Tag Archives: Nature

Frankenstein

Timothy Lake

We think the river a wild beast, amok, tilling a path in soil.

But it’s us—in another form, searching for a mate who can only be made in our own image.

 

We slow the stream, to a reservoir’s pulse, in hope to drink reflections—until the end of our days.

 

Yet, days are a slight of hand, manmade lakes, built, so we can sing to the photogenic current.

Stilled, captured in a portrait

Touched, retouched, retold

 

 

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Looking Glass

Little Crater Lake, July 2018

A double blue reflection. The cobalt of the lake with its graveyard of dead trees lying on the bottom. One recent death half-floats in purgatory. And the deep blue of the sky, foregrounded by a living green forest. Both blues framed by ancient volcanic formations. All is alive, even death.

 

More photos here.

Ramona Falls’ Mist

Ramona’s whisper requites us to ourselves—our fires extinguished, our thirst sated.

That voice, a pact between mountain and moisture, is a quiet call to us

The stumbling pilgrims, forest wanderers, wishful sages who suffer from acute chatter.

Its language—slow—near wordless, near nothing, paints upon the brow reminders…

Of lost talk of the ancient shape of myths, wrapped around delicate, heavy truths,

Source of our combined story.

 

We arrive with city hands, parched

To drink for the first time—again.

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.

 

elanmudrow@gmail.com

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