Elan Mudrow
Smidgens
Category: Poetry
Here is where my deepest heart lies. These writings emanate from the many times when my passion hits the bottom and other times where it seems to fly on wings. To solace myself, I go to the woods on deep forest trails, pray to waterfalls, look over valleys, and dip my hands in the waters of springs, hoping to soothe myself. Forgive me if I get angry; for at times I’m just plain mad at the world.
Dab Of Warmth
There are mild spots between winter’s beating of grayness Where breaths, in ease, are breathed…gloves are placed in pockets or lost on streets of snow Mixed in that scattered brown batter of orphaned leaves. The sun appears as a stranger, speaking a forgotten tongue, yet familiar tone Trying to…
Openness
Shining from its source, from out a promising window. Birds fly into the glass. (Trust can’t be a construct, it’s wild.)
Thinglewart
So true, so true Thinglewart is blue And who knew, who knew, what to do? For Thinglewart is a preposterous pest Indeed he wears a stiff, starched vest No stretchy, stretch for Thinglewart ever Just keeps on shoveling shit ‘til never ‘Til the sky…
Flection
With each leaf a face of dryer future falls reflects the prolonged fixing and fiddling of limb and ground. I step cautiously, hearing you beneath my shoe. Upon your spine, I search for strength. Your breath crumples with a sound of what was and is…
Dry Thirst
Once we were liquid Entangled, wrapped in grasps Scared of the dry sunrise In that morning I heard the bath water Small splashes…gingerly The faucet became a trickle, then nothing. I was left with the creaks of the house. Every now…
Emily Dickinson’s Refrigerator
‘Twas the vinegar that tippeth Toward the leftover quiche Oh, lonely empty bottle, recycler boon When sun meets to kiss moon— And mustard, your yellows bold A bit old, but still at play— Mummified lime, plastic lined Awaits blessed water of the fizzy kind—…
The View
If I hike alone, I can only tell you what you missed. If we hike together, we’ll see the view. Here, the wind whips beachgrass, stinging our legs through cotton jeans, a grass that rattles its voice, a scolding, chaotic rustle. Our bare…
Gilligan’s Soliloquy
TV or not to TV, that is the question Whether ‘tis nobler for the stomach to suffer The future of outrageous coconut cream pies Or take bad dialogue from character actors And by opposing, end them, and get cancelled after three seasons To flee,…
Leaf Finder General
She rakes leaves as if she’s in a battle with fall With those pranksters of maple, oak, alder, and all Who best be off elsewhere, staying clear from her home Or sticking fast by autumn’s mist to the garden gnome Better not sneak under…
T.S. Eliot Bumps Into A Second Person
The voiceless have built a city within this city, structures embedded within the grid, pulled together by patchwork—cloth, tent, sawdust floor and plastic sheet. You’re there, measuring your life in coffee spoons, on that same street, right next to them. You see…
Soundness
He’s moving to a song he knows and it’s a song we’ve heard before but can’t place. As he moves, the sweat, sores, and scratches stay in place. What’s inside him is externalized. He doesn’t care about our inner secrets, our inner fears, our…
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