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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2012 - 11:36pm PT
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It would be like explaining why I climb. It's fruitless because I don't know why. I know how, and it's hard or it's easy. Depends. I'm not very good at it but will be. Look at Wilma McDaniel, the Okie Poet. she never had it handed to her. She wrote beautiful verse.
Dad heard me muttering over the phone when I set it down to pull up the poetry on the computer. He asked me did I talk to myself? I said of course, otherwise I'd go crazy.
We hung up friends, both knowing we were right. And the other wasn't full of sh#t, but could reason with each other and come away satisfied. It's all you can hope for.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 13, 2012 - 05:05am PT
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A Lighter Side of Papa Hemingway
Papa, may I please have a light?
Asked Hemingway's eldest one night.
Lucky Strike.
Jack, no light tonight. You're too much "me"
For you to smoke. It really shouldn't be.
But it is.
You're far too young to take that road
That makes you sick before you're old.
Don't do it.
It's not for me to tell you "no"
Except that I would see you grow.
Answer's still no.
Besides, you'll kill yourself with vice.
Old man's advice? Please don't think twice.
Quit right now.
I'm having a Swisher Sweet no filter, best on the market. For the price.
89 cents. It makes me feel all Eastwood-y.
Not Far Off Faron (Have a Seat, Walls)
Hey there, Chair, say something, please? I'm getting toxic
talking to myself. Gee, Shelf, do you want to talk?
And I just bet you dread to spend another night with me. One more time.
Hello, TV, (hello, hello) I see that you're still not very clear.
Don't tell me that it's the rain that's given me this f*#ked-up pain inside.
I can't seem to hide the shame and guilt and pride I felt when I hurt her.
And I've got a bad feeling that she'll be gone a long long time. This time.
Hello, Clock. I need a hand to hold, a friendly face to shine on me.
There is no place I'd really rather be, I guess, than Up In My Room.
Gloom. Doom. Loom. Boom. Sue'm. Screw'm.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 13, 2012 - 09:36pm PT
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Did somebody say Okie?
Picking Grapes 1937
Magic seventeen
and new in California
working in bursting
sweet vineyards
hot sand on soul
one strap held by a
safety pin
a girl could be whatever
she desired
the first breath of
Eve in Paradise
--Wilma Elizabeth McDaniels
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Oct 18, 2012 - 01:21am PT
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So grateful this thread exists.
Liking the conversations of late.
Music and poety... Interesting mouse. I once was trying to write something that needed to be somewhat brief since I'd be reading it in front of a crowd (my wedding party). But old verbosity was having a hard time figuring out how to do that. So much to say, how to get at the essence?
Then it came to me... I was listening to a song, something that moved me from U2. Bono. I thought about the vastness that song inspired in me. And then it hit me: there were about 10 unique words in that song.
I then knew my screed had to be like a song. Terse, but speaking volumes. It worked.
Eric
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Oct 18, 2012 - 01:22am PT
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Do not depend much on guides. It is better for you to prepare yourself and remain awake. ~ Swami Rama
Double meaning in this forum!
Eric
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 18, 2012 - 07:46pm PT
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Cereal Dream
They're strange, the gifts that come in the night,
Or in the lobby of the place you live.
Some nights it's thoughts that turn to verse
Like chocolate-covered Cheerios.
I never expected them, yet there they are, free;
A-waiting for passionate milk's embrace and perhaps a piece of fruit.
Cheerios, the breakfast of mice and men:
But such a difference the chocolate makes!
Take your thoughts and spread them out
And lay them in a pattern on the table of your soul.
Play with them until the mother of consciousness
Comes and tells you it's time for bed again.
Then write them into the diary of your memory,
Turn off the light and say goodnight.
If you find Twinkies filled with butterscotch in the morning,
Please share them with the rest of us.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 19, 2012 - 04:09pm PT
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Hiku-Hiku
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Oct 19, 2012 - 11:27pm PT
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Write a book, Mouse. Or have you?
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BLUEBLOCR
Social climber
joshua tree
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Oct 20, 2012 - 01:50am PT
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Man... Or, Mouse;
That is one of the most,
finest displays,
of creativity,
exhibited,
by matter.
Of factt..
Jus
Say'in
BB
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 20, 2012 - 01:57am PT
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Thank you for the shot of assurance, Wayne. I never wrote for pudlication. Only private stuff, generally.
'Do not Depends prepare guides?'--Heanas Screed
'Friends do not drive guides to drink, they take a taxi.'--Braverly Samson
Big Bill Bierkhan tells this one:
'Two guides walk into a bar. The bartender adks 'What'll ya have?'
The first guide says, 'I'll have a Mountain Dew, on the rocks.'
The second says, 'I'll have what he's having, but use ice in mine.'--Offa Deszneid.
ba-dump!
/and BB, from BB, TY.
Calls for a celebration of blind mice chased by Women. Love is "Blind." Dig the rhythm. Now, you got your rhythm and you got euythmitic you got them mice all around the house, tired of hearing good ol' Mouse, he's so screwed up screwed up screwed up.[Click to View YouTube Video]
[Click to View YouTube Video][Click to View YouTube Video][Click to View YouTube Video]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 24, 2012 - 06:39pm PT
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The Nouns of Time.
Not knowing much is better than knowing much of nothing.
Nothing is much more exciting than what I am doing right
Now.
Now then, having said that, it’s time to get drunk.
It’s Friday night but the booze won’t flow
Tonight.
The message is that the message is in the bottle,
But I am just not getting it at the present
Moment.
I must put it off until later on when I have some dinero
And it is in my pocket waiting to get spent in a great flourish over
Vintage.
Because I have no money to allow booze to flow
I am saving something of my dignity, I suppose, by not getting drunk
Right away.
But I’ll see about
Saturday.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 24, 2012 - 06:52pm PT
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Amor de Verdad or True Love Waits Down the Insinkerator
Words by Hubby Dolley
[Very saccharine. Real country sappy. A tad schmaltzy.]
I will bury thee
Or you will bury me,
For I can’t love another
Just only you.
And no matter
What’s the deal
Our fears will have seemed so unreal.
We’ll laugh at them and kneel for each other’s forgiveness.
And so trust me or go away
But please listen to what I must say.
Silence speaks volumes
When no one is talking
But I trust you to steer me straight
When I go off walking
Where I shouldn’t have gone.
No, darling, no one else.
Only you.
Finely spun
Are my thoughts of you,
Held together
And woven through
For all time
By my feelings true.
We will come to the end of our days
Together.
[Up-tempo]
Corny verbs and silly words
Cannot express my absurd wishes
I'd really love to wash your dishes!
[Real good musical stuff guaranteed to burn your ears off and penetrate your soul. No less.]
It’s only suds down the drain,
I’m probably wishing in vain
And I wish you no pain;
To be the goal of your wishes
Would be oh so delicious.
So don’t be suspicious,
Please, just let me wash your dishes.
[Wild-ass finish suspended by tepid, dish-watery muzak? I leave it to the musical director.]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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just fvcking haiku
no rhyme scheme and seventeen
such an odd number
Dante went to hell
finding thirteen circles be
divine poetry
Alighieri was
his own elegy since he
was terzarima
his cool divine wind
blows down the dry hillside
hell's heat now abated
yeah it seems to me
the haiku really does suck
it's very pointless
I am un-danteed
let us be friends signore
let's shake hands sonnet
5.13, let's get the hell out of here!
I know a coffee shop...
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Jaybro
Social climber
Wolf City, Wyoming
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Be Seven o'clock
Thirty five in the desert
Coffee to imbibe
Sip spro in the dark
Gollum way jacked my rig
Car shop opens at eight
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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"Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower" by Rainer Maria Rilke
translation by Joanna Macy + Anita Barrows
Quiet friend who has come so far,
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,
what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.
In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.
And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.
Sonnets to Orpheus II, 29
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Pueblo Blessing
Hold on
To what is good
Even if it is a handful of earth.
Hold on
To what you believe
Even if it is a tree
Which stands by itself.
Hold on
To what you must do
Even if it is a long way from here.
Hold on
To life
Even when it is easier
Letting go.
Hold on
To my hand
Even when I have gone
Away from you.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
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Nice Jaybro!
The last two I posted go out to those who are hurtin' at this campfire. At least it seems there is a lot of hurtin' lately. Or maybe they are just squeaky wheels. Still, that's ok by me.
Nonetheless, those poems were delivered to me out of the blue; they spoke to me; and I thought of ya'll. Maybe they'll find their way to those in need and maybe even help a bit.
Peace,
Eric
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 13, 2012 - 06:19am PT
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"The reader of modern literature, Piette asserts, distrusts poetic prose, sensing it to be an indulgence on the part of the writer unless justified by exigencies of the narrative itself. Piette's system allows for a writer's shift into poetic prose to be aesthetically justified -- or found to be unwarranted -- by exploring the mimetic relation between the fugitive music of rhyme and memory."
--review by Graham Fraser of: Adam Piette. Remembering and the Sound of Words: Mallarmé, Proust, Joyce, Beckett. Oxford: Clarendon P, 1996. 285pp.
Prose or poetry? Poetry or prose? How to sound like you know what you're talking about is half the battle, but you judge the article for yourselves.
http://muse.jhu.edu/login?auth=0&type=summary&url=/journals/modern_fiction_studies/v043/43.4br_piette.html
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