Elan Mudrow
Smidgens
Leaf Finder General
She rakes leaves as if she’s in a battle with fall
With those pranksters of maple, oak, alder, and all
Who best be off elsewhere, staying clear from her home
Or sticking fast by autumn’s mist to the garden gnome
Better not sneak under her feet, returning to haunt the grass
I swear she’ll burn them like witches if they reappear in mass
Me?
I think her lawn looks nice, with a little extra spice
But I wouldn’t dare give her any advice
You see, I’m only her 8-year-old son
I just want to play in the leaves for fun
Beach Memories
Memories from the Ancient Vacation
- My crown was made of construction paper, adorned with crayon-drawn jewels. A gift that was handed down from generations past (starting with my big sister).
- Ribbon kelp, broken sand dollars, seagull feathers, were my minions.
- The waves marked the boundaries of my sandy realm, beyond them, ships teetered on the curve of the round world. Fools!
- My scepter was a lone wooden chopstick, blessed by the sand dune fairies, painted purple with glitter.
- Roasted marshmallows were the staple food of my land, harvested from plastic bags, which grew wild in the grocery store.
- There were morning rituals to be performed, such as the hallowed mini-boxed cereal, opened along perforations. An elixir was added, milk. I would bless the brew with a plastic spoon.
- In my kingdom nothing was saved. Saving was sacrilegious. It was barbarian to wash a utensil and reuse it. Paper plates were saints. So, it was written, so it was done.
- I wore a bathing suit and rubber sandals. It was a commandment from the priests (mom and dad). I was to look as idiotic as possible. That was the way to true enlightenment.
Memories from the New Vacation
- My crown was a snapback cap with my favorite sports team logo, even if I didn’t have a favorite sports team. Even if I didn’t like sports.
- My minions were, apps, emojis and text messages. Even selfies followed me!
- The beach marked the boundary of my condo, where people were known to walk! Fools!
- My scepter was an iPhone, blessed by the corporate fairies called computer programmers.
- Marshmallows were replaced by tempeh, harvested from plastic bags which grew wild in the “natural” section of the grocery store.
- Sugar cereal was banished, replaced by (gulp) unsweetened granola with vanilla almond milk (cheater)
- In my kingdom nothing was saved. Saving was sacrilegious. It was barbarian to be caught with technology older than 2 months. So it was texted, so it was done.
- I wore Crocs clogs, with cargo shorts. I didn’t need mom and dad to help me appear idiotic. This is the way to true enlightenment?
Emily Dickinson’s Refrigerator
‘Twas the vinegar that tippeth
Toward the leftover quiche
Oh, lonely empty bottle, recycler boon
When sun meets to kiss moon—
And mustard, your yellows bold
A bit old, but still at play—
Mummified lime, plastic lined
Awaits blessed water of the fizzy kind—
Four salad dressings,
Daughters of the virgin oil—
Bright Wednesday’s sauce
Must find solace at all cost
Before the scourge of poisoned moss—
A couple of red jellies
To keep a merry belly
Harvested during the sweetness
Of His grand spring—
A dire few leaves of spinach
Must be eaten in a pinch
Or thrown into a stew anew
Cat food can, oh my love be content
Yet, small miracles abound
In these cool vestiges—for—
Behind the onion skins
And forgotten slice of apple
My hand moves with assured fate—
Look at what Providence hath left!
A cold beer is found no less!
O, wonderous workings, I’m blessed.
Soundness
He’s moving to a song he knows and it’s a song we’ve heard before but can’t place.
As he moves, the sweat, sores, and scratches stay in place. What’s inside him is externalized.
He doesn’t care about our inner secrets, our inner fears, our hates, our loves that set us howling upon each other. It’s out/in him.
He’s howling, loudly, to someone that isn’t there, but we recognize his attempt to get through. At times, we think he’s trying to get our attention. We hear, but don’t want to hear. We shake it off, thinking he’s outside us.
His voice seems primal, an odd sort of desire. We recognize its motions.
Shirtless, he scares us. He slams the metal lid of a garbage can on the sidewalk, a sidewalk he will sleep on, a sidewalk we walk upon…every day.
We don’t help him.
We expect someone else to talk to him, clean his face, recognize the song and put it in a playlist, so when it plays, text pops up, telling us what it is.
We must move to a song we know. It’s a song he’s heard before but can’t place.
Rampant Dust
We’re rampant dust with sunlight between our fingers.
Check out more images here.
Ghost Story For The Wilderness Impaired
Timothy Lake July 2018
She’s a ghost. I know that. She brushes her fingers along my shoulders and I will look up to find her playing among the trees, pretending to be the wind. She’ll drop a pinecone or a small branch as a reminder. Then, off she goes to the deeper part of the forest where I can’t follow. She laughs. I can’t hear it, but I know she’s laughing.
This spirit of hers doesn’t frighten me. But there are times when the forest is as still as death. It’s upon these moments, in silent life, when I look behind me on the trail and shudder in my aloneness.
She returns, that’s what ghosts do, with her sound, a rustling, a stirring, a theme she buries deep inside me. Its tune reminds me that I’m also a ghost. At times, this makes me sad, to know I’m as invisible as her, but it’s her way of empowering me, to haunt. I can’t help but to be…a ghost.
I can tell you this one thing. It’s the only thing I really, really know. If you listen, you will also know you’re a ghost. Even when you’re in the middle of nowhere, look up, and see a jet leaving contrails high in the sky, above the wilderness, without making a sound.
Searing Times
I wish I could dance in this wind. But its heat wilts me, keeps a dull, slight fever about my skin. I feel it drags everything into a blur, the flora, the fauna, the restless water, the dry grass. There’s so many separate lawns being watered in the midst of this drought.
I await the first flirt of coolness, a gift from the ocean, when the wind tugs at my hand and compassion soothes the baked streets, the overdone frenzy.
The View
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