Same Is Said

Vegas Petals

Just when ya think

Hate’s reached full glow

It lets your ass know

Has plenty of room to grow    

 

Same is said of love.

 (At least,

That’s what I’ve heard.)

 

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The Last Evening — Elan Mudrow Photography

Oregon Garden, September 2017

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Summer 2017

Wild mood swings

Calm.

We soothe our wounds,

Reconstruct,

Find the kind story.

Though words

Linger.

We begin a new

Autumn memory

 

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Earthscape — Elan Mudrow Photography

Oregon Garden, September 2017

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Olympic Peninsula Beach–How To Miss A Highway

To get to the beach, we hike

Through the smell of pine

So thick, we can taste it.

The trail is carpeted with needles–

We think we’re the first humans

To arrive on a new planet.

Trees older than Columbus

With golden brown skin, black bark, tar

Pillars of a wild palace.

The sound of Highway 101

Fades behind us, reminds us

Where we came from

Aberdeen, Long Beach, Astoria

The cozy rainfall of Portland

 

 

Then it stretches before us

That untamed beach,

Ocean, greyed-out by sky reflection.

Sand, a mess, tossed, turned.

The raw shore, green, dense

Mangled, perfect.

The wind, never ceases

If it did, it would be Armageddon

Heaven, or science fiction

Which are the same things

As far as the peninsula is concerned

 

We have our backpacks on.

Nylon and aluminum, easily bent and torn.

The infrastructure.

Yet, they hold freeze-dried ice cream

Dried pad thai with tofu

Foam pads, a pipe and a little stash

The bare essentials.

At night, we tie our packs to tree limbs,

in case of tofu eating bears

Stoner cougars, sweet tooth coyotes

A wildlife piñata

 

The rain hit

This is no Portland sprinkle

This is a northern coastal drenching.

We set up the tarps, plastic sheets

With nylon rope, rocks as anchors

Tucked ourselves in, wedged against wind

Until the morning arrives

As grey as the ocean

Our supplies gone, the tree limb too

Our backpacks found strewn

In the shrubs

 

My car keys, safely in my pocket

jab my leg.

We listen for the highway.

 

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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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Bandaged — Elan Mudrow Photography

North Head Lighthouse, Washington State

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Peaceful Shit

Backyard Fountain

The doors are open

Yet, it’s silent

I should hear children…

The ones of the neighborhood

Screaming at play

Or the voice of Mr. Rush

In his backyard

Talking on his cell

About installing water pumps.

Where’s the lawn mowers

The Leaf blowers

And the loud men who mind them?

What’s up with the street man

Digging for bottles in the recycling bin?

Is he taking the day off?

Spanky the spaniel should be barking.

Mr. Fry should be meowing

rubbing my leg for food.

Where’s my neighbor

The chronic door slammer at?

I swear there’s an art to the door slam.

What about those two who argue

Over their fences

While trading tomatoes and beats?

And that incessant car alarm

That nobody seems to know

How to turn off? Where’s it at?

What happened to the occasional drunk

Searching for his girlfriend

From the bar a block away?

Has he missed his cue?

 

What’s this peaceful shit doing here?

 

Oh, there’s Spanky’s bark

And the start of a new argument.

Tomatoes are doing good this year.

Beats? Not so good.

Just when I thought things were getting good.

 

 

Good shit never lasts long

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Adolescent Tongue

Photo of the Eagle Creek Fire provided by Oregon Live

Haze is in our voice,

Wraps the air in orange

Our mouths taste of ash

From heat and dryness

Encircling our throats

We speak through filters

We become speechless

 

 Our voice is smoke

As the sun turns colors

A Pumpkin glow, fluttering

Our talk is like cinders

Composed of dark cumulus

Layers bound inside bark

Released…we become confused

 

We seek the onshore flow

The lucid linear spoken spell

That quells our child tongue

Who claims immortality

Even if just for a second.

To deny the child

That sparks within us…for

It is us who light the dark.

The moth is eaten by flame….gone

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Bridge Over Troubled Ferns — Elan Mudrow Photography

Oregon Coast Trail, Cape Lookout. August 2017

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