When all we could make
was mudpies,

we worshipped them
and mud.

Many paths called “up”
are only
The crucial question then
must be:
What’s “up?”

Up is ever where
heart and hands are active,
walking on the water,
dancing in the fire,
where the third note sounds
as you play duets,
feet upon the gravid ground.



Filed under Mudpies

3 responses to “Mudpies

  1. sbtipota

    it seems to me as if this quietly celebrates simplicity of being and the beauty of earth
    – in poetry that rises up like a flute song

    You’re seeing what I’m seeing! Thank you!

  2. poeticgrin

    I must tell you this made me smile. This morning, I ran a 5K race called a Mudrun ( which included a very large mudpit. As I was crawling on my hands and knees, submitting to sinking into the Earth, I felt so connected to… to… something. Then I come here and read this wonderful poem. Thank you for gently leading me to think about things in new and powerful ways.

    Dear brother. You’ve brought tears to my eyes. Bless you.

  3. nectarfizz

    Ah me..I recall those day quite well. Want to make a mudpie with me?

    That’s what we’re all doing here, aint it? Sitting in a rain-soaked puddle of words making shapes that look edible… at least edifying.

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