Verb — Elan Mudrow Photography

Oregon Garden, September 2017

via Verb — Elan Mudrow Photography

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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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Sweet Dirt (Portrait 10)

You thought it would’ve been water and initially you were right. Then, the ocean changed. No one was surprised. After all, that’s what we do, change, survive, change again if we don’t die first. Not very poetic. What nipped us in the ass was the increasing storm surges and haunting fires. Beautiful when viewed from a computer screen, the greys of wind whipped sea, the coal red of fire eating its way through forests. Sometimes I think voyeurism is humanity’s best quality. We gaze at beauty and swallow it, holding it in, while it eats at us from the inside. Damn, if it wasn’t for beauty, we might’ve been better off.

And so, it came down to dirt, sweet dirt. This is what we had to learn to respect. Funny….learning how to respect something. You think we had already learned. Again, you’re wrong. No wait, I’m wrong. Because now I know. We needed to worship dirt, not carve it up, colonize it, bend it, treat it like infinity. I could wash my hands a thousand times and this dirt would always stain my fingers. I’m ingrained with the soil. You’re the same as me.

Now scarce, we look for the sweet spots, where the dirt is still alive, wormy, nutrient filled. We’re hunters of dirt.

 

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Weathering

Car No Go

There are cruel winters, cruel summers……

You accept them as best you can

Bear them with disgruntled perseverance

Holding inside a small ache, an annoyance…….

Occasionally you yell at the weather……

A healthy madness, a mild mania…….

The day does not hear your voice…….

You shovel snow from sidewalks

Wipe the sweat from your brow

Waiting for temperate relief

A new climate of reason……

You even pray for the return

Of an older compassionate forecast…….

The meteorologist smiles at this…….

For now…….. you must

Blow heat into your hands

Hide inside your air conditioning……..

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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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