~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
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©graphic 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~
~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~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©Quodlibet was published by Howling Dog Press
~the salt was flat~
~our shadows long~
~he is forever~
~& taller than me~
~An Other~
{Father Song}
~standing the shore~
~arm around my son~
~the Pacific Ocean~
~California~
~licking our boots~
~a long way from Colorado~
~his sister~
~my daughter~
~thousands of miles away~
~just there in Hawaii~
~heart of earth~
~ocean of blood~
~veins of universe~
~a sweet instrument~
~life~
~is it music~
~the tide reminded me~
~its incessant roar~
~falling~
~growing~
~becoming~
~of a power so much~
~stronger than myself~
~impossible to get my arms around~
~yet a reach I was impelled~
~to breathe for~
~to live for~
~to die for~
~feet wet~
~blood pumping~
~ecstatic~
~howling~
~a nuance of knowledge~
~water sea~
~river rivulet~
~it is as my children to me~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~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.
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
~the morning caught me looking the other way~like the face in the mirror~
it continues to look back and the dog won’t stop barking~
who are these dead people in the room staring from the black glass box~
~Sunday Come Early~Sunday came too early, 7:30a.m., the dog banging on the door downstairs. I took her some water, told her to be quiet, went back to bed. A few minutes later she commenced to bark, bringing the neighbors into our morning. Resigned to my fate, I got dressed and went outside. Like a spoiled child, one way or another, the dog usually gets her way.
Sunday morning came too early, 1a.m., my wife and I finished watching a movie, Sling Blade. John Ritter was in the movie. He’s dead now in real life. Dennis Hopper died last year. It occurs to me that the deaths of these actors I’ve been watching most of my life, in some vague sense, has something to do with me. As if my aching bones weren’t reminders enough this Sunday morning come too early.
Aging is relative to life, isn’t it. Like it or not, if it isn’t occurring, neither are you. So I’m thankful for the good ol’ dog, my coffee morning wife and stepdaughter still asleep in her rooms upstairs, especially gifted and thankful for my five wonderful children and their sweet little ones.
I take several moments each day and night to dwell on those specific and special children of mine. The night would never end if I hadn’t held them close in my mind and spirit with each breath. Sunday morning wouldn’t occur. Who would water and quiet the dog. I am glad to be a man who has done so, three cups of coffee in to a Sunday come early.
http://wordwulf.comWordWulf
~Written On Glass~
A sun/heart drawn in the corner splashed wavy rays across the window. Small stick-figure girls jumped rope and played hop-scotch sill to sill. A dog with a head larger than its body frolicked with them, a big smile drawn across its doggy face. There was writing across the bottom of the scene, a caption of sorts.
He was cold, standing out there in the yard. Having spent the day working in the chill Colorado weather, Jeremy had entertained himself with thoughts of coming home to a warm house. Scrutinizing the front-room window, he forgot all about the cold. Lacy, his six-year-old daughter, must have gotten busy right after school to create such a busy picture.
Jeremy stepped closer and bent down, the better to see her artwork. The writing was scrawled and awkward to read; he was hard put to make it out and there was the artist’s own finger! He looked into Lacy’s big brown eyes and she blew him a kiss through the window. Jeremy caught it on his cheek and headed for the front door. Lacy wheeled her chair to meet him and hugged his head warmly when he bent to kiss her face. “Mrs. Wiley baked us a cherry pie,” she whispered into his ear.
Jeremy held her at arm’s length. “Did she leave you alone again?”
Lacy’s eyes swam behind thick lenses. She was tiny and frail, appeared even more so between the wheels of her chair, to everyone but Jeremy, that is. His number one girl was gifted in every way and he knew it. “Mrs. Wiley knows I’m a big girl and can take care o’ myself ‘til you get home,” Lacy beamed.
“So you are!” Jeremy chortled. “Now how ‘bout some o’ that pie?”
“I’m gonna have a little nap,” Lacy replied. “Now you’re home to watch me, I bemembered I’m tired.”
Jeremy lifted her from the chair and carried her to the bedroom. He laid her on the bed and smoothed the hair back from her forehead. “That’s a wonderful picture you drew on the window.”
Lacy smiled. “It’s you ‘n me.”
Jeremy removed her glasses and set them on the nightstand. Lacy was already asleep, the smile still on her face. Oh yes, this was the warmth he had longed for all day. He went to the window for an inside view. There was his little girl, doing all the things little girls do. He imagined Lacy running in her dreams. And there he was, not a dog after all, with that big Daddy head and smile.
He bent over to read the caption. It was even harder to read from inside the house because Lacy had written it backwards. A tear rolled down Jeremy’s cheek. Frontward or backward didn’t matter; Lacy’s message was the only truth he would ever need to know: ‘I LOVE MY DADDY’
http://wordwulf.comWordWulf
~If I Father~
~eighteen when my first daughter was born~thirty-seven when the fifth child~
~my second son came to join us~
~those three girls & two boys have had quite a time with me~
~sharing life with them~the single most significant event of my being~
~has been a prayer~the oldest of eight children~searching for a lifeline~
~I wondered~if I father~
~I have watched each of them sleep~
~tasted the perfect bloom~
~of their sweet child breath~
~thought of myself ~
~as the great protector~
~keeper of precious fragile flames~
~not so much I think~
~as I witness their awakening~
~into the dawn of youth~
~the embrace of young adulthood~
~parenthood~
~I listened to their stories~
~told one to the other and others~
~voices pure and beautiful ~
~as fine silk~
~texture my ears could touch~
~while listening~
~I learned of their suffering~
~that their lives had been staggered~
~by sullen blows of doubt~
~& fear that I~
~their father~
~might come crashing~
~through those doubting walls~
~to discover them~
~in the company of the ghosts~
~of their imperfections~ ~in the night~
~voices speak to me~
~the tiny ones of my children~
~who have come to go~
~will always remain with me~
~grown past the child whispers~
~I aspire to hear~
~I answer them~
~in fatherly mumbles~
~tears in my eyes & melancholy~
~for what has passed~
~in my time of living~
~you see they are the protectors~
~of my imperfections~
~I congratulate myself on a job well done~
~because they need me less now ~
~than ever before~
~& never so much as I imagined~
~in my fatherly throes ~
~my attempts to interpret~
~fatherly duties~
~do’s, dues, & don’ts
~a symphony of tiny voices~
~echoes ring down~
~the spiral canyon of my years~
~they speak to me~
~in a perfect symmetry~
~of childhood wisdom~
~they fairly embrace me to stand~ ~there are those~
~who accuse me of talking to myself~
~they got that right~
~my children are myself~
~the very ones I am addressing~
~ones I have become~
~I may be answering questions~
~from a score of years gone~
~by and by as I watch~
~my daughter with her daughter~
~my oldest son in conversation~
~with his brother~
~twelve years his junior~
~yes daughters & sons~
~with sons & daughters~
~to all of them I say~
~I am your father~
~that is all I am~
~& in that complete~
~you lend me strength~
~make me proud~
~in a most beautiful revelation~
~the knowledge & carriage~
~of our shared imperfections~
~stepping forward through it all~
~embracing & supporting one another~
~you carry me to a place~
~of unconditional devotion~
~love without fear~
~lighting candles~
~in the dark corners of my spirit~
~I am made to be free~
~a man~
~my children have been~
~& remain yet~
~perfect sentinels of my journey~
~If I come to see beyond the shadow~
~If I come to walk into and through the fire~
~If I come to feel~
~to love and be loved~
~If I father~
~watching him play in the kitty litter~little boy’s antics make more sense to me than anything I’ve ever done~did I ever have that much fun~
(8798)
loyalty/spaces –
loved ones, family –
we learn in our time apart –
tenets, value, faith (9060)
wandering minstrels –
strings of their guitars quiver,
music arrows fired
straight & true, their hearts (9123)out in Kathy’s woods –
beautiful birdsong –
rhapsodies a poet may cherish –
love deeper than flesh
gone full circle - children know the truth we should learn to learn from them - bring the circle close
sounds all write-muse attends them-mad poets & murderers-voices of demons
flowing the flux - guitar weeping mad - fingers welding stubborn chords - liquid metal mind
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