Mudra Mornings

Painting and Poetry by Rick Mobbs
Linebreaks by Glenn Buttkus

Mudra Mornings

In the beginning,
when we were still made of mud,
and pieces of ourselves
were always falling off,
it was necessary to live
close to water.

Running water was best.
Still water makes smelly mud,
and we would be too easily stalked
if we were to leave smelly droppings
as we walked to and fro
across the earth.

Red mud was the best of all,
because it was the oldest,
ground from the most ancient stone
to the finest dust
and therefore an aid to memory;
for we were an old people,
the oldest people,
and too easily did we forget
our origins.

We saw that often,
especially upon the veldt
but also far to the arid,
mudless north.

Straggling remnants
of once vital families
and strong tribes,
mud slatherings fallen away,
soft skin the color of sand,
dry grass, dark water, shadow,
or sunset clouds;
peppered with bug bites
and burned by the sun--
and worst of all,
no memory of who they were,
where they came from,
how they came to be,
and no idea of where they were going.

Sad people with vacant eyes,
lost in the bewilderness,
but lessons to us all.

Rick Mobbs September 2008