Politics, Photography, And Poetry (And, Apparently, Alliteration)

I really, really, really hate politics.  While this article has to do with the dirty, low-down tricks of Republicans, don’t worry–I know the Democrats have dirty, low-down tricks too.  This one just happens to focus on right wing dirtiness.

Anyway, here are a few of my favorite pictures that I took at the ultimate frisbee mixer last Friday.  I’m pretty proud of them….  Yay photography and frisbee!  If only I could mix writing in there with those two, I’d be completely content for the rest of my days, as long as you both shall live (what?).

 

Emalee yay!

Cassidi, haha.  Sideways too…. and no, I don’t know why, or how to fix it.  If someone could enlighten me….

And then this one because it just captures the having-tons-of-fun spirit of ultimate frisbee.

For some reason, it always sounds like it’s raining in our room.  I’m guessing that a main pipe runs directly over our ceiling and so whenever anyone on third floor is showering, water is running through.  Either that or there is a monster leak up there, and one day our ceiling is just going to collapse and everything is going to flood.  Remind me to keep valuables at least three feet off the floor.

Also, before I go do laundry (something that desperately needs doing; you should smell our dorm after two straight weeks of sweaty ultimate frisbee clothes; wet garbage, anyone?), I am going to post what all of you have been so desperately waiting for….  Well, okay, what I have been desperately waiting for, the final entry to my summer poems trilogy.  Which have nothing to do with summer, but that’s just when they (or the first two) were written.  So here it is.

 

This is the cataract,

the spew of sulfurous water

in the underground cavern.

This is the spray hitting my face,

the promise of pure water

somewhere,

deeper underground,

further into the earth.

 

Body sprawled on the desert floor,

my soul wanders beyond the empyrean.

The stars ask me,

are you there yet?

And I say, no.

No, I am not there yet.

The road to forgiveness, to peace,

is a long one

and a thirsty one, and the desert

is immense.

 

Deeper underground,

whisper the moles.

Further into the earth,

whisper the nightcrawlers.

 

This is the red sun in the red sky.

This is the red dust that paints the air,

that smears my face,

that coats my feet,

that smothers my breath.

This is my mouth, parched to sandpaper,

that drinks even this bitter water

to clear the clots of red dust in my throat.

This is the voice that says,

even this water is good.

 

And I have struck the rock with my staff,

I have called upon Elijah, upon Isaiah, upon Jeremiah,

upon Moses,

but Moses is buried somewhere beneath the soil,

forever outside the promised land.

 

Perhaps we are the same.

 

I find inscriptions in the desert,

in the subterranean caves where I search for moisture.

These ancient languages show

that the stem for “forget” and “forgive”

is the same:

to pass by, to let go.

So perhaps there is meaning here.

 

Perhaps we are the same.

 

Perhaps, one day, you will ask me

if it was easy,

and I will say no.

No, it was not easy,

like forest fires are not easy

and giving birth is not easy

and landslides are not easy

and resisting gravity is not easy.

It is not easy.

 

Perhaps Moses did not die

but learned to live happily in the wilderness.

Perhaps he learned to love the sands,

the dust, the heat,

the defeat of fear.

Perhaps the promised land

was the dream of the people,

but not of the man.

 

This is the road to forgiveness,

and the highway is long, but sometimes

I can smell the willow trees in the far distance,

can smell the aloe,

can smell the lavender

and the lotus blossoms

and the white tulips.