~crow~

02/28/2012

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~hear them gathering~
~ebon wings aflutter~
~they peck dreams from the eyes of the dead~
~darklings & spider things~
~hop-strutting~
~carcass to carcass~
~irreverent~
~devilish & amused~
~at what passes for life~
~& death~
~as if there is a difference~

~crow~

~its black voice~
~caw caw caw~
~it sees him through the window~
~“go away!” he cries~
~“leave me now this midnight hour!”~

~its head, a swivel thing~
~follows his descent~
~the concrete walls of the cellar~
~veins protruding~
~he hears a thick~
~liquid fluid drip~
~as he walks into a web~

~his hands claw at his face~
~web film on his lips~
~something crawls down~
~the back of his shirt~
~the pull string light bumps his nose~
~his hand follows~
~but he cannot find it~

~he stumbles blindly~
~to the other side of the room~
~clawing at his spider shirt~
~until it is torn away~
~he feels needles~
~spider steps~
~skitter across his skin~

~“webs, webs!” he howls~
~rolls over on the floor~
~alive, his naked skin crawls~
~he covers his ears, closes his eyes~
~the horror sound will not go away~
~a gurgle liquid deep~
~emanates from somewhere within him~

~he sneaks an eye open~
~a faint light is revealed~
~madness held at bay~
~he crawls toward it~
~on his knees, hands raised~
~over his head reaching~
~saliva~
~he giggles at his gurgle~

~through the moonlit pane of glass~
~her black voice~
~caw caw caw~
~she sees him through the window~

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

01/16/2012

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~singing in the loft~
~balcony~
~feathers dripping dew~
~& doo on you~
~wings fluttering~
~talons grasping~
~a circling retreat~
~dive of vengeance~
~masters of survival~
~reptilian spore~
~lizard wings wizard~
~tongue in beak cawing~
~dripping aeon~
~a limbing gasp~
~egg fertilization~

~Birds I View~


~whomever hears a choir~
~must needs long for noel~
~just so...  those inclined toward~
~the voices of birds~
~listen for spring~
~as one might any day sing~
~yet exalt in the clamor~
~of rich pitch soprano~
~& tenor rising~
~on alto bass legs to soar~
~all ways speak an air of wing~

~there were five this morning~
~whose dark coat raven~
~one more bearer await the pall~
~together badger the hawk~
~make a meal of its prey
~caw, caw, caw the hunter~
~they strut in magnificent jest~
~whose eyes four hundred years~
~they live each & longer even~
~unimpressed by fate~
~scavengers & better for it~

~such are the birds I view~
~gray tongues wagging lament~
~threatening at once to land~
~that the sky would fall~
~to bury its stick pins~
~ebon cloak named night~
~these bits of blue/black~
~lift the mantle & fear not~
~that gone unexplained~
~its quick reason~
~a dark eye bead~
~such are the birds' eye view~

http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
Birds I View was published in  Newsletter Inago
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~The Highwayman~

07/08/2011

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This is your new blog post. Click here and start typing, or drag in elements from the top bar.
Picture
~ a man on the road ~ usually doesn’t have much ~
~ in the weigh of money & possessions ~ what worth is positive energy ~
~ vitality of spirit ~ a predisposition toward hopes & dreams ~
~ the hunger & willingness to share them ~
He carries his dreams in a bucket.  It is shot through with holes and leaking, splashing the tarmac, shoulder of the road in liquid arcs, tiny streams crisscrossing.  He is a sight to see with his backpack and bucket, feet tripping forward, a staccato march toward what is left in the bucket, inadvertently, some of that which has been spilled along the way.  He has half a sandwich left over from a stop at a Seven Eleven, an old army canteen full of cheap red wine, a ten dollar bill hidden in the sole of his shoe.  

Round and round, he swings the bucket.  The sun highlights a circle silhouette, the arc of his throw, reach of his dreams.  Both hands on its handle, he flips it over, sits down on top of it, opens the canteen, takes a conservative swallow.  A crow shines blue/black in the tree of his shade.  Caw-caw, it speaks to him in an ancient voice.  The highwayman laughs, taps out a finger-beat percussion on the side of his bucket seat full of dreams.  He begins to hum and the bird cocks its head.  Their eyes meet; they are birds of a feather.

The day passes and the bucket fills with bits and pieces.  The highwayman sorts through lies, truth, half lies delivered in steps through holes in his mind.  He turns down a ride in a Coupe De Ville, climbs into the back of an old beat-up pickup truck with a lovely crowd of Cherokee Children.  They smile shyly with their dark eyes.  He stares at his shoes and smiles back.  From the bottom of their eyes, they are birds of a feather.  The children dig into his bucket with hungry hands.  He leaves ten dollars with their father, the driver of the truck, sets off down the shoulder of the road to refill it with a wink to the day and the voice of the crow. 
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