Elan Mudrow
Smidgens
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
We Awaken In The New Dry Day
You are like the missing rain
Only the mist has been caught in the trees
A thousand kisses fall to the ground
Mud has formed at my feet
I am on my hands
Tracing your lips
Wooden steps support me
The world is on stilts
Rivers run brown, slow to the touch
Roofs burn in the sunshine
The leaves fall too early
Reservoirs lie abandoned
I reach for the one green leaf
It is dust, your body
The rain is trapped within your mouth
Earth is the only blue, like bodies
My hand moves across skin
The new desert
The fruit opens the sound
A suckling in its own juices
A bed, with sheets built of seedlings
Which, I lie, in the wet spot
Seeping into the mattress
I pull the sheets under me
We awaken in the new dry day
Beyond Words
She vibrates on trails high above Tunnel Falls, where lakes colder than winter wait. No one sees her, only a wake follows. Her apparition is enough to remind her of words left behind—words which cut into her skin—permanent wounds. Not the simple healing of scrapes and abrasions. Once a word drills itself into your life, you bleed forever. She searches here, among wooded trails that crisscross, meet, and intersect. Quiet is somewhere. Quiet is nowhere.
Death is a question for her, an inquiry that begs for no answer. Stillness responds to no one. An explanation would calm chaos, quelling the tallest crashing waves. It’s an impossibility isn’t it, what she looks for? The death of words only occurs in total silence, where no heart beats, where no nervous system hums, beyond the vibration of ghosts, beyond the ability to haunt, as words have a habit of haunting.
Forest trails never end, no matter how many times she wanders off the path, wandering away from the past, where snow pretends to sing a soothing song and branches of the biggest Douglas Firs fill dead nostrils with desire. The past never ends its stretching out into the future, before her, built of stories, false, with a showering of truth, sprinkled by well-planned words. This is the story she roams within.
Stories have an ending, but not to ones who write them and certainly not to characters who live within. All they will ever say and have ever said are living as worms within her blood. She can’t take a knife to herself and end it all, for she is already not alive, reborn into death. Words bounce along the roots and rocks, threatening to continue beyond.
She refuses to come back inside. She transmits no warmth and toes are chilly to the touch, and her mouth, an ice-cold kiss. The out-of-doors is embraced, an undependable theory she must fashion—interpret—words, bend them to her will, as others shape them into weapons. She searches for quietness, outside paragraphs, chapters that cut deep into her outer shell. She writes, when the rain turns to snow and her body is carved upon in longhand. It is not the coldness of the body stilling the reading, the fleshy soft housing trapping the soul, but a home where quiet lies and roving ceases.
I Want To Tell Those Eyes
The window rattles every time a door is closed.
They are being closed all the time.
I place my hand on the window to stop it from rattling.
Unfortunately, this brings me to the point of being able to look outside
My hand tries to block my view, but I fail
I see out, where there is no rattle
My eyes meet another’s
I didn’t mean to
I want to tell those eyes that I didn’t mean to look
It just happened.
I’m just trying to hold the window steady
I want to tell those eyes that doors are constantly slamming
shut
I want to tell those eyes how lucky they are
outside where doors can’t be slammed
where windows are not needed
I want to tell those eyes something passionate, clever
That it really isn’t about me, even though it is
That it really isn’t about those eyes, even though it is
That I can live without those eyes liking me, even though I want them to
Another door slams, my hand feels the vibration of the window
I can’t seem to stop the window from rattling
Short Sayings
Elan Mudrow 
Recent Comments