~on the drive to work each day~
~I watch the soldier's cemetery pass~
~everything seems equal there~
~stone tablets standing attention, the grass~
~trimmed by wiry brown-skinned men~
~I see a lady bend down, she kneels~
~sets a cup full of wild flowers~
~before two stones, I feel~
~a hitch in my breath to watch~
~flags always in evidence~
~the here and now of this place~
~& this day each grave is adorned~
~a tiny standard, its solemn face~
~warm day end of May~
~I roll my window down~
~senses immediately assaulted~
~by a most deep & haunting sound~
~my legs walk away from the car standing~
~the first time I witnessed his marching~
~tartan kilt his regal attire~
~pipes slung over his shoulder~
~moaning, set the morning afire~
~here was certain precision to his gait~
~distance practiced known too well~
~here walked the spirits of these soldiers~
~to ring their lives with his mournful bell~
~my heart was flushed with guilt its watching~
~his lady, with a single flower~
~came to gather up her man~
~his pipes with their mournful singing~
~she held his arm with her hand~
~I went to the stone of her choosing~
~where Ian the first was lain~
~then to the end of the piper's walk~
~the sky shed a tear of rain~
~these eyes confused in their seeing~
~a newer stone whose name the same~
~here lies Ian the third~
~I followed the voice of the piper~
~loneliest sound ever heard~
~& there was Ian the second~
~standing aside with his wife~
~a fair compliment of mourners~
~bidding farewell to a life~
~what greed mine curiosity shown~
~the pipes trailed away in their singing~
~a reverend mumbled words to the sky~
~that Lord, they are brave in their going~
~these lads to their sweet by & by~
~a final note owned the moment~
~to soar with its spirit way up high~
~the crack of twenty-one rifles~
~exclamation mark against the sky~
~what mortal undone was I~
~Ian the second passed by me~
~his proud pipes bellowed once more~
~his wife let fall of her flower~
~on top of that last mortal door~
~& he paced from Ian to Ian~
~this man no one could save~
~whose soldier's sin was still to be living~
~with father & son in their graves~
~& the rain hid my face from his eyes ~
~Published in the International Veterans Poetry Archives~http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
A few years ago I was invited to submit a piece for the KEO Project, a time capsule to be launched into space, scheduled to return in 50,000 years. I sent the following bit along with Legend of New Horse, a song written and performed by myself, my oldest son, Tommy and son-in-law, Troy. Tommy’s doing the guitar work, Troy’s the drummer and I am trying, as always, to sing.
~KEO~
I am much less than a weathered tome to your eyes. I’ve come to seek that which more than magick reveals, language, the texture of my skin, cloth spread 'cross bony spar, a cobweb sail blown by the winds of time. What I have accomplished must occur a thousand times more, each set of these fifty years of my existence. I see the hand of my grandson upon the hand of my son. Over a hundred and fifty generations this eternal stack of hands will represent, a fine promise and hope of aeon.
This message is a thin whisper to the younger, word secrets kissed into your ear. We aren't doing so well in this world of bombs and bullets we have made, our epithets of peace or else, the mad science of overkill. I hope you are there in spite of us, have learned something because of us and are, better still, yet one of us.
I am a man who dreams. It has even been suggested that I dream in color. I do so hope you have color and a host of dreams upon waking. To this end, I have penned a song whose tune my son's guitar has learned to sing. I have chosen to include the lyrics that its music might find your lips for I know, if you are of me, you will find a way to sing.
~legend of new horse~
~momma told her first son~
~come sit down by my side~
~when everything is said & done~
~all you can do is try~
~remember when you wonder~
~which way and what to do~
~some times only hunger~
~will see a spirit through~
~& we're standing
~in a crosswind~
~bad moon bound to carry~
~a legend on the rise~
~when you follow your heart~
~face the risk of breaking down~
~set yourself a part~
~awareness of the sound~
~the arch of Earth & sky~
~peace angelic fall~
~momma said, "son can we only fly~
~when we're not above it all"~
~we are standing~
~in a crosswind~
~bad boon bound to carry~
~a legend on the rise~
~where winter makes its mark~
~what decades find lay claim~
~a howling voice the dark~
~& new horse is its name~
~a pounding heart of rage~
~tempered passion will~
~when it's time to turn the page~
~a destiny fulfill~
~& we're standing~
~in a crosswind~
~bad moon bound to carry~
~a legend on the rise~
~breathless fall from the womb~
~a four point landing to~
~maybe shake the mother spoon~
~find a path that's true~
~we are only what we are~
~a kick in fortune's ass~
~honey we may hold the stars~
~kiss the nights we pass~
~we are standing~
~in a crosswind~
~bad moon bound to carry~
a legend on the rise~
~momma told her first son~
~come sit down by my side~
~when everything is said & done
~all you can do is try~
~remember when you wonder~
~which way & what to do~
~some times only hunger~
~will see a spirit through~
~& we're standing~
~in a crosswind~
~bad moon bound to carry~
~a legend on the rise~
So, there you have it. I keep a tenuous grip at best, so at odds am I to the time in which I have been borne. I live near the mountains and share their breath and my Children, your next of next of kin. Be generous and good to one another. Look forward and not back. Most of what you may learn from us is how not to be. In history's stead, keep a good heart. Care about your young and old. Those in between will thrive in a circle of wellness.
I like to think of myself as your father for it is what I have come best to be, one who cares for children, sings when he gets the chance and appreciates blessings of love when they occur. Remember always that your spirit resides within yourself. You are a living pagoda. No one can show you the way, yet you may close your eyes and wander unclothed in a snowfield to be kissed by Gods. Be humble and proud, simply courageous.
I promised myself I wouldn't preach when I penned this piece, yet it sounded just then as if I were. Listen, if you know me when this is found, come get me straight away. We will make a circle and pound our bare feet into the dust of our Spiritual Ground, howl the legend to the heavens, press our faces into the flesh of the new horse and ride the hell away.
Listen to the song at: http://wordwulf.com or Rock.com http://goo.gl/n814Vhttp://wordwulf.comWordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~baby boomer hell~
~coming of age upside out~
~downside in~
~where the hell did my kids go~~when I’m trying to figure out where I put my framitz~
~find some other damned thing~
~forget what I was looking for in the first place~
~wondered if I’d ever see an alien~
~look in the mirror~~there ya have it~
~blind dawg~
~what a trip-hammer slap~
~knock ya on your ass wallop~
~memories provide~
~instantaneous reactions~
~totally wayward spontaneous~
~appearing from nowhere back there~
~to steal your sleep~
~devour moments~
~of the now whatever~
~feeble & nearsighted~
~walking into walls~
~backing up~
~walking into them again~
~wondering~
~if the now incident~
~will invade later~
~as some fragile flickering remembrance~
~out of bounds~
~pissing on the bedroom floor~
~falling up the stairs~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~a cool breeze drifted through the thick sway of grass~
~up the down hill we had so recently climbed~
~my friend & me~
~old dogs talkin’ about new tricks~
~we could just write ourselves inside out~
~damned straight I was excited~
~doors~
~wire hinges~
~fire in the night hole~
~I haven’t slept since that day~
~a year ago~
~could be two~
~grave epitaph~
~hinge theory as I under/misunderstand it~
~bugs the hell outa me~
~when applied to creativity~
~the foursquare side of me~
~cringes~
~in its shadow~
~its very existence threatened~
~by the certainty~
~of changelings~
~shape shifters~
~it is terrifying~
~& exciting to edit~
~written pieces & graphics~
~in light of the moment~
~to realize the absurdity~
~of considering them finished~
~unsettling when I review them~
~in their tens of tens of thousands~
~new work piling up in steno pads~
~& bulky graphic files~
~songs whittle deeply~
~at the stick of me~
~decades of writing & performing~
~guitarists & percussionists~
~singers & keyboardists~
~whose energy & input~
~is difficult if not impossible to assess~
~hell some of them have died~
~right in front of me~
~come to think of it~
~excuse me~
~I must compose my epitaph~
~its worth hopefully~
~equal to my last breath~
~its final edit~
~its last line~
~a sweet flower & carcass~
~to attract honeybee poets~
~& burial buzzard madmen~
~to continue as I have~
~in the digging of my grave~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~drifting down that rat hole~
~he don’t want to go there alone~
~so he invents superman~
~trades women sex for drugs~
~gets the boys that way too~
~the world is his his stage is his world~
~everybody wants to see it~
~make him run~
~run away~
~die rockstar die~
~angels run away~
Is it only our lives slipping away or some inconceivable broken covenant made with gods come to punish us for lies told. We struggle with our dragons, harm those nearest our hearts and homes. Is any future worth the destruction of moment, a process whereby seeking we throw it away.
Last night he slept with her, his woman, experienced a connection of spaces, armor set aside, bartered for skin on skin, become one complete, whole again. As he drove away, his mind retreated to a forest, to a canyon, where he heard her voice first and stared into the reflection of lightning in her eyes.
Reality is his gallows of hope, a death sentence to all inhabitants of dreams. He said life was supposed to be fun, the puppet-master, thief of souls whose strings labeled, “dainty delights” were tripwires opening drop-doors to the dungeons of fun seekers’ hearts.
When he discovered she no longer cared, he offered himself to stand instead of the murderer, stood resolute before the firing squad, life, metal on metal, click, ready, aim. He smiled beneath the blindfold. Bullets cannot break a broken heart. God damn all governors and their pardons.
No prayers aloud in this room, always, forever, the whispered lies born desperate, denied asylum. He left his child’s eyes underneath the bed baptized in splashes of mother’s blood. Each night alone is a fresh haunting, a crippled man in a crooked room.
The boy is afraid of chickens and spiders in the outhouse hole. Voices laughing into his blind eye face became the home of the impossible dream where the woman would come to hold him tight against her breast, keep him safe from himself.
Angels run away, angels run away.
~swarm~ ~My Space sends me an e-mail~
~“don’t miss out on what everyone else is into”~
~that message must mean something to someone~
~it means next to nothing to me~
~except that it is a lure~
~a wiggle worm hook~
~baiting a mad society of starving fishes~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
I wrote Mother in May 2004 and sent it to Momma for Mother’s Day, what turned out to be the last Mother’s Day of our life. A couple of months later she was gone. Momma’s Hands was written then. I miss her and wish her spirit well. Mine will spend the remainder of its life here on earth healing in the light of my children’s love.
Speaking of healing and adding joy, Happy Mother’s Day! to Tammy, Christy, Tommy, Harley Blue, Zedidiah, Danni Jo, and Michelle and Heather! Wish I was there to collect some hugs and eat cake with you all today. I love each of you in myriad ways and the beautiful little People in our Family.
~Mother~
On those days when life is just too damned heavy to carry, I set it down and think about her.
She is young in my thoughts, so full of hope she just might burst. That round hard belly, the load she must carry, is part of her. It defies understanding. She must not and does not set it down. Even when it journeys from womb to breast, a cradle her arms make. When it learns to walk her hands take and it walks away but never leaves her. She must not and does not set it down.
On those days when life is just too damned heavy to carry, I set it down and think about her.
My load is diminished in the shadow of her courage. I am enlightened to know she is there. Yes, she is
just there. She must not and does not set me down.
~Momma’s Hands~
Momma’s hands held mine, patty-cake, tickling my piggies, baby powder soft. “I was raised by sisters in a Catholic orphanage,” she told me. My tiny fists around her fingers, I learned to walk in Momma’s hands. Momma’s hands offered love and solace, fingers pushing Vicks into my nose, rubbing it into my chest, pinning towels tight around a cold that never had a chance, caressed my face, trembled, that I might be tended by, the awesome healing power of Momma’s hands.
Momma’s hands knew every part of me, my young and broken heart. A cradle they would make that I would be safe and secure beneath their wings, a tender-keep they were. Brothers and sisters, each and all, gathered within the circle of Momma’s hands.
Momma’s hands birthing and growing, teaching and knowing when to let go, when to shelter and pull away, the wounds of her life made small by the desire to tend to helpless things, danger held at bay and more ‘neath Momma’s hands.
Something fell Momma down. We gathered in ones and twos in the hospital ICU, doctors and nurses understanding, shaking their heads. “I’m so tired,” she said. They lay limp at her side and I cried at the sight of Momma’s hands.
“Where’s the priest?” “Are those the sisters?” she asked my sister. “Are they coming to tell me what they used to tell me... Wake up, little girl, don’t you cry?” Her voice was thin, “I’m not gonna die.” A tear slid down her face, “I’m going home.”
Later, after she has rested, she is much weaker, once proud lips full, no, clouded eyes, the merciful opiate haze of morphine. Oh, you candle spirit, what are we without you? What is life without her?
Time stops. My lips, one last kiss, those hands, whose job is done are finally at rest. I lift them up, one by one. I kiss them goodbye, Momma’s hands.
In loving memory of my Mother, Carroll Belle Hart (Stene/Sterner)
7 September, 1931 – 11 July, 2004
~A Tear for the Choir~
Poor; she taught us to be proud
Proud; she taught us to be humble
her example of integrity and individuality
true and pure beyond question or explanation
She asked more of herself
and expected it from others
yet never refused to lend a hand
to lost, world-weary, and hungry souls
be they human or beast
One doesn’t say goodbye to her
She created a space in those she loved
to make them stronger
We are come to say hello to those spaces
to sing their praises
to the extraordinary lady
who never knew how to let us down
but gave of herself and just enough
to make us strong
all who carry her song in our hearts
that we might go on without her
In loving memory of my Mother
Carroll Belle Hart (Stene/Sterner)
7 September, 1931 – 11 July, 2004
~passive shades~
~sun filter~
~a rip in the umbrella~
~stroke of noon~
~dog panting~
~water dripping~
~saliva from its tongue~
~if I adjust the umbrella~
~I’ll have to do it all afternoon~
~the sun will move past the tear~
~if I leave it alone~
~the truth of my ponderings~
~answers seldom as clear as that~
~two days after the big moon~
~the dog is asleep~
~the rip moving past me~
~like a night~
~like a day~
~like a life~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~the will~
~to kill to kill~
~there is nothing natural~
~about being or becoming enemies~
~as evidenced in observations of coexistence~
~predators & prey alike~
~are aware what they are~
~each with its own~
~natural bent for survival~
~any creature attempting~
~to establish absolute dominance~
~condemns itself to extinction~
~an unavoidable & necessary suicide~
~in order to reestablish balance~
~& maintain a natural state of being~
~other than in cases of survival~
~&/or self defense~
~aggression is by its nature~
~self destructive~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
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