Elk Drum Called Me

Elk drum called me, 

From inside her canvas cave.

I swear the bag wiggled a smile.

Of canyons, and valleys, and mountain streams,

With beams of sunlight illuminating the mist

That’s been kissed by the leaves.

“Come,” she cooed. 

How could I resist?

I opened my pack 

And lifted her out,

Giving her a kiss 

With my poem sprouting lips,

That melt hearts and pull tears

From painful years, long ago.

My fingers swirl around the mallet’s handle, 

My hand caresses her leather straps. 

I nod to my drum. 

We are ready to fly.

My mallet awakens her belly

With a light tap and then ratatatat

I am out,

No longer bound 

By the confines of my golden brown skin.

We glide out my window

And bow to the Guava tree.

She giggles open her entrance 

To the path down her roots

Of silk, musty mushrooms, and 

Iridescent crystals of jade and amethyst.

The drums ratatat boom boom booms

Me into a cave with a passageway 

Of yellow and red rose petal waterfalls.

I slide down the chute into a pool 

Of laughing dolphins telling jokes

To the Coyote and grandmother on the bank.

“Sit here,” Coyote howls, “And listen 

To the wisdom of our ancestors,

Relish in their uproarious  laughter,

Eat the guava blossoms of mystery,

Drink from the pond of delight,

Glow with the splash of sparkles,

“Sientanse aqui,” Grandmother beacons,

Patting the green moss on the bench,

I sit down leaning my body against her

Laying my head on her bosom.

Like I did when I was seven years old.

The boom boom boom is gone.

My drum takes a nap on my lap.

We all dream together 

As we fly up, up, and up,

Passed the grinning moon, and laughing sun,

Passed the stars, and planets,

Passed the galaxies, and through a fog,

And onto the top of a ziggurat pyramid,

Where Quetzalquoatl, dressed in a robe

Of stars and flowers, greets me to say,

“Welcome my brother,

I have missed you so much.

When will you stop pretending

That you are not powerful and beautiful too?

It’s time to accept the truth of the mystery 

That you can sing songs of magic,

Twirl worlds with your pen

To soothe a crying world

And make it love and laugh again.”

Bibimbap - A Metaphor for Life

This is an excerpt from my book, Köln Letters:

“Bibimbap is a traditional Korean meal,” Tong Ku said. “I take pleasure not only in how it tastes but in how it’s a metaphor for life. The ingredients are placed in an orderly fashion into the bowl. Our parents try to make our lives orderly. They give us our foundation. Over the top of a bed of rice, which represents our daily routine, we add the meat and vegetables. Those are our lessons and our practice. We arrange them fanning out from the center of the rice. The last thing to enter the bowl is the sun in the form of an egg. But, it doesn’t become a meal until you mix it up, taking the sun all the way through, illuminating the meal, so to speak.”

“The egg mixes with everything,” Ani said. “Metaphorically, it gives new meaning to our life’s lessons. When we take the time to see deeper, we become wiser. As we continue to mix and eat the bibimbap, all of its ingredients meld together, in much the same way that all of our life’s experiences meld together and make us who we are.

“That’s pretty good. I can see that,” Thorsten said. “Do you always look at your meals as metaphors?”

“Most things we encounter can be teachers,” Tong Ku said. “We need to shift our awareness away from the ordinary and routine to the hidden messages and lessons that are all around us.”

Thorsten wondered why were they having this conversation and where would it take them. He swallowed a bite of bibimbap. “I see your point,” he said. “I can see why I need to challenge my beliefs when it comes to being a private investigator. I’ve learned that things are not always what they appear to be; therefore I have to be open minded. But I fail to see what that has to do with my religious beliefs.”

A ray of sunshine poked through the trees and illuminated Ani’s hair. “All of our beliefs play their part in shaping our perception of reality,” Ani explained. “If you hold onto religious beliefs that tell you that something is bad, can’t be real or true, then you will put on blinders in the face of evidence to the contrary.”

“Remember what happened to Galileo when he tried to say that the Earth was not the center of the universe,” Tong Ku said.  

You can purchase my book at https://www.amazon.com/Koln-Letters-Mushroom-Montoya/dp/0999074806/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1600750480&sr=1-1

Being an Adult Is Dumb

by Mushroom Montoya

Being an adult is dumb sometimes.

Why are we expected to behave,

To be responsible for ourselves

For our kids, and even for our pets?

We are supposed to act like adults.

But what if I don't or won't?

What if I want to do a cartwheel

When I am 43?

Or sing a song spontaneously?

What if I want to sunbathe nude?

It wouldn't be rude

If I was a clothesless dude

In my own back yard.

What if I want to ride my bike?

Or go on a 2600 mile hike

Along the Pacific Crest Trail

Will I be condemned to hell?

How can I do a decent job

Of raising happy, and mentally healthy kids

If I don't act silly and play,

Enjoying life each and every day?

Where Do My Poems

 

Where do my poems, 

My stories, and my imagination

Come from?

Perhaps I’ll sneak into my office

And secretly observe 

What he, 

The me 

Who writes and types 

On my keyboard, does.

His fingers tap the keys, 

His eyes cheat by looking down 

Every now and then. 

Wow. How does he do that?

Leave his body, 

Whirl up and out?

 

He puts his hands together, 

Blowing ever so softly 

Into his palms, a secret.

 

When he unfolds his hands 

The room evaporates 

In a flashing mist.

Mountains with waterfalls 

Of tears come smashing 

Against the rocks below.

 

Leaves rustle at his feet

On the river’s banks

As a mushroom sprouts 

From the dirt under his toes.

 

He laughs and giggles 

Like a little boy 

Enthralled with the magic of the forest.

 

He bows to the trees 

And thanks them for their beauty, 

Their shade, for their fruit.

He compliments them 

On their swaying dance, 

As they bend down with their leafy limbs.

 

They pick him and and whisper

“We have stories to tell, 

Go dig by our roots and find them.”

He picks up a burlap sack,

A shovel and a guitar,

And runs along the river path

Asking “Who am I, really?”

“I know I am not my body

It can live just fine

When I travel on my own.”

The river gurgles over the rocks

Singing its gravely song,

“I am here in this moment,

And I need you to feel it,

Every single pebble under my toes,

Every single cold and wet raindrop, 

Every single stinging nettle.”

“Hey!” I whine

“Yes, you can snivel,
But only for now.”

I stop and stand like a tree, asking,
“Why are people mean?

To the trees, the bees, the dogs

And especially to each other?”

The river gurgles,

“Turn inward and dig inside.”

I turn and run down a path

Over rocks,  sticks, and broken glass.

A furry palomino prairie dog stands erect
Pointing to a spot at its feet.

I plow into the muddy soil

With my twirling questioning shovel.

I dig while sweat rolls down my face,

Pooling goo and sludge 

Into the hole I’ve made.

I hear a clank

I cry heavy tears of grief

For my son, my mother, my dad,

And for myself who has died 

A thousand times.

I reach in to the muddy sludge 

And pull out a rusty metal box

I clean off and read the label

Which says, ’Mean people suck.’

I already know that!
The winds bellows laughter

Through the trees.

“If people were never mean,

You wouldn’t know how blessed you are.

You wouldn’t know how to forgive.

I fall on my back,

Laughing, 

And laughing,

While the prairie dog uses my 

Bouncing tummy as a trampoline

Doing flips and flops.

“Just be here,
Happily playing with me.”

He says, as he flips and adds,

“Of course mean people suck.”

It's Here

 It’s here, 

I lift my foot up and stretch it out

Placing it softly, 

Silently on the ground 

Cautiously not making a sound.

 

I struggle to swallow.

I tighten my jaw 

Praying, hoping my throat 

My swallow, my stepping forward

Won’t be heard.

The spiders are crawling 

In my belly.

Competing with the butterflies

In their attempt to warn me,

To Caution me 

To Save me

From it.

Why the hell do we call them butterflies?

They don’t eat butter?

I prefer the Spanish, mariposa
Or the French, papillon.

Those words flutter in my mouth.

What! Oh  shit, Stay focused

Forget the damn mariposa!

No! No! No!
I mustn’t cough
I don’t dare make a noise.

Not now, not when it is near.

The moon is burning away 

Going up in orange flames

Can a fire really reach that high?

To burn the moon from white to orange?

I rub my eyes trying to see

Where to place my foot

Where to take my next step

So as not to attract it.

So as not to let it find.

So as not to let it know

Where I am.

What was that?

I heard a grumble or a tumble

What made that noise?

Could it be it,

Already knowing where I stand,
Already waiting to pounce
And squeeze every ounce
Of air out of me

Before it bites off my head

And crushes my skull?

And then gouges out my heart

For a delectable dessert?

Who is feeding me these horrible thoughts
Of my own potential horrible death?

Why did I agree to come backpacking

When so many forests are being cooked?

There hasn’t been anyone killed
By a bear or a cougar 

In a long long time.
Has there?

I don’t want to be the first one
This year?

Why did I drink that beer
It wasn’t even cold
And now I have to go pee
And walk in the dark,

Knowing that it is out here
Waiting, licking its chops

Listening for the sound
Of my peeing near a tree.