First Light In The Winter Garden


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How leaves lie around his house…placed, as if in a certain order.

How the sky is colorless above his roof, matching the freeways.


The only chance for him to see color and chaos is the sea

But the ocean is forbidden inland, its heavy hand sits off shore.

So, waves curl upon themselves, tucking him inside his room

Where his body…a frequency, has a levy built around it

Softening the sound of clearness, roughening his outer crust

Into manipulations so silent even he doesn’t know their tide tables.


How the house deflects rain, black and white upon impact.

How leaves are secretly switched without regard to the trees.


The only chance for him to have depth is found in the forest

But today it’s a dull red, dried blood, a dust-filled breath.

The trail… overgrown, hushes thoughts, especially his own.

He can’t hear himself, so he can’t hear others, deaf leaf.

He fumbles amongst mud puddles, hunting his reflection

But he can only see his river as a frozen image, devoid of moisture.


How his house fights the sky, but clouds repeat soft rhythms.

How the wind knocks ceaselessly on his door, he cannot hear it.


(Click on image to enlarge-Underneath Lower South Falls, Silver Falls State Park)


 Shining from its source, from out a promising window.

 Birds fly into the glass.






(Trust can’t be a construct, it’s wild.)


First Glimpse


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So true, so true Thinglewart is blue

And who knew, who knew, what to do?

For Thinglewart is a preposterous pest

Indeed he wears a stiff, starched vest

No stretchy, stretch for Thinglewart ever

Just keeps on shoveling shit ‘til never

‘Til the sky turns puke and poops all over

‘Til rain’s cut short by a stinky gas mower


He once lived in the Kingdom of Koove

Where ladies and parasites wiggled and moved

There Queen Wishuwell offered him a job

Collecting mumbleweeds whole or by the gob

But he refused and said he would rather scratch dirt

For Lady Whatmethink wanted it for her skirt

So off to the high Dirtclod mountains he went

Until he gathered enough soil like a knocky-head gent


When the night started to dim and blinky blink

Thinglewart returned looking for Whatmethink

But she had ran off with a cute sewer rat

Who promised eons of unwashed chitchat

So Thinglewart sits silent, nose to the road

Where frogs dance and imitate horned toads

Cursing at cars, fucks, and trucks plus more

Thinglewart has become grim as the pink moors


Then a spy named Fry just happened to walk by

Overheard Thinglewart, sigh, sigh and sigh

Asked Thinglewart to join the secret Snoots

About love and dirt they didn’t give a hoot

So Thinglewart thought this a pretty good deal

Off he followed Fry to a hideout called Spiel

There he took the oath of the sacred Snootology

Then they celebrated, underneath the topology

Fry toasted sad Thinglewart with rare weasel juice

Thinglewart began to cry like a baby grass moose


The Snoots had a scheme all wrapped in evilness

Was named by Fry the Great Unexpectedness

To get rid of Queen Wishuwell was the big plan

And her icky boyfriend named Sir Gurr Fryingpan

They would attack when the moon went Buffoon

Yellow and swirly with wrinkles like a prune

Only by darkness would they inchy, slip, slip

To give Sir Gurr and Wishuwell hurty fat lips


But Thinglewart had a soft place in his noggin

The queen had been nice and a little bit awesome

He snuck through the muck, back to the Koove

Finding Gurr and Wishuwell dancing to a groove

He tried to tell them, but they were in no mood

Sir Gurr accused him of being a crude rude dude

Thinglewart was jailed in the tower called Fuzz

For Sir Gurr was a meany, that’s what he does.


So true, so true Thinglewart is blue

And who knew, who knew, what to do?

For Thinglewart is a preposterous pest

Indeed he wears a stiff, starched vest

No stretchy, stretch for Thinglewart ever

Just keeps on shoveling shit ‘til never

‘Til the sky turns puke and poops all over

‘Til rain’s cut short by a stinky gas mower



Chapter Two


Thinglewart’ s not alone in the tower

He’s inside with Sir Blastingcap Chowder

Chowder had worked to get out of tower

Diligent, built foam wings hour by hour

He built sets of cute fuzzy arms for two

Jumped out the window, floating up, it’s true.

Thinglewart attached the other set to his arms

Chowder floated, he couldn’t come to harm

But as soon as he jumped Thinglewart fell

Very slowly, like a flying giant gazelle

Chowder bumped into a sweeping loon

She swatted him with her feather broom

Foam slipped off Chowder’s skinny arms

He started to tumble, Thinglewart was alarmed

Chowder fell smack dab back into the tower

Bouncing off layers of foam, laughing, not even sour


To be continued?  Well, we’ll see

Thinglewart’s a bit private you see

He doesn’t like unnecessary chatter

He says it’s not good for the bladder

He only talks after a wee bit of juice

Then his tongue, it comes loose.


Circuit Tree

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Daily images uploaded on Instagram. Follow @undeciduous on Instagram.




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With each leaf a face of dryer future falls reflects the prolonged fixing and fiddling of limb and ground.

I step cautiously, hearing you beneath my shoe. Upon your spine, I search for strength.

Your breath crumples with a sound of what was and is to come; an aging, mingled with every smaller wobble of the globe.

Lovers never smile when they have fallen ,always look for spring as redemption until the rain disappears.

Wind carries your face adrift. Dust is never far.

If my blood could wake you, I would let you suckle my salty oil until bees’ lips turned red.

If my wet mouth quenched you, I would kiss you with sugar saliva until your skin revives.

But there’s so many who fell like me.

I can’t caress the world back to fresh buds or even hold it safe within my drying veins.

Flowers run rampant in the meadow. Beetles and caterpillars hang on for life.

I swear the swiftness of the planet’s spin sends petals flying.




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Dry Thirst

Once we were liquid

Entangled, wrapped in grasps

Scared of the dry sunrise


In that morning

I heard the bath water

Small splashes…gingerly


The faucet became a trickle, then nothing. I was left with the creaks of the house.


Every now and then I run the water

For no apparent reason



Arc Eternal

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Arc Eternal 

Moths Find Daylight


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Find a book I’m in here.

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The View

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The northern trailhead of the Oregon Coast Trail.

If I hike alone, I can only tell you what you missed.

If we hike together, we’ll see the view.


Here, the wind whips beachgrass, stinging our legs through cotton jeans, a grass that rattles its voice, a scolding, chaotic rustle. Our bare feet run across their roots to reach the soft sand.

There, we’ll see the side of the wind waves know, lulling us into a dreamer’s state, a duet with the flapping of our jackets, a rhythmic trance. We dig toes deep into sun-drenched sand, feeling the same heat, ‘til cooled by the night’s tide.


The grass settles into quiet view.


(Click on image to enlarge. More of Elan’s photos here.

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