Cascade Soul

My Spirit

is a path built in the Cascades. Tectonic plates. It adheres to a dream where I’ve floated above the trail, without pain, not worrying about the forest. The seasons stilled and the river is silent. In this sleep, my imagined body feels like it’s falling through my bed. I abruptly wake up.

 

My Body

is an old child’s bicycle. Tubeless tires. The back tire had a gash chewed out of it, five inches long, causing me to bump along. Then, it refused to turn, sticking in place while I was riding a couple of feet off the ground. Made a full stop and I fell. During this life, my imagined spirit feels like it’s falling through the earth. I abruptly wake up.

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Unfurling

Before the unfurling

The inward bloom

An artist’s fist

Compressed to the movement

Of skin and desire

Held to earth

By fragile stem

One day will

Follow the sun

Learn to lure the bee

Speak in soft flesh tones….

And landing upon transitory beauty

Knows

Only representations

Are permanent.

Form, structure, pigments.

A ghost’s body

Still holds the shape

Of hands outlined, flat

Upon the prehistoric cave

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Mountain Lake

Burnt Lake

I sit with her

Placing her in memory

Giving thoughts strength, yet

In her silence, she frightens me.

I rely on others

Camping upon her shore

To soothe my worry.

And although I haven’t

Seen her rimmed with snow

Echoing the clearest of nights,

Pitted with raindrops

Upon her clear face,

Witnessed her held tight

By mist and clouds,

I know she has experienced this.

 

She reflects me

Placing me inside her memory

Giving strength to her beauty, yet

In my silence, I frighten her.

She relies on the stream

And springs to ease her.

And although she hasn’t seen

All who I love, have loved,

My stumbles and woes

On nights of anxiety,

My elations and successes,

The clatter of the city

Reverberates within me

She knows I have experienced this.

 

(This is a link)

(This is a link)

(This is a link)

elanmudrow@gmail.com

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Undertow

Self Portrait

A reader dips a hand

Into swift water

Waiting in initial silence

To be taken by the current

 

An author swims

Without life preserver

Arms….splashing

Yelling towards the shoreline

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A Small Movement

Photo by Elan

There is a time when you know

That you have loved

With such depth….that

The effect of that sense,

Its peaks and its lows,

Lovely affections and soft underbelly

Fuses to your bones

Becomes the art of your limbs

 

It is the meat of you

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Slow Burst — Elan Mudrow Photography

Oregon Garden, September 2017

via Slow Burst — Elan Mudrow Photography

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Close-In

Photo by this person

The leaf blowers start.

Smell of gas fills the air.

Mounds begin to form.

There’s stragglers.

Spots of yellow and orange

Upon lawns watered

To a suspended green

During the black and white

Months Of summer.

A few flattened in driveways

By the press of a cold front

Still moist.

Only in this moment

Dead streets are art.

 

A Subaru passes.

Kids, mom, phone

Rearrange the gallery

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Share The Dirt

Photo by Elan

Once, flowers were placed in gun barrels

As a form of protest.

Today, a garden is needed

To keep the soil of the meadow

Soft enough for all feet to walk upon

Barefoot

 

We grow in common ground.

Share the dirt.

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Aftereffects Of Fire

Here, where fire once raged

Our voice is diminished

As if our speech leaves through

Lungs weighing only of paper

And this trail we have carved

To stand next to old giants

With charred arms

Comes with symbols and words

Revealing deepened ruts

A string of infinite finites

 

With sunburnt shoulders

We watch the eyeless sun

That harsh gardener….

Pierce through a ghost canopy

Wishing to reclaim its spent dust

Thinking only of its collection

….Cold baubles of gravity

 

All witnessed by the moon

Who never blinks once

While we lay naked

Underneath its glow

In several forms of desire

Waxing, waning,

Silver, blue, and crescent

Its face constantly upon us

 

That burning face in the night

We claim as eternal muse

And use as fire for the poetic

Inventing expressions

To lay upon Luna, leading us

To scramble and patch together

scrapings and scratches

Producing representations

Of a once noble fir

Which lies deep in our lush memories

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Looking Up (O Minute Read)

Burnt Lake Trail, Oregon, September, 2017

Follow this link

Or this link

Or even this link

elanmudrow@gmail.com

via Looking Up — Elan Mudrow Photography

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