~gypsy~

03/25/2012

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{from remnants of the fall}

~gypsy~

~where ya goin’ with your~
~dime’s worth disguise~
~did they tell you ‘bout the teacher~
~shadows in the graveyard~
~there’s an island where gypsies~
~have taken their camp songs~
~delivered on a three string guitar~
~a toothless harmonica player~
~beautiful in his pathos~
~twinkling jewel of her navel~
~the mad thump of gourd bass~
~these people is dangerous~
~they of mixed blood & fleet of foot~

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WordWulf
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& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©graphic artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
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~treasure~

02/14/2012

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Picture
~Kathy & me~
~as a man working the soil~
~so I appreciate my daughters & sons~
~imagine a friend for life~
~that is a long time~
~& so the five of them are~
~imagine the harvest perpetuating itself~
~so it has~
~further gifted with a partner to share the love~
~complete the circle~
~family~
 ~so it is done~
~a joy to keep – a~

~treasure~

~I used to get aggravated on holidays~
~trying to choose the right gift~
~something special for loved ones~
~telling them not to worry about me~
~my agitation was sorely exasperated~
~if I happened to be broke at the time~
~never seemed to have enough money or credit~
~to cut loose & buy whatever I chose~
~I confess I was as excited as everyone else~
~{except the children}~
~wondering what was in that package with my name on it~


~my folks have long been gone~
~{is there anyone left who refers to their parents as folks}~
~siblings blown away/scattered by the winds of life~
~as if they exist in another realm of time & space~
~as do I in my tower of word~
~I have lived long enough now~
~experienced the big ol’ world~
~seen folks alone~~all the way alone~
~yeah, those folks & others~
~in alleys & penthouses~
~islands adrift in wandering crowds~

~I ain’t easy to know & I know it ain’t easy~
~through all the struggles of this life~
~there has always been someone who cared for me~
~there to pick me up & know~
~when to turn away & let me go~
~my mother first & children~
~before & when she passed away~
~we held one another always~
~starving & laughing~
~feasting & weeping~
~round the family camp our fire~

~grandchildren~
~when they place a gift in my hand~
~are likely to see a tear~
~a smile visiting my lips~
~what greater gift is this love~
~I have always held~
~& a tear for those who don’t~

~a weighty pride to bear alone~
~that hunger to reminisce & share~
~the good love for the little ones~
~& their folks who were my little ones~
~I slept with a ghost who knew these parts of me~
~she listened & never complained that I kept her awake~
~she seldom slept & neither did I~
~I treasured her existence & promised myself~
~to always be loyal & true to her~
~that one day she would answer~
~hold my hand & kiss my face~
~be folks with me & one day it was so~

~this is for Kathy~
~my treasure, my wife~
~the unexpected joy~
~she has brought to my life~

http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
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~Instance of Id~

09/17/2011

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Picture
~the soul is left to wander~
~dazed & confus’d searching~
~Jim Morrison~

~there is an ethical aristocracy just as there is a spiritual one~
~Nietzsche~

~children as our conscience~
~spirit guide intentional~
~WordWulf~
~Instance of Id~

At some very deep and necessary level, my children have been essential masters of my spirit.  The singer in me might have sung himself to death, the writer written himself over the edge to the other side.  Harley Davidsons, brothers of the blood, cocaine nights and meth weekends would surely have claimed me, consumed me body and soul.

Staring into campfires shared with night riders never compared to family camps, marshmallows, snipe hunts, shaking bushes and grizzly bear growls.  What a thrill, the handsome squeals of boys and girls afraid to be scared, delighted to be so (and safe).  Always my children’s eyes have been in the campfire speaking, “It’s okay, Daddy, come on home now.  We are waiting, faces in the window.”

Not being a man of virtuous patience, I have led a full life with the hammer down.  Standing in line leaning on a shovel, burying fellow madmen over the years, I have wondered what made me different from the good men died, that shovel full of dirt on the last mortal door slammed shut. 

Freud described the psychic apparatus as being composed of three parts, three theoretical constructs.  According to his model the id is the uncoordinated instinctual self, ego the “now,” organized and realistic piece.  Lastly, the super ego is critical and moralizing.  

In consideration of this philosophy my super ego has most times been staring into the eyes calling out from the flames.  My damned ego was dancing around the fire, flames spewing from the spout of a five gallon gas can.  It howled until it could howl no more then took gulps of gas and spit flames into the face of the night and the astonished crowd ducking and moving on the dance floor.  Within the undeniable hunger to create and survive, I find my id, a deep well of desire for creativity, no value judgments, a reservoir of no fear.

Such a place in a manmade like the man I am would demand a kind and attentive master.  Shot at, stabbed and run over, six decades of life behind me, I understand at last who they are, these keepers, how well I find them and me in their eyes. 

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