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
~chapter one~
She was third born in a litter of five pups that warm May morning in Northern California. She was big-boned just like her father, Jett. Jett’s mistress, Mary, loved him dearly. She often looked out the back door of her home to see him standing in the near woods that bordered her property. He appeared majestic to her, every bit the North American Timber Wolf in her eyes. He was a long-haired German Shepherd, purebred, papers going back for generations. Mary made an arrangement to sire him out. For her part she would be given pick of the litter.
When the puppies were born, there was no doubt in Mary’s mind as to whom her pick would be. The size of the puppy’s paws, huge and out of proportion to its body, captured the discerning woman’s attention. When the litter was weaned Mary took her puppy home to meet Jett. She was taken aback, a bit surprised, when he refused to accept his daughter at first. He sniffed her from one end to the other, shook his shaggy head, then returned to the thin woods, his place amongst the trees.
The little girl was terrified. While Jett was poking and sniffing at her with his nose she put her head down and pressed her body against the wall of Mary’s back porch. Her bushy tail held low, she watched closely as Jett left the porch and disappeared, stiff-legged, into the trees.
“Look at you, poor puppy,” Mary said. She scratched the pup behind its ears, kissed the top of its head. “You’re beautiful,” she crooned lowly, “Perfect markings, your mask and the top of your ears, tan and black, just perfect.” Mary gathered the big puppy up in her arms and sat on the porch rocking her back and forth. “You’re my princess,” she said softly, “I’m going to call you Talah.”
Talah whimpered, sounded almost like a baby crying. “I know, I know,” Mary whispered in her ear. “You miss your mother and don’t remember your daddy, Jett. Don’t worry, he’ll come around.”
Mary wasn’t so sure about that. Jett’s behavior confused her. She had supposed he would recognize his daughter immediately by scent, at the very least understand that she was one of his kind and needed him. A proud and solitary animal, he tolerated other creatures, Mary’s son’s dogs and her cat in particular but preferred to be alone. Mary led the puppy to a corner of the porch where she had constructed a bed out of old towels and what-not. Talah groaned and laid her head down when Mary went inside.
Jett watched it all from the cover of the trees. He was conscious of Mary’s every move, her comings and goings. There was a bed on the porch for him next to the one Mary had made for the pup. He seldom slept there, preferring to stay in the lair he had made for himself deep in the trees. He went there now to lie down, his ears keen to Mary’s movements in the house and the pup’s whimpering. Later, when he was sure they were both asleep, he went through the perimeter fence, deeper into the California woods to hunt.
Early the next day, Mary awoke and busied herself with her morning ritual of toast and coffee. A bumping sound from the back porch reminded her of the puppy. She tip-toed across the room and peeked out the window. She hoped to see Jett and the pup together. “Oh my,” she gasped. Her hands fumbled with the lock on the door.
Mary was terrified at what she saw when she stepped onto the porch. The puppy’s rag bed was torn to shreds. She was lying in the middle of the mess, her face and head matted with blood. “Oh no,” Mary sighed, “Jett, you didn’t.”
The puppy whined and Mary was both relieved and distressed. It was alive but bloody and crying. She rushed into the kitchen and returned presently with a bucket of warm water and clean towels from the bathroom. The puppy was waiting at the door for her, its tail wagging and head cocked to one side. Her hands full, Mary nudged the door open with a foot. The puppy walked gingerly to its torn up bed and lay down. It began gnawing on something amongst the bloody rags.
Mary dipped a towel in the warm water and bent to the task of cleaning the blood from Talah’s face. She worked slowly at first, careful and gentle, expecting with each wipe to find an open wound. The pup nuzzled her hand and nipped playfully at her. It jumped up unexpectedly and knocked over the pail of water. “Silly girl,” Mary said, a perplexed look on her face.
“Jett,” Mary said under her breath. She rummaged through the mess of the puppy’s bed and found an animal bone. “Here puppy, here Talah,” she crooned in a singing voice, picking up the bone and offering it to the dog. “Your daddy brought you a present last night, didn’t he?”
Talah accepted the bone. She sat there with it in her mouth, studying Mary with her intelligent and inquisitive puppy eyes. She whimpered a bit, set the bone on the floor of the porch, and lay down next to it.
“Well, sweety, you sure gave me a fright,” Mary said as she sat down next to Talah and worked at washing the blood away. She was startled by the sound of the screen door opening behind her.
“Ma, what happened? What’s all that blood? Are you okay?” Her twenty-year-old son, Jimmy, stood there, concern and worry evident on his face and in the tone of his voice.”
“I picked the puppy up at the breeder yesterday,” Mary explained. “Looks like Jett dragged something home last night. That’s where all the blood seems to have come from, thank goodness!”
Jimmy knelt down and examined the pup. “She’s the spitting image of Jett when he was a puppy.”
“Look at the size of those legs and feet,” Mary said, pointing a finger at Talah. “And her markings, they’re perfect. She’ll be a whole lot prettier than her daddy.” She paused a moment, glanced inquisitively at her son. “I didn’t hear you drive in. Shouldn’t you be at work?”
Jimmy scratched Talah behind the ears. “I got laid off, Ma, haven’t worked for a couple of weeks. I’m about to lose my apartment.”
“Help me get some food and water for this little girl,” Mary sighed, “Then we’ll go in and talk over coffee while I get ready for work.
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I’d like to thank my wife’s mother who I never met in this life for teaching her daughter the appropriate action to take when dealing with nuisances, remedies and recipes for destroying destroyers, as in sprinkling salt on meandering hordes of slugs leech-ass clinging to the cat food dish.
And my own mother, in fact; while ranching with her in Wyoming she taught me many things, not the least of which was taking action against flocks of summer moths. She poured water into a small saucepan, mixed in dishwashing soap, tossed a dish towel over her shoulder, and advised me to watch closely. She stood on a kitchen chair, held soapy water under the ceiling light, swooped at the moths with her dish towel. They fell down, drowned in layers.
I went over one morning to have coffee with Momma and my stepdad. She was sitting at the table weeping. He was out riding fence. Momma lifted my four-year-old son into her lap, held him near to her breast, when he asked her where Lady and Snoopy were. They were pets brought from the city when my stepdad purchased the ranch.
Snoopy was a loveable Siberian Husky with a hair lip, one blue eye and one brown. Lady was a red Alaskan Malamute. Snoopy followed her everywhere. She was a year older and half again his size. Lady took care of my boy. Many a time I was busy with chores, turned around to say something to that little guy and he wasn’t there. He did that things kids do, disappeared into thin air.
There were wells and holes and rattlesnakes, a thirty foot high slab pile full of black widow spiders outside a dilapidated sawmill/barn. I went near crazy looking for that boy at times. Out there in the endless fields one day, hay and alfalfa, lavender yellow, I followed those curled Husky’s tails meandering through the rows. I found Lady herding my boy back to the house, keeping him safe, bringing him home, Snoopy close on her heels.
There was a lot for a father to worry about on that red dirt, dry-assed Wyoming ranch, cows out, broken fences, sixteen hour work days seven days a week, the never-ending demands of the hard-boss, my stepfather. Lady gave me peace and assurance that whatever hole I fell into my boy was safe with her.
Momma was weeping. “Give me a minute,” she sobbed. Momma wasn’t a crier. I watched her closely, Momma’s hand on that coffee cup, as I poured myself a cup and took a seat at the table, her arms around my boy. She took a sip, set her cup down slow and easy. “Remember when the dogs were chasing the cows?” She looked across the table at me, her eyes chocolate brown, deep and moist, bottomless.
“A couple of weeks ago,” I replied, “What?”
“Do you remember what he said?”
“He said they can’t do that. It distresses the cows. They’re ready to calve.”
She nodded sadly. “Yes, and the lead poisoning.”
I ran my fingers through my beard. “Hell Momma, he says some weird-assed shit. That lead poisoning dogs and cows business didn’t make a connection with me but I didn’t want to hear any more about it so what the hell…”
“That porcupine the dogs kept chasing,” she mused, “It died of lead poisoning.”
I nodded my head. “That was something. Never occurred to me a creature could get so many quills in its face. They whimpered and cried like little babies while I sat on ‘em and he pulled ‘em out with pliers. Seven days in a row, they’d go find that damned thing and go after it again..”
“He shot that porcupine dead,” Momma said.
“Hell of a shot,” I agreed. “A hundred yards away, that porcupine dropped dead off that telephone pole before we heard the report of the rifle. Can’t say I felt sorry for it, all the work it put us through.”
Momma hugged my boy tight, buried her face in his hair.
“The dogs chased his calves last night,” she whispered, “lead poisoning.”
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~my son posted 2 words~
~& a picture on Facebook~
~a crystal instance~
~his creativity & imagination~
~put a smile on my face~
~that was yesterday~
~& it’s still there~
~couch potato~
~also challenged the muse~
~I’m eager to go home to Colorado~
~hug everyone~
~make music with my sons~
~they engage & challenge me~
~today I say to Zedidiah, “Zoodious”~
~thank-you &~
~armchair quarterback~
~fugue~
~thinking about my music~
~unsure whether it was the~
~crowning glory of my youth~
~or the toilet it was swallowed by~
~there are warts on their skin now~
~dragon nail breath~
~those fresh songs far away~
~momma used to come dance to my voice~
~first she stopped dancing~
~then she ceased to live~
~or was it the other way around~
~those little girls~
~my daughters~
~who used to sing all my songs~
~have children of their own~
~husbands & careers~
~my boyz make their own music~
~stoned damned markers in our lives~
~deaths of parents~
~assassinated politicians~
~elections & hurricanes~
~life experiences that bind us~
~a sense of purpose & expectations~
~of ourselves & others~
~canned laughter from the tv room~
~makes about as much sense~
~other than duplicity~
~there is no actuality~
~audiences expect to hear & see~
~experience a secondhand reality~
~what they are programmed to be~
~comfortable with~
~hot & ready to do that thing~
~everybody’s talkin’ about~
~whatever the hell it is~
~the room was empty~
~when the pretenders left~
~nearly as empty as before~
~beggars~
~are the only liars~
~who earn their keep~
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~my sons are guitar men~
~the youngest~
~Zedidiah’s~
~day job is working overnights at Target~
~he shares an apartment with my grandson Billy~
~Billy woke up & snapped this pic~
~sent it to my Blackberry~
~Z told me the rest of the story later~
~he is youngest of my children~
~simply complicated~
~a very fine young man~
~guitarist in z~
~the young man~
~& his guitar~
~alone in the wee hours~
~he realizes~
~he can play himself to sleep~
~epiphany~
~to be his father~http://wordwulf.com
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~the problem is~
~well they are numerous~
~but the man who comes to save us~
~is the one momma lies to daddy about~
~the one we lie to momma about~
~hell he touches us all~
~in every private place~
~he is a devil in our flesh~
~a parasitical worm in our brain~
~a spirit devouring energy sponge~
~death cannot be so dark as this~
~he rode a tall horse~
~until it bolted & ran away~
~I saw it once in a cloud~
~he won’t let us look up anymore~
~all he wants us to see~
~is down here~
~is right there~
~XVI. Galloping Sin~
~hunter gatherer~
~destroyer we~
~fall prey to gluttonous appetites~
~lust; the broken wing, desire~
~folds a stilted bone against~
~the breast of breast of~
~father provides~
~no succor to innocents~
~meet in low dim night spaces~
~earthen floor scattered about~
~dust motes lined down under the bed~
~tied to the butt crack adulterer~
~naked & throat full of blood~
~threatening gulp~
~sneeze denied~
~tied to the feet of horses drowning~
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published by Howling Dog Press
 ~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~
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~soon after the turn of the century~
~Quodlibet won the Marija Cerjak award~
~for avant-garde/experimental writing~
~Quodlibet~
~The Hundred Bites~
~XV~
~never knew a preacher~
~who stood down easy~
~except those too timid~
~to stand up in the first place~
~it is a sad fact~
~that too many fathers & mothers~
~talk down to their children~
~there is so much~
~daughters & sons could teach them~
~they grow away from the knowledge~
~the why they are here~
~pigeonholed & block-dammed~
~encouraged to be all they can be~
~most of what they are not~
~naturally~
~XV. Children/Song of Life~
~listening to children’s voices~
~most anytime the all-day long~
~these whom never see a stranger~
~treads silently ‘neath the midst of them~
~a mourning service assembled~
~attended by bearers~
~one chosen spoken~
~of rabbits alive in the heath~
~children what they need to hear~
~no rambling list of qualifier quantifier~
~what you are & what you have become~
~need know only they are loved~
~each nomad seizes love on the run~
~a leaning toward moving spaces~
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
Quodlibet was published by Howling Dog Press
~soon after the turn of the century~
~Quodlibet won the Marija Cerjak award~
~for avant-garde/experimental writing~
~Quodlibet~
~The Hundred Bites~
~X~
~one of those moments~
~specific & undeniable~
~fearsomely wonderful~
~ageless wisdom attained~
~unexpected & unprepared~
~definite experiential knowledge~
~the first time you peer~
~into the awesome depths~
~of her eyes~
~X. Daughters & Daddies~
~power of father~
~measure of daughters laughing~
~defined by origin~
~love predicated upon misunderstanding~
~gender dynamic~
~a minor miracle~
~& a proof of bond is made~
~until she marries~
~&/or is out on her own~
~she will take him care~
~he may wonder at such creatures~
~so apart yet such a part of him~
~sings to be loved by woman~
~these daughters~
~hand on one hand~
~take me with you~
~he follows~
~luxuriates in the myth of daddy~
~dissolves a bit~
~she becomes a lady~
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WordWulf
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©Quodlibet was published by Howling Dog Press
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