Elan Mudrow
Smidgens
Published
Vastness
Moons hug tightly to their brightened lovers, never letting go, gravity keeping them together. Stars and galaxies fill the void around them, flying farther and farther apart. Their vast emptiness is not an increase in solitude. The darkness is full of energies. Sometimes I wonder, can we see love not as a singular planet, but as a cosmos?
The Instrument (Portrait #2)
I stumbled upon her, hidden behind a large sliding door, within the comfort of darkness, unmoved, silent.
Is that possible? She seemed so old, so incredibly old, as if one touch would turn her into dust.
And dust was inside, so much earthly powder rising, floating. I fanned it away, swiping three times. Breathless, I dared to look deeper.
For I knew this was a dust that could bite, its fangs lay into your skin so softly, you think you only have an itch, then a blinding light loosens upon you, never dimming.
I waited for the storm to settle and found her glimmer. She was naked, naked silver, like a dissected serpent, a flute, an instrument of sound, not chatter, dormant.
I’ve had enough of the latter to last all my lifetimes, but her body held certain tones of gravitation, melodies of singularity, connecting my emotion with thought, bunching up within me, squirming in my gut, rattling amongst my speculations.
My ears, I blamed for all confused utterances, yet I loved them, for they alone had the ability to divvy up beauty from all noise competing for my attention.
And now I had found her, mute, unmoved, and now my fingers brushed against the pitting of silver plate, the gilding of argent, rough greenish, blackish pits within metal and marks of ancient lips imprinted upon her embouchure.
A sound was made, shaped, guided, the union of a kiss. My lips wetted, my body moist, until they came following the sound.
And they smiled as if they loved me, stood in admiration, ready to woo me to the sound not the harmony.
She was just metal, wasn’t she? Who could love someone based upon a sound? It was not me, I swear. She developed warmth upon a touch and it was that heat they heard.
She dropped from my lips, the branches of my soul, back into the dusty dark, where I swear I loved her more than any, until another pair of ruby stained lips would press upon her neck.
Someone will jump back into that grave, looking for the flowers of her melody.
Apprehensive Sunlight
The floor chases the sun
Disturbing the warmth, Dust wanders
Within bent beams, embedded
In light captured heat
Moves as an animal, crawling
Never quite caught, always catching
Late leaves, blended with sidewalks
Attempt a crossing, through portal
Entering dry, slightly sifted
Remnants, now empty veins
Lost among the floorboards
Still trying, still trying, always trying
Screens are guardians, slim aluminum
Bugs not meant to be heard
Play pretend with access, asking
Confused, glancing curiosity,
Darting, from screen to screen
An escapeless web, teased by wind
The fireplace, forgotten tomb
Sits still, breathless, sullen
Until blown upon by suffocation
Sparks break out, wild upon the world
Die in the night, depthless deep
The morning buries them, softly
The sun, a cold reminder, where
Blinds attempt to illuminate
Loss of cycle, the crouching star
Until the horizon eats the beam
Spinning, spinning flat, until
Hands are rubbed together
A World Away Means We Are Dust
A world away
means we are dust
Showing a sign
Is a leaf in the crack of the sidewalk
Even if I did say
Something stupid
You know I’m true
Even though
I got mad
You know my heart is real
I’m aware
Of words
That shoot sideways
I’m guilty
Of saying
Things layered in misdirection
Even if
My tongue
Never touches yours ever again
Even if
My hands
Never feel the tautness of your stomach
I am
Your friend
Regardless of my desire
I am
An ear
Listening to your desires
But,
A world away
Means we are dust
Please,
Please,
Please,
No.
The River (Portrait #1)
The river–
Cold, of a certain depth, certain speed, enough to conceal .
Annie had freckles that hid frowns, dusty eyes—unmanageable red hair like wild wires sitting upon a strange round head.
Pulling Jessie’s wet wrists, towards the water, hands slipped away.
Annie had words to say. The words had to mean something even if they sounded like nothing.
Her voice was the trembling kind, a voice without certainty.
Such a voice carries in the forest differently. It is embraced by small sounds. It was these small sounds Annie placed hope upon, to take care of Jessie.
Jessie had been strong for her tiny stature, a rugged frame with a curvy overtone, bronzed skin and goddess hair.
It is true a river separates the banks, but they meet somewhere, either at a spring or a river, or the ocean. Such it was that Annie hoped for Jessie.
It was time for the words. First—sound of commitment, not the act itself, but the desire. Second—words of bonding. Annie kissed Jessie’s lips, frigid, but the lips should have been bluer. Third—a plea to the river. The words had to be spoken like an action, a movement of life, a movement towards death………….movement. The water never stops.
The splash of Jessie’s body echoed off the trees lining the river. They were the only other witnesses.
Was it too loud? The snow, thanks to the snow, the sound was dampened.
A couple specks danced in the air, gliding down, disappearing within the carpet of white that hid the soil.
All was quiet, until a couple of trees rubbed trunks, sounding like a wild animal with its paws sunk in dirt.
Annie raised her silent head and solicited the sky. “Touch her!”
Word Knots
Span of index, arms weakened
Rambles upon wrinkles, I am
Pressed between Earth and
Air…..Flow upon my continent’s
Systems, scattered over ranges
Puddles flirt with thirst, Lakes,
Mock the drought of my
Throat, Reservoirs dribble…
For My body is a gathering
Of harvests from the oncoming
Winter, the divining rod dust
Only Scent lingers, eternal pine
I look to the snow, Taste
The season, a melted past of
Garnished greens, grays, and suns
Hearty robin, ever alive, steam
Floating from her beak, Nest
Built of water, sticks, and mud
Her Feathers, wisdom’s movement
Lay upon my words, a slow worm
Snagged from frosty grass
Scrawled black upon the field
Desert letters made of tree knot
Symbols smeared / slants of rain
The blue, blue liquid cleanses
Meaning, shot out of innards
The words, worms always
Cut in two, the clay I am
My eyes, lids nearly glued shut
Begging for preservatives
Or the relieving thought of
A connection to moisture
That will keep words moving
My wet hand through dirt.
Pain rides up between thumb
Finger, Palm and Lifeline.
My arm is silent, swollen.
Language is oil now, dug
Dug, deep under my nails
I See Behind The Glance
I see behind the glance
The smell of hair
My nose dug deep
Kisses graze off
Missed deserts drink
Daylight, a fear
Nighttime, a place of fibs
Soft hidden in the harsh
I have no sight
Beyond what I feel
Fingertips wander
Within contact, silence
It’s not a word
For those, who run
And run, and ruin
Wetness drops, then
A host of wishes
The sky is too full
Planets glide, as
Satellites grab, desperately
I’ve a thousand looks
A tune for everyone
That includes nobody
I say nothing, as it should be.
I see before the glances
Scent lingers, now
I dig my face, deep
Inside the pillow
Touching
When you don’t touch for the first time, you never have to touch for the
last time. But, all the touching in between those two creates a world of
its own. Next time, go ahead and touch throughout. No matter how long it lasts.
There Are Days Of Longer Daylight
There are days of longer daylight
When time can’t figure out what direction it travels.
A lost light, which cannot heal, as it hurls itself forward
A movement through something, changing
Abandoned. It cannot come back or go home.
We build nests with thoughts, to further
Our grip on movement, creating, extending,
Daylight beyond the planet’s wobble
Building structures deep into the backswing
Back and then back again
Comforting our ego, the id out of control.
Still, we are afraid to go. Where else,
Does one go if not mingling with the sky?
A Trip of returning to yearning
Our haven, a little heaven that discomforts
The hidden specter the day yanks at
Drags our taste for life onto the welcoming mat
A home, We sip sweet flavored rum
Grinning with a separation in our teeth
The little tiny thing that holds us back
The fear is found in the haunting smile
Kisses are heated lip upon lip, sweet rum
They are open for debate, scented
Sweat, searing into sugar moistness
Lasting through a fragile daylight.
The Sound Of Listening
The soundness of judgment is composed from the silence of listening.
The Ripples Are Confused
The river runs grey today
Echoing the action of clouds
They move, as it runs
We are underneath, on the banks
The river is smiling at us
This leads to a flood of sky
Movement, on the way
The flow can’t be trusted
We are on the coast
Our houses hidden inland
The moss, on the roofs, built
Of Branches reaching overhead
We dip our hands in the cold
Our lawns, the frozen current
Left to grow gray, abandoned
A false green, wanderlust concrete
The ripples are confused
The river is bent under will
We are dams and dikes
The grey is always today, always was
The sky brushes against our skin
The river seeps, never asleep
We pave the damp ground
Our Roads are wet ribbons
Tar bubbles and pebbles
We magnify our stagnancy
Tires circulate, escapeless
Rocks embedded in tread
Our faucets are rainfall
Foothills filter our lives
The stream, captured, moves
We are but ripples, confused
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