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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The Ocean Welcomes Me Back

She knows me.

Though, I haven’t seen

All that she is…..

All her anger and angst

Frozen at times, treacherous.

I know her

From the safety of my footing.

She can pull me, She pulls me, I am pulled

Not by ebb, but by longing

A craving for our meeting.

She allows me to see her.

I am but painted doll

Easily tripped into a fall.

We are cyclic, together.

Friends as we are

 

I see her placid face

Fierce, reflecting sky.

Her cheeks aged, rippled

As they were at the beginning.

She’s my crone

My witch of calm

Curled slightly

With wavy hair

Rebelling,,,,,

The straightening of her tides.

Her voice, mesmerized magnetic

To my metal ears.

Grounded by emotion

She nudges me

To a rhythm depth tone.

My womb vibrates

With her motion

At the same time

I am her birth.

 

Her movement is mine

I am she, like her,

The invertebrate

With liquid body

Skin of whatever color

You wish to call me

We are deep in wrappings

Around dense mineral

Earthen cultrate creatures

Terrestrial mud makers

That simple creation act

Pottery, clay, and figure

Shaped by moisture

Solidified by solar storm.

 

I feel like she is forever

Whose depths

I know by kindred.

We raise our spirits

(For me, this once)

To mist and cloud

Transform, evaporate

Until our salt

Is yanked from our souls

And we fall

To new fawns

of phosphorescence

 

 

If I were to say

“Listen to her”

You would have

Already heard

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Salmon River Spring

Cool kiss from the forest

Stirs an inner revival

Charged by its music

Fresh from the source

That drums upon rocks.

As if my very bones

Were strewn underneath

The stream of Orpheus

Whose rhythms sink

Past thirst, deep within

My core, my atomic spirit

Embedded in my soft clay.

I am as tall as shadows

Of family fir and cedar.

Old growth is in my pitch.

I cup my hands, tightly

Holding what all life desires.

My fingers are born

Into this song shape

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Harry’s Ridge

Photo by Elan

It’s a part time job

She sells Pepsi and water

Overpriced, in the parking lot

“I’ve come here to run.”

I want to say, but don’t.

What would that mean?

She looks at me strangely, anyway

I’ve gotten used to that look

 

I walk with boots

I’ve made into slippers

No shoestrings

Pay eight dollars

At the visitor’s center

The cashier has a part time job

“I’ve come here to run.”

I want to say, but don’t

What would that mean?

“Harry’s Ridge,” I say

She tries not to look at me strangely

Places a paper bracelet

On my wrist

I feel like I have been admitted

Or committed, most likely permitted

 

It’s a part time job

Mt. St. Helens

Who sits next to me

Close, in a haze

Smoke from forest fires

Rubbing against our shoulders

The trail, white with ash

Still, decades after the eruption

I am in a rain desert

Here, for part of my time

“I’ve come here to run”

I want to say, but don’t

What would that mean?

The volcano tries not to look at me strangely

I’ve gotten used to that look

Posted in Poetry, Portraits | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 27 Comments

Spammer’s Delight

Ever look in your spam folder? I have to say that WordPress does a wonderful job diverting spam from my inbox. But, every now and then, I take a peek. The following are direct quotes, typos and all.

 

Spammer #1- “You know a complete lot its almost hard to argue along.”

You’re absolutely right. Don’t argue along. For that would be taking my side and I know a complete lot.

 

Spammer #2- “Writing manually takes a lot of time, but there is a tool for this time consuming task.”

The tool is called watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island and eating Cheetos!

 

Spammer #3-“I’ve got much clear idea concerning from this post”

I’m glad you’ve got much clear idea, because I’m totally confused by what you just wrote!

 

Spammer #4- “Why people still make use of to read news papers when in this technological globe the whole thing is available on web?”

Things are indeed strange in this technological globe. It should be a crime to make use of to read news papers. Except they actually hire “real” journalists.

 

Spammer #5-  “This enables that you simply much better picture of how your business is creating. We are all human beings.”

So, that’s what my business is doing, creating. And I didn’t even know I had a business. Plus, I’m glad you cleared it up that we’re all human beings. I was beginning to wonder.

 

Spammer #6-“ These pieces really set a standard in the indrytus.”

I am so happy I’m setting standards somewhere.  Hello to those of you in the indrytus! I won’t let you down.

 

Spammer #7 “Weeeee, what a quick and easy soiunlot.”

Wasn’t that cool? Soiunlots can be so tricky.

 

Spammer #8 “This was so helpful and easy! Do you have any articles in rehab?”

Well, unfortunately, a couple of them have checked in to rehab. I heard they were doing well.

 

Spammer #9“Hey hey hey, take a gardener to what’ you’ve done.”

That’s a great idea. I’ve never thought about inviting one.

 

Spammer #10 “That’s a posting full of ingiths!”

Is that a good thing? Where’d they come from? I didn’t put them there.

 

Spammer #11 “Just do me a favor and keep writing such trnhcnaet analyses, OK?”

By all means. I’m a master of trnhcnaetian theory.

 

Spammer #12 “If you’re looking to buy these articles, make it way easier.”

Mmmh. I’ve never thought about buying my own posts. That indeed is easier. There, I just gave myself 10 bucks. Whoo Hoo!!!

 

Spammer #13- “Thanks for spending time on the computer (wiritng) so others don’t have to.”

That’s why I do this. I’m here to make it so no one else has to spend time wirting on computers.

 

Spammer #14- “My salad has done better this summer but just in the last couple of months when the weather improved.”

I’m so happy to hear your salad is doing better.

 

Spammer #15- “Continue to be down the great operate! You realize, many individuals ‘re looking near to do this facts, it is easy to aid these products.”

Roger that. I will continue to be down the great operate to aid the products.

 

Spammer #16- “I like to party, not look arcleits up online. You made it happen.”

I’m glad I made that happen. I wouldn’t want you to resort to looking up arcleits online.

 

Spammer #17- “It is possible (and frequently done) to build over 200k crop armies (aka, World Wonder armies) from a six cropper.”

You’re right. I just built a few armies last week and I only had a two cropper! Whatever that is.

 

Spammer #18- “Why does this have to be the ONLY reliable source? Oh well, gj!”

Well, what can I say? Poetry is more reliable. That’s all you need to know.

 

Spammer #19- “I’m making posts about scientific explanations behind everyday appearances.”

I knew there was something scientific behind making everyday appearances.

 

Spammer #20 –“Stretching is discomfort.”

I’ve told my cat the very same thing! However, he doesn’t listen and keeps on stretching! He looks pretty comfortable though.

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Vulnerability

Only through our vulnerabilities  

Can we speak of ourselves

Where no genders build language

Where no categories structure

Your reaction to my voice…..

My reaction to your voice.

Either of us can be the words

Slicing into the coolness

Of our combined angers…..

Of our singular gentleness

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 25 Comments

Free Jazz

Photo by Elan

There are shapes to melodies

Found in sequences

In our hands and voices.

We move them

First as children,

Awkward

Matured into organic

Adulthood

To stretch harmony

Into a testimonial

Of the connective

And the disconnect

We kiss

To alleviate

 

Our songs……

Last proof

We are lovers

 

There are shapes to irony

In our search

Of free Jazz

We pluck

Single blades

Of wide grass

Placed between thumbs

Of insecure knuckles

Once thought

As divine

Producing

Buzz notes

A means to escape

Shapes

Of melody.

 

Our lips 

Who

Attempt to lose

The contours of the song

Make up a song

 

Our noise…

Last proof

We are lovers

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Summer Dance

Champoeg State Heritage Area, Oregon. August, 2016

 

    We dance on wooden gym floors, where aluminum foil-covered, cardboard stars are hung above our heads by fishing wire. The dancehall, a rearranged sports facility. Basketball hoops recoiled, painted lines and circles below feet. The gym, a sacred grassland. We dance only in socks. The floor mustn’t be damaged. Piles of shoes in the hallway.

     We mimic leaves who aren’t ready to dance. At least, not in this moist heat. But, we’ll dance. There’s no doubt about that. Some of us will fall into the beauty of a meadow and others into the roughness of the streets. Perhaps, a mixture of the two. Homecomings take different angles in the air, especially when the rain returns. It’s all about where we land, while we are busy landing. For we will not know where we have landed until our toenails turn the color of autumn.

     In the air, the falling, all movements are alike. The moves are internalized, calculated swirls. The dance is a flutter of freedom, a means to escape the body, while being so much in the body. The names attached to the fall are historical. Set in place. There’s a waltz, a sugar plum fairy, a two-step. We copy them without knowledge of their existence.

     This summer, with hotness clamping down upon us, we seem torn from bran and germ. We are sifted, churning a pirouette into the soil. We look like crumbly croissants, stirred by heated air into flakes. Still we search for a meadow. We know the moves by heart.

Posted in Poetry, Portraits | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 18 Comments

Grendel — Elan Mudrow Photography

Pacific Crest Trail, Three Fingered Jack, Oregon. July 2017

via Grendel — Elan Mudrow Photography

Posted in Portraits | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments