dirt is cast in my face
Even the pariahs chase me off
I see you from a few dimensions removed now:
The empty room here is filling with nobodies.
I later canvassed the area,
Only to find pale ghosts of norwegian and fattrad and gnome,
But Pena's shade was nowhere to be found
With her sore toe.
And, probably still hearing sounds not there
But still too loud to be ignored,
Locker was there, complaining,
"I’m fukking tired of working, man!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
With toilet tissue stuck to one of my newly resoled shoes,
I carefully leave the toilet stall,
Now filled with greenish blobs
That move in jellied heaves and rolls
And fart just like fat people making whoopie.
A few people hang around in the lobby of the Extravaganza Casino,
Breathing normally and enjoying the scene.
But Pena exclaims, limping in with a sore toe,
"That’s the same damned raspberry smell I smelled before!"
--UR Gunnadye
Edit: Apologies to die-hard Captain Beefheart fans, both bulbous and tapered. And fast, too.
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Roadie
Trad climber
Bishop, Ca
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Apr 29, 2018 - 01:42pm PT
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I think over again my small adventures, my fears,
These small ones that seemed so big.
For all the vital things I had to get and to reach.
And yet there is only one great thing,
The only thing.
To live to see the great day that dawns
And the light that fills the world
unknown
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Apr 29, 2018 - 01:56pm PT
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Ungnown-un lost but wadering still
( to do it - but only If'n when,
thats the thing with moving
Most likely others would pitch in If pitchin' in will do?
but where, are things
Z will g
now
and
make sense, then the ban hammer came down, I had forgotten
Standplatz !
Erfahren Sie, wo Sie einen Clip ,
auf Ihre Hip legen können!
Was ist das für eine funky Wendung, die du sagst?
Es heißt der Munter, der beste Standplatz.
Learn where to put one clip on yer Hip! and Whats that funky twist you say? Its called the Munter, the best belay.
are all things I was told by a certain set of rusty crusties,
Now what Rgold says is what you hear today
Just remember the AdHD version of KISS
Keep It Stupid Simple
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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“The problem with being born, is dying.”
-unknown
An Homage to Death
Wrapped in all
it’s metaphors
death
A bramble with thorns
intertwined in a thicket
A briarpatch out of which
overripe figs grow
with blossoms so fatal
their venom as sweet
as the new melted snow
Turned bitter upon the lips
followed
by visitations of vixens
Pale white their skin
dancing over corpses
bleeding rose petals
from
their final impalements
Lacerated to white bone
cleaved and hacked
Wearing a hooded black garment
the specter approaches
Opens
a green sepulcher
adorned by a maroon cross
Dry bones fall
and litter the soil
where scorpions and centipedes
crawl sweet and sad
in knife piercing darkness
Many voices there go
A window opens
slowly
I see gossamer webs
floating icily
Drifting down
now veiled in white
A soothing voice
like the complete warmth of her
my mother’s embrace
Black shadows hang
from vines so strangely
as cat mewling and howls
break the silence
Wait...
Returning to this life
I have known or imagined
Staying yet death
with her luring seductions
lurking within my animal self
-bushman
06/01/2018
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Jun 24, 2018 - 12:35pm PT
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The Swan (Charles Baudelaire)
To Victor Hugo
I
Andromache, I think of you! — That little stream,
That mirror, poor and sad, which glittered long ago
With the vast majesty of your widow's grieving,
That false Simois swollen by your tears,
Suddenly made fruitful my teeming memory,
As I walked across the new Carrousel.
— Old Paris is no more (the form of a city
Changes more quickly, alas! than the human heart);
I see only in memory that camp of stalls,
Those piles of shafts, of rough hewn cornices, the grass,
The huge stone blocks stained green in puddles of water,
And in the windows shine the jumbled bric-a-brac.
Once a menagerie was set up there;
There, one morning, at the hour when Labor awakens,
Beneath the clear, cold sky when the dismal hubbub
Of street-cleaners and scavengers breaks the silence,
I saw a swan that had escaped from his cage,
That stroked the dry pavement with his webbed feet
And dragged his white plumage over the uneven ground.
Beside a dry gutter the bird opened his beak,
Restlessly bathed his wings in the dust
And cried, homesick for his fair native lake:
"Rain, when will you fall? Thunder, when will you roll?"
I see that hapless bird, that strange and fatal myth,
Toward the sky at times, like the man in Ovid,
Toward the ironic, cruelly blue sky,
Stretch his avid head upon his quivering neck,
As if he were reproaching God!
II
Paris changes! but naught in my melancholy
Has stirred! New palaces, scaffolding, blocks of stone,
Old quarters, all become for me an allegory,
And my dear memories are heavier than rocks.
So, before the Louvre, an image oppresses me:
I think of my great swan with his crazy motions,
Ridiculous, sublime, like a man in exile,
Relentlessly gnawed by longing! and then of you,
Andromache, base chattel, fallen from the embrace
Of a mighty husband into the hands of proud Pyrrhus,
Standing bowed in rapture before an empty tomb,
Widow of Hector, alas! and wife of Helenus!
I think of the negress, wasted and consumptive,
Trudging through muddy streets, seeking with a fixed gaze
The absent coco-palms of splendid Africa
Behind the immense wall of mist;
Of whoever has lost that which is never found
Again! Never! Of those who deeply drink of tears
And suckle Pain as they would suck the good she-wolf!
Of the puny orphans withering like flowers!
Thus in the dim forest to which my soul withdraws,
An ancient memory sounds loud the hunting horn!
I think of the sailors forgotten on some isle,
— Of the captives, of the vanquished!...of many others too!
— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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PHOOK YA' sayin'?
just plyin'?
phuk 're ya?
real fire is at
but just 'Moke here.
ON TOPIC BREAK,(CAN you HEAR THE TUNE?)
Riggers regrets! .11d? (im hoping)
in honor
COZ
not wearing to tethers
then here it belongs
I dare you to
Hear?
trice time two
Who da phook?
if itz oo R then harlow ya been? I;ve given ore' da sleen
theres no use
trhen there is this abuse
wqho now did you claim
ToBe
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allapah
climber
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Jul 16, 2018 - 04:05am PT
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WOTEML
Stupendous overhanging Beatles of fear,
Scalloping my horizon,
Scalloping my horizon,
Inserting precious holds
Between the now and the here,
Between the now and the here,
This time my hold upon the coincidence of space and time will not fail,
A spreading interference pattern that seems like a line,
But is really the angular coincidence
Of all the coincidences residing within,
The interference pattern between the here and the now,
The here and the now,
My gravity’s influencing it now, I’m praying for the line to not fail,
But it’s not a line, it’s space and time,
This life can’t go on forever.
If happenstance should plummet our life trajectory into space,
Piton pop,
Piton pop,
A clatter of technology blowing,
These fragile webs of metal are non entropy mixed with life,
Your unfolding decisions,
Your unfolding decisions,
The decisions you made today will last the rest of your life,
The leptons and quarks were manipulated by the cortex in your brain,
The anti-nodal lines were within the range of your interference,
What you found on the ground was the tail end of the fall,
Then live your life better,
Live your life better.
The resonance between
The here and the have been,
Better tie yourself off,
Better tie yourself off,
“What is Mind?” you ask and you wish that it might have been,
All of one thing,
All of one thing,
But dimensions are clashing and rubbing off in a line,
All the scientists are mistaking it for the phenomenon of time,
Blowing down to the interference pattern scrawling horizontal across the wall,
The Wall of the early morning light,
Wall of the Morning Light…
Was it a line, do we call it a hike?
It’s been years since the sound of a Sierra Club cup clattering down the wall.
Or was it a Penrose diagram with vectors in opposite directions?
There’s a rock coming down the wall,
Oh!, a coming down the wall—
Two domains of your life are subducting like continental plates of meaning,
You’re hanging from the A4 blade and praying for the noun of staying,
There’s not too many things that I’d have lived life differently,
Except for that thing about you and me,
Except for that thing about you and me,
Always the Beatles of fear layering up like successive challenges,
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
A-hanging over me.
Overhangs of blade and hook and mank of knowledge,
Of how you lived your life,
Of how you lived your life,
It matters now that you cheated and lied,
Cause there’s nothing much now, and you’re gonna die,
Gonna die, Gonna die,
Yer gonna die.
Quiet now the Arno leaks in your hypothalamus,
My pre-frontal is quaking and I can’t quiet the hallucinations,
Blind Faith override won’t quiet the Cake,
That’s no way way to dangle from an overhang in the sun,
I thumb the cool blade,
Though it’s a sunny day,
You’re ready to lead away,
I’m going back to Talkeetna in the morning.
Do not attempt to adjust the picture,
Stop time and don’t think about the adhesion,
You are arrogance personified,
Icarus not fallen,
Your penis is so large this day cannot end in tragedy,
You’ve seen that the line
Between space and time
Has thrown a green light,
Has thrown a green light,
You’ll climb through the night without fear the sun has fallen,
We carried no devices, no way to talk to home,
Only the memory of how we got it on were the things we carried,
No paranoia at the rosing of the Dawn.
Space and time,
Unfolding line,
I should have sent the letter,
Gonna die, try to try,
I should have done you better,
Done you better,
These insertions into the moment have got me greatly vexed,
There’s vectors out of my control and my mind is a settling hex,
If only I hadda seen all the vectors of what might have been,
I would have opened up my heart,
I would have opened up my heart,
But war is upon us and the Moment comes flooding in,
The line between here and now is propagating really thin,
Wished I could talk to you to ease my aching mind,
But I’ve been trying to call for hours and I just can’t get a line.
Off, leave it there,
F*#king fling this present moment,
It’s very clear there’s no reason here,
No end to the fall,
No end to the fall,
If I’d have lived it better we would hadda better weather,
It was the things we did,
All the things we did,
Fog going down and a zippering chord,
A tinkle of now coming up against metal,
Off, leave it there,
Sound of a human voice,
Without thinking,
The old man in the nursing home draws back on his belay hand.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jul 16, 2018 - 06:05pm PT
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haha,no lists ?
a place Artificial Intelligence wont help?
1st there was fix'd then, there was no fix'd,
it was A Running Man who got piss'd
& swooped,
by the sprite from Cali,
that wern't right
yeah?
She hit it,so FA by her
Bolts, came & went & came & went?
"Work"Chains add'd by the NowWestPTpinhead,
&
Now?
the whole, patrolled by a gun totting owner!!
That is pretty much the most historic especially
now that Lanman's is gone,may you find peace in rest)
PiR Dave
From the top of Ski Minne you would be looking at Sky Writing,
but you might as well drink Hemlock with your Pilsner Urquell.
This, Of course, Like a lead of the Vampire, more like Insomnia,
& best climb'd at just before dawn it was a right of passage
What is it you want to know?
Remakably clean, Cleaved, seam'd, cleaved,
stacked, like an upside down set of stairs
I know You Know,
that Fritz was the 1st to see the cliffs
on a remarkably clear moment,
from a perch high on Breakneck Ridge,
after a thunderstorm clear'd the atmosphere.
When there were people living under and at the ridge
for a century or more....... Stop asking in public,
there are books by Mark Fink......
As far from & different from Mike Fink & Karen Parddini,
as a military reform school is from a pajama Waldorf program.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Sep 10, 2018 - 08:19am PT
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Betelgeuse
I walked out this morning at three am
with the two dogs
some coffee and flip flops
I looked to the east
and the stars above
with the Hyades way up top
Then thought to myself
what a sight it would be
when a nova bursts forth with a scion
All the stars it shall spawn
in its constellation
adding nebula two to Orion
-bushman
09/10/2018
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Sep 28, 2018 - 12:30am PT
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A Poem for Manuel
There we once walked the mountain path
as sunbursts splashed and tumbled fro
Your sneakers kicked up clouds of dust
as Jack the dog led where to go
Your sis and mom brought up the rear
we watched you from afar you know
You were but briefly at the cusp
of childhood dreams that you’d outgrow
We saw you take your bride in hand
raise up two kids for which to boast
You were your own man pass or fail
& stood your ground more firm than most
One thing that some remember well
the careful timing of your jokes
You saved your punchlines like your truths
for when they would hit home the most
I remember how that you once said
your love was pure emotion strong
a powerful conviction that
through pain and strife would carry on
I argued there was more to love
and countered there was work involved
And there we left it I recall
our points of view still unresolved
As husband, father, nephew, brother,
cousin, uncle, grandson too
The brightest hope we had for you
how you were loved I wish you knew
Your mother fought so hard you know
she did all that a mom could do
At least a few years maybe more...
we thought we had more time with you
There once we crossed a mountain lake
beneath the Rockies towering
It seems like only yesterday
with s’mores around the fire ring
We thought we had more time to voice
those thoughts that families hold dear
Within our heart of hearts we’d hoped
to care for you and to keep you near
We miss you son, always
-Dad
09/16/2018
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Sep 28, 2018 - 12:59pm PT
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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 were waiting 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 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.
Wayne Merry
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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After all the Leaves have Fallen
After all of these years
I thought I would know
the path of my life
and how things might go
With the passion we’re given
and the lessons we’re shown
with what we’ve returned
to the universe unknown
Voiced by the arching
of the trees in the yard
framing my trepidation
how life can be so hard
As I see up in the clouds
through the sky high above
where a satellite passes
like the flight of a dove
And the stars all come out
as a testament to all
enlisted with the moonlight
in it’s orbital stall
There’s left only the thrumming
like the beating of a drum
I hear all of our heartbeats
pounding into one
And I see only the mystery
the comedy and the farce
of this irony called life
it’s finality and it’s course
After all of these years
as I watch the river flow
what’s meaning of it all?
I don’t think I’ll ever know
-bushman
10/03/2018
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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"In the Hunting Grounds of Arden Oaks"
There is some thing about magpies, Wayne.
It's hard to put into black and white, though,
since it's been ages since Sacramento.
There only came one Stellar's Jay the other day
and he had some thing he seemed to want to say...
I doubt it was about magpies.
You never know with Stellar's fellers.
Sea lions, okay, they get the point across.
Maybe not in grandiose cosmic Orion fashion,
but loud enough to warn you away.
I saw only that one stupid jay all week.
Where have they all gone?
Have the raven gangs driven them off?
We used to collect a quarter on every magpie as bounty on magpies.
Went out 'n' bought more BBs.
My brother was a good shot, pinned a butterfly to an oak once, by its head.
Don't need to take that home, Mike. Leave it mounted right there.
MFM
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Blow It Out, Dude
The wind is in the willows, with all those moles and rats
It's blowing in the caves among a million bats
It's chilling the Antarctic and the Arctic, too
And it's moving lots of sand out in the Howlin' Buckaroo
Mono Lake's a choppy mess of waves and salt 'n' spray
And Utah's being blown out west to San Francisco bay
I really hope it stops before it gets to Tahoe Lake
Cuz I just want to make a wish while blowing on my cake
--Tahoma Joe from Tahoma
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Catherine
there by the fountain
on the back of a dragonfly
I tasted the nectars
of a thousand sweet butterflies
down on my luck
I cast forth the dice
then heard the bell toll
not once twice but thrice
there out from eden
I was tossed on my face
what was once is what was
what is now is not just
she once took my hand
as I once took her throne
we had both pledged
to each other our troth
that was then
Catherine
your royal court was there
eyeing your long black hair
Catherine
find your man
he held his dagger high
thrust it into my side
I bled for her
it was not for my pride
Catherine
then I died
she once took my hand
as I once took her throne
we had both pledged
to each other our troth
that was then
Catherine
-tim sorenson aka bushman
10/09/2018
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 15, 2018 - 10:47am PT
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Susurrate Thus
Quietly whispering to the wind
the aspen leaves have no worries
until the approach of late fall flurries
And then like all good leaves
they take themselves elsewhere
and return six months from now
as echoes of themselves
--John Murmuir
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 15, 2018 - 12:48pm PT
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A couple of seasonal tankas -
sun low through clean air
trees heavy with gold
days ever shorter
I bask now like a marmot
soon I will envy his fur
***
silence in the north
a stillness overwhelming
but in it you hear
a leaf whisper to the earth
a lone gull cry far away
WM
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