~here one minute~
~gone the next~
~my youngest son creates clone videos~
~snaps characters in with his fingers~
~amazing to watch his work on you tube~
~zoodious he calls himself~
~I have seen many people snap out~
~very few snap back~
~before we are aware we are…~
~gathering descent~
~porch light in the afternoon~
~neighborhood covenant~
~golden leaves falling~
~rustling beneath the breeze~
~raspy sound~
~ventilator~
~respirator~
~breathing underwater~
~is he in there~
~the man~
~my brother~
~that husk lain open~
~wiggly feet~
~puffy fists of hands~
~straining against restraints~
~sky eyes looking~
~down on me~
~through bare branches~
~of late autumn~
~Colorado~
~brother’s eyes wide~
~vacant~
~beseech me~
~look through me~
~into some nether void~
~opiate~
~celestial~
~angels & demons~
~surround us~
~we are~
~discovered at last~
~jettisoned~
~golden the fall~
~the full moon~
~its attendant star~
~how decades altar~
~their appearance~
~in our sight~
~our human blindness~
~animal desires~
~bestial delights~
~diminished~
~our steps shortened~
~halting breath~
~the sureness of youth~
~leaking away~
~bloodless & aging~
~we stand~~we barely stand~
~remember the path~
~moss on stones~
~our fascination with shadow~
~conversations~
~hollow whispers now~
~that we were mere~
~& powerful shadow images ourselves~
~we were so wrong~~but there along the way~
~certain to be eclipsed~
~by our children~
~grandchildren~
~deep canyon smoke~
~echoes in your eyes~
~tell me we walked~
~in tall strides~
~in some small~
~insignificant way~
~we were right~
~& brave to do so~
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WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~Nana Candle~{a Christmas story}
Sitting on her sofa in the living room, Maggie stared entranced at the gaily twinkling lights on the Christmas tree. Closing her eyes, she breathed in its wonderful and natural pine scent. The outdoorsy smell reminded her of camping trips in the mountains. Her son Michael and husband Michael were roasting marshmallows over the campfire in her mind. She smiled and reached for them with a trembling hand.
A vivid memory of Big Mike's voice interrupted her. The errant hand joined its mate in her lap. "Just think, Darlin'," he said, "When Mikey goes off to college, we can get us one of those little four foot trees in a box. They come with lights attached. Ya just plug 'em in, hang whatever ornaments you want on 'em and you're all set! No drivin' and cuttin', no needles all over the place."
"Mike, I do so love the way they... Oh!" She opened her eyes and buried her face in her hands. "I am not going to cry!" she admonished herself. A single tear slipped out and she flicked it away with her fingers. She remembered them very well, those seven Christmases past. Reliving them was like thumbing a recipe card file, a flutter of Maggie's years in three by five clicks.
All those seven years ago she lost her Big Mike. He was larger than life and after that he was larger than death. She and Mikey distributed his ashes amongst the pines in his favorite camping spot. How he loved his Colorado home, the clear spitting splendor of the Rocky Mountains. The first couple of years after his death, while Mikey was away at college, she visited the spot. It felt better than the cemetery where he had never been while living, more like a part of him. He wasn't there though, not in one place or the other. A large part of what she was, what her life had stood for, Big Mike, was just gone.
Five years ago Mikey met a girl. She was a wild thing. Anybody could see that, anybody but Mikey that is. He brought her home to meet Maggie but she soon got bored. Mikey gave Mom a wink, cut his visit short, and took her back to that wild college town and all their doings. Maggie gave her own arm a pinch. “Listen to you,” she chastised herself, “Sitting around with your maudlin thoughts like a bitter old woman, better off to count your blessings.” But she was unable to stop herself. She thought of Mikey's girl as the awful wonderful. The awful being that she would steal Maggie's son and wonderful, the baby boy she left him with when she finally lit out for greener pastures.
Now Maggie was Nana and Mikey was Big Mike. Mikey’s Little Mikey was Mikey and how Maggie loved that little boy. She was reluctant at first to take him in but Mikey, her son, begged her to take care of him. He had decided to leave college to pursue a career singing in a rock band, of all things. These four years later, Maggie knew that Little Mikey had provided her with that proverbial "new lease on life." Now she had this terrible news to share with him, more than any child should have to bear. The first thing she did after she got the message was bundle up Mikey and take him to the Christmas tree lot. He skipped from tree to tree, sure the special one would speak to him, "Take me home with you."
"Rock stars and airplanes in the middle of winter." Maggie was wringing her hands nervously. The box tree was outside in the trash. The real tree with the voice that only Mikey heard and its special scent for Nana sparkled before her. She and Mikey managed to set it up all by themselves, thank you very much. Nana wore him out and now he was napping. Soon... soon she would wake him and find a way, a tender way, to the truth, truth she could hardly bear herself.
Her mind trip hammered back to 1963, John Kennedy and John-John, their lives now so much dust. 'How do we bear so much collective and personal sorrow,' she wondered. The voice of her Grandson offered the perfect and only reply. "Nana?"
"There's my big boy!" Nana smiled. Mikey was yawning and rubbing his fingers in his eyes. Nana got up and offered him a beckoning hand. "Let's go to the kitchen. I have a little project planned for the two of us. We're gonna make some Christmas candles."
She helped Mikey into one of the chairs at the dining table, then handed him a chunk of wax. "Texture," she whispered, "Feel its wonderful form."
Mikey's eyes smiled. "My hands make it warmer." He held the wax in his tiny cupped hands, infinite cradle, silly little nose tickle wiggle. "Oh, it smells sweet!"
"The scent of sugar bees,' advised Nana."Set it on the table, sweetheart. Tap it with this pencil and..."
Who knows when a child giggles. "Nana, it has sounds!" Tap. Tap-tap. His head turned, small ears listening close as he tapped the wax. "I hear it inside o' me!"
"Yes, oh yes," a Grandmother tear.
"Does it have milk, Nana?"
"No milk, its color is its own."
She scooted a chair over next to the stove, made a slow fire under a clear glass bowl. "Michael, come bring the wax." She took it from his hand, then helped him climb onto the chair. "Stand up and watch me," she said as she dropped the wax into the dish.
"Oh Nana, it smells like it's leaving!"
"Oh dear," Nana held his head against her breast for a moment, rocked slowly back and forth. "Sugar bees, Sweetie, it's the scent of sugar bees."
Mikey's eyes were wide, his excitement bubbling over. "Is it clouds, Nana?"
Maggie touched the fine hair on his head. "It is vapor, Michael. It is mist." She bent and kissed his face. "Yes, it is clouds, Michael."
"Oh no, Nana, now it runned away!"
"No, no," she whispered, smiled sadly as she slipped her hand into a hot mitt with "MOM" embroidered on the wrist. She jiggled the bowl a bit.
"It's indivisible just like God!" Mikey exclaimed in awe. "Look Nana, it sees me through it!"
Her fingers traced the outline of his face. She placed a pencil in his hand. "Tap it now, Michael. Be careful, it is very hot and will burn you if it touches your skin."
He pointed the pencil into a wisp of vapor, made airplane sounds, then drew it intentionally through. His eyes crossed for a moment then he carefully tapped the surface of the melted wax. "It ain't soundin', Nana!"
Nana bit gently on her tongue, forced herself to swallow, down, down, hard and down. "See Michael, it's still there," she said sweetly. "It has taken on a new form. We cannot see it. We cannot touch it. We cannot smell it. We cannot hear it. But Michael.. Michael, we can remember always what it was as we see it now for what it has become."
Michael clapped his hands excitedly. "I'm gonna keep its sound and smell in me, Nana!"
She turned off the slow fire, smooth wax. "So shall I, Michael, so shall I."
He sat quietly in her lap, fidgeted a bit, then, "Nana, are you gonna throw the wax away?"
"Never, sweet boy, never," she breathed into his hair. "We will make a candle of it, you and I. Then we'll light it every day, enjoy its warmth and light."
"For ever an' ever?" Each drawn out, the words lingered on Michael's lips.
"Each and every day,"Nana promised.
They are dressed now and soon to begin the walk, his tiny hand tucked tightly into hers. They climb into the first of the black cars behind the long car, its gray curtains goin' down slow.
She is brave behind her veil, thankful for Michael, the child of her child, who, by his existence, demands of her grief strength and understanding beyond the transparent pale, its quick seize of sorrow. Later, much later, in the Christmas tree room, the two of them sit. She watches him as she watched her first two Michaels, the wonderful reflection of life, the tiny candle flame twinned in his eyes. "Nana," he cries, "I smell my Daddy singin'!”
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Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~Little Bit O’ Eden~
~my granddaughter~
~Eden~
~her first oreo~
~children are pieces~
~of an amazing puzzle~
~the sides & corners~
~WordWulf~
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Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~1000 Days~
~that’s what my brother named years spent in prison~
~I’ve been tossed in jail a few times in my life~
~no down time like him~
~twenty-eight years~
~God damn~
~Day 998~
~Down Time~
~a person learns it is wise~
~to take life in small steps~
~my family has stood witness~
~to instances of stumbling~
~running downhill on my part~
~embarrassed perhaps~
~they love me still~
~and I~
~for my part~
~each & every one of them~
~it is as if failure confirms us~
~defines the difference~
~as we look into their eyes~
~friends & family~
~whose spirit eyes reach~
~& those that look away~
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WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~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~
~I’ve never felt like a miracle myself~
~each of my children did & still do to me~
~know what I mean~
~“She’s a good boy!”~
~how shall I name this~
~connection~
~child & beast~
~shepherd & magick fairy~
~great granddaughter~
~Jessa~
~playing fetch with my dog~
~Cinder~
~she laughs~
~claps her hands~
~chirps like a tiny bird~
~“She’s a good boy!”~
~the self-realization of youth~
~is awesome to witness~
~especially those close to your heart~
~with many decades behind you~
~they want so much~
~their aspirations reach so far~
~hope is reborn in your ancient spirit~
~determination & will, focused intent~
~bid you believe in & with them~
~they haven’t experienced failure~
~& are odds on~
~damned likely to succeed~
~to stand witness~
~the self-realization of youth~
~is a balm to the ancient heart~
~the hunt is not a killing~
~it is a prayer~
It is wonderful in the autumn come winter of my years to realize I still believe in miracles. They occur each and every day for each of us. There are times we have to dig through the layers to find them, learn to be aware of an ever positive nuance in our lives. On a cloudy day, one may enjoy the nanosecond of perfect bliss when a tiny sliver of sunshine peeks between the overcast. Then there are those events, explosions of ecstasy, offered to us. The divine light of their occurrence is so bright as to be impossible to ignore. Those preoccupied and unaware are equally bathed in it, elated and ecstatic.
April 13th a light of goodness occurred within the Sterner Family, a promise to be kept and shared now and for all our future days. Eden Elizabeth Belle was born. The hands in our circle parted for a moment and her tiny fingers reached out. We came together once more, deeper in ways than ever before.
See her there, Tom and Heather’s daughter in the awestruck and loving arms of her uncle, the youngest of my children, Zedidiah. Good happens!
a compilation of lies,useless information, bad jokes&little poems
For every action, there is an equal and opposite criticism.
It costs about 3 cents to make a $1 bill.
intent of counterpoint
duelists in the dawn
portrait silhouette
baby is crying
A 6-year-old boy opened the family bible. He was fascinated as he fingered through the thin pages. Suddenly, something fell out of the bible. He picked the object up and looked at it. It was an old leaf that had been pressed in between the pages. “Mom, look what I found,” he called out. “What have you got there?” she asked.
In an awe-struck voice, he answered, “I think it's Adam's underwear.”
Spiders never spin webs in or on
structures made of chestnut wood. That’s why so many tall European buildings were built with chestnut beams. Spider webs
on a 50-foot beamed ceiling are a pain to remove.
a city on the move
weeping of mountain
witless romantic
the emperor sighs
A 6-year-old girl had just finished her
first week of school. “I'm just wasting
my time Mom,” she said. “I can't read,
I can't write and they won't let me talk!”
The first Band-Aid Brand Adhesive Bandages were 3 inches wide and 18 inches long. You made your own bandage by cutting off as much as you needed.
legends of God-speak
thin binding flesh
Momma’s smoking a cigarette
laughter from the whiskey bar
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