Maybe—That—Would Awaken—Them

Muramatsu DS

Song lingers, body shaped by its charms.

The instrument, tarnished and scratched, still distinct…

Soft metal of depth, built from devotion, a loneliness all know, few embrace.

Upon first touch, cold as granite, then melody’s warmth wraps…the air.

Strange kind of ether, a wonder we breathe, sound is the current of the core.

Bending a phrase, the trailing dash of a note, dangling off into chant…

The incantation.

Magic is craft mixed with gift, singed by song, burnt into listening, words that hit inside.

First notes feel the delicacy of fingers, the embouchure fixed

Mouth free into verse.

Recite aloud.

 

(Emily Dickinson Series #2)

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Imprints

Soft Trail

Trails… little lines through forests… embrace connections, gather imprints, from hiking boot, the brave flip flop, the weekend tennis shoe. I’m not alone, but, there’s a separateness I can’t deny.

 My feet…clunky…bony things…bad negotiators of ground, stumbles into sunlight, with trees as easel, hangs portraits.

 Have I ever handled beauty well? My arms seem like slugs. My eyes unreliable. My organs are preconceived plans. I look at my shoes. Such pretty things, such perfect imprints.

 I’ve stomped upon dust, steered around mud. These paths tug upon my pulse, an ache. Even weeds are handsome anarchists. The soles of my shoes have been manufactured especially for this moment.

Yes, you’re on the trail. Somewhere ahead of me, sometimes behind. The way you run lures me. I recognize the shape of your naked foot. I think I’m in love with your lost.

 I drink your coldest water. My teeth throb. I’m wild, if only for a speck of time. I pull off my socks.

 

To Wander

This south wind

Brings a warmth

Tickling the side

Of rhododendrons

Waiting for the fluster

Of petals who fall

The quickest, earliest

Sticking to shoes

Tracked into the kitchen

 

“I meant to tell [you]

How I longed

For just this single time”

 

Late summer petals

Dried, lightened wishes

Caught in kitchen corners

With lone coffee beans

With runaway grains

Who stick to shoes

Tracked out, where

The north wind

Tickles the sides

Of oaks and beech

 

“To wander—now—is my repose”

 

Out The Other — Elan Mudrow Photography

 

Waste:

  • To consume, spend, or employ uselessly.
  • Without adequate return.
  • Use to no avail or profit; squander.
  • To fail or neglect to use.
  • To destroy or consume gradually; wear away.

 

Drinking fountain drain, Mt. Tabor, Portland Oregon, March 2018

 

(Alien Bowling Ball?)

via Out The Other — Elan Mudrow Photography

Last Reaches — Elan Mudrow Photography

Tentacles like arms reach for a last touch of sky. Forest fires burn differently depending on the environment. Some fires lick the bark off of trees but leave them alive to grow new skin. Others, like this one, scorch, leaving a graveyard full of Goliath skeletons. Three Fingered Jack, Pacific Crest Trail, July 2017. Forest […]

via Last Reaches — Elan Mudrow Photography

Opus

I mimic the forest, where ferns gentle as flowers, leaves like feral pastels, shape the wind’s hymn, creating a counterpoint of chaos and calm.  

There, the birds have memorized melodies older than the shape of my skeleton.

Even young trees, the adolescent tones, sing with the ingrained voice of elders.

Carved streams speak in rough rhythms, of a grounding, the changing shape of earth, the flux of melody.

Awkward sky, an invited guest, punctuates canopy, like grace notes, completes the arc of composition.

 

I’ve copied the tune best I can.

Brought it back to fill my hummingbird feeder.

The audience’s wings, a rapid flutter, attends my skittish song.

Which is a sweet sugar water tinted by shade, that landscapes the new wild.

The pharmakon of ancient lyric.

 

A Bad Case Of Hubbub

Lucy runs into the house with fright on her face.

“Mom!? Jimmy told me I’ve got bad case of the glimmer! Feel my forehead. Jimmy said I needed to get a shot!”

Mom plays along, feels Lucy’s forehead. “Yes, I am afraid so. Looks like you’ve got the glimmer.

“Oh no! What’s the glimmer gonna do? I don’t feel bad. I don’t want to get a shot,” A tear trickles down Lucy’s cheek.

“Don’t worry. I can fix the glimmer. No shot.”

“You can?”

“All you have to do is go and wash up for dinner. Then, you must remain totally silent for the rest of the evening. If you say one more word between now and bedtime, you’ll still be sick tomorrow and we might have to think about taking you to the doctor for a shot.”

A look of worry and hope twisted Lucy’s face as she nodded.

Tomorrow Mom called Jimmy’s mom, telling her thanks.

Jimmy’s mom didn’t understand until Jimmy ran up and told her that Lucy’s big brother, who knows everything, said that it looked like Jimmy had a bad case of hubbub.