Where Do My Poems

 by Mushroom Montoya

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, 

Whirling 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 up 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.

Feel every pebble under your toes,

Every single cold and wet raindrop, 

Every single stinging nettle.”

“Hey!” he whines.

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

He stops and stands 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.”

He turns and runs down a path

Over rocks, sticks, and broken glass.

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

He plows into the muddy soil

With his twirling questioning shovel.

He digs while sweat rolls down his face,

Pooling goo and sludge 

Into the hole he's made.

He hears a clank.

He cries heavy tears of grief

For his son, his mother, his dad,

And for himself

Who has died 

A thousand times.

He reaches in to the muddy sludge 

And pull out a rusty metal box.

He cleans it off and reads the label

Which says, ’Mean people suck.’

"I already know that!"

The wind bellows laughter

Through the trees.

"But did you know

“If people were never mean,

You wouldn’t know how blessed you are.

You wouldn’t know how to forgive."

He falls on his back,

Laughing, 

And laughing,

While the prairie dog uses his 

Bouncing tummy as a trampoline

Doing flips and flops.

“Just be here,
Happily playing with me.”

Prairie dog says, as he flips and adds,

“Of course mean people suck.”