~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.
 ~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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Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~there is no recipe for love~
~when it starts & what it does~
~unique & specifically wonderful~
~it creates a glow within~
~that reaches out to transcend our being~
~we may see through the eyes of another what it means to possess…~
~a window & chalice & key~
~if we had a window~
~we could tie ribbons in the trees~
~hang a crystal mobile in its frame~
~enjoy a prism of colors~
~each & every time it rained~
~if we had a chalice~
~we could sip from it each night~
~fingertips meeting to touch~
~sharing the blood of our love~
~& daring to love too much~
~if we had a door with a key~
~we could lock away our sorrows~
~begin again & learn to be~
~lovers and friends as we were~
~if we had a window & chalice & key~
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©A Window & Chalice & Key was published by Skyline Publications
~soon after the turn of the century~
~Quodlibet won the Marija Cerjak award~
~for avant-garde/experimental writing~
~Quodlibet~
~The Hundred Bites~
~XIII~
~early mornings~
~I would get up & walk across the road~
~half a mile or so~
~she’d have the coffee hot~
~Momma~
~having arisen before the sun~
~to feed her bawling maverick calves~
~some days I’d stand back & watch~
~listen to her talk to them~
~the critters she would rescue~
~then we’d share a cup or two~
~before a hard day of ranch work~
~in the red dirt Wyoming~
~I would trade a thousand tomorrows~
~right now~
~for one of those yesterdays with her~
~XIII. Morning Voices/Music~
~a child playing~
~a man listening~
~ladies clinking coffee cups~
~the long leather of his weathered face~
~their graceful laughter~
~almost genteel~
~still the child’s fingers play~
~sorrow & gladness ride the man’s features~
~a lone tear slides down his cheek~
~stops to rest on the lips of his smile~
~what symphony of life this~
~such joy of morning living~
~instance of rapture simplified~
~complicity of random blessed event~
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
Quodlibet was published by Howling Dog Press
~this is the end~
~beautiful friend
~the end~
~this is the end~
~my only friend~
~the end~
~of our elab’rate plans~
~the end~
~of ev’rything that stands
~the end~
~no safety or surprise~
~the end~
~I'll never look into your eyes again~
~James Douglas Morrison~
~midnight 31 December~
~the final click~
~on the citizen time-clock~
~marking the year 2011~
~a young man in Colorado~
~stared into the internet tunnel~
~the only light in his room~
~watching & listening~
~to apocalyptic doomsday~
~wizards & witches~
~the electronic medium~
~he erased the badgering rhetoric~
~from his mind-space~
~posted the words of the poet~
~James Douglas Morrison~
~to his Face Book page~
~closed his eyes & went to sleep~
~fourteen hundred miles away~
~in a place named California~
~& unbeknownst to him~
~the young man’s father~
~practiced the precise steps~
~of the ritual~
~word for word~
~these poets share a~
~familiar rain~
~earth creatures~
~ghosts & men~
~stand down for this one~
~whose memories are shadows~
~wispy glimpses of that which~
~has not yet occurred~
~sacred guardian of the afterlife~
~ruler of the night~
~keeper of spirits transitioning~
~from one plane of existence~
~to another~
~brother owl watches children~
~brown in the sun~
~laughing & running through~
~pale lavender/deep violet~
~fields of alfalfa~
~a spool of string between them~
~trailing high into the sky~
~brother owl knows what children know~
~the bones of the kite where the string is tied~
~are not its beginning or end~
~nor is the spool spinning in their hands~
~they are creatures of moment~
~children~
~ecstatic & so caught up living~
~its delicious bits are all~
~that cannot end has not begun~
{continued}
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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~
~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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©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 Maria Cerjak award~
~for avant-garde/experimental writing~
~Quodlibet~
~The Hundred Bites~
~IX~
~the tiny old woman~
~wraps them in her housecoats~
~bunny slippers~
~dries their shaggy heads with a towel~
~you are old men now~
~in your fifties for god sake~
~you have no business~
~riding those damned machines~
~they sit on her couch shivering~
~smiling at each other~
~her two oldest sons~
~having ridden their Harleys~
~five hundred miles in the rain~
~to celebrate her birthday with her~
~she brings them hot coffee~
~loves them well~
~helps them roll their machines~
~into the dark warmth of her barn~
~the very next year~
~her bunny slippers are gone~
~& so is she~
~the brothers ride~
~their tears hide the rain~
~IX. A Tender Wrapping~
~standing up for pennies~
~all hail at a dollar down~
~these blankets~
~ a hundred pound weight~
~strive to earn alive a shroud~
~a safe place to bury your worried face~
~o children learn to walk away~
~plant your seeds~
~your garden of youth~
~be tall & kind to yourselves~
~those older whom look away~
~may be kind & understanding~
~ever useful in the odd circumstance~
~such as surviving under siege~
~construction of birthing & burial blankets~
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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
~Quodlibet~
~The Hundred Bites~
~VIII~
~an old man~
~back against a tree~
~forgets his dreams in the shade~
~sidesteps into memories~
~sees clearly what was not~
~refuses to question what was~
~blushes when his thoughts turn to her~
~his leather paper-thin skin~
~red in the autumn~
~come winter his life~
~finally terribly alone~
~& none the worse for it~
~he recalls the twisted angles~
~primal howls~
~language of his birth~
~that it was she he learned to forget~
~his now & only found~
~VIII. Kisses/Mystery Forever~
~I am not about to look at your photograph~
~you are not an image died yet~
~I sense a ringing of word~
~ingots piled high in our brain~
~a pendulum of centuries pealing~
~against our skulls until we are curiously aroused~
~there are those who consider mystery ~
~an only true for ever~
~certain knowledge of this implied~
~& tied to the tongues of dead heroes~
~thank you; I would kiss your flaws rather~
~make mud on the dirt of your skin~
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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
~she exists as a wisp~
~promise ~
~muse~
~a fast train rushing~
~its wind tunnel throat~
~backdoor thundering tornado~
~smoke & fire~
~unaware of his eyes ~
~what it means~
~muse~
~she dances into his sight~
~the zephyr blows her away~
~Zephyr Incidental~
~just beyond his hearing~
~her nuance spirit whispered~
~entranced, he paused to listen~
~as one hears angels, did he~
~close his eyes, dissolve his senses~
~allow her purchase on the tender-wall~
~that fantastic realm of being~
~deep inside & long untouched~
~wide-eyed & watchful as near-prey~
~at the approach of a new stranger~
~he was gifted & no predator she~
~whom paints clouds on the groundswell~
~invites a visage of heaven~
~into the everyday burrows of life~
~where gypsies & nomads all~
~a procession of high-stepping minstrels~
~wander the path of the last troubadour~
~his verses alive on trade-winds ~
~the limits of continents ignore~
~voices a-hum at the cradle~
~are the whispering mothers of life~
~angelic visions from the bottom of the well~
~it is difficult for flat-line thinkers~
~to imagine the circle of life~
~the undeniable & beautiful sameness~
~of shadows, cradle & grave~
~whose love owns the heart of a poet~
~may at once be blest & damned~
~a witness participant to ecstasy~
~exalted in the light of his words~
~a fall-me-down, pick-me-up dancer~
~whose idylls create & destroy~
~the otherwise past & undone~
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~eight-year-old Christopher~
~faces his terrible illness~
~& parents who cannot deal with the awful truth~
~his friends~
~the birds~
~carry him away~
~what a child may teach adults~
~ready & willing to learn~
~Christopher Early~
Christopher likes to wake up early. He presses the red button on the coffee maker so Mommy’s coffee will be ready when she gets out of bed. He goes to the cupboard and gets his favorite bowl. It has a smiley face in the bottom and ‘Christopher’ written in cursive on the side. It’s kinda crooked cause he made it himself last year in the second grade. His teacher, Mrs. Garcia, said it slipped when she fired it. Still, it’s a good bowl. He likes the way it makes him feel.
There’s a special box Mommy keeps with her sewing things just for Christopher. It has a spool of thread and a large sewing needle in it. On special early mornings he gets it and sets it next to his bowl on the table. He climbs up on a chair and takes a box of Froot Loops from the high shelf. He puts the chair away and fills his bowl with his favorite cereal, smiling at the goofy bird on the box.
Finally he sits down. He opens the tin sewing box and takes out the spool of thread. He rolls out a length of it, just right, then breaks it off. He licks the end of the thread, twists it between his fingers, guides it carefully through the eye of the needle. He stabs the needle through the holes of the Froot Loops in his bowl, then holds it up and releases them, watching them wiggle down the string. When there is only about six inches of string showing, he holds the ends together and makes a knot. He slips the circle of thread over his head and hums a little song his Daddy made for him. He repeats this procedure thirteen more times, except the new circles hold only five Froot Loops each.
Christopher carries the thirteen tiny necklaces in his cupped hands to the window of his bedroom. He sets them of the sill, then slides the window open. He arranges the necklaces in a nice neat row, then proceeds to wait for his Winter friends. They always come, first one, then two, then all the rest. They hop and twist their tiny heads, wild eyes and Christopher flies.
He used to play outside. Daddy and Mommy would hold his hands and swing him, one two three, up in the air. Mommy would push him in the swing and sometimes, when Daddy went, he would grip the back of Christopher’s swing and run all the way under him, flinging Christopher high into the air. Christopher would beg for these ‘cannon balls’ and Mommy would finally give him and Daddy one of her ‘serious’ looks and say, “Just one!”
That’s how Christopher’s leg got broken. When Daddy went under him, Christopher felt a whoosh of air between his bottom and the swing. Then he hung there for a while, suspended in the air. Sometimes he can still feel himself there, floating, before falling to the ground. His leg was twisted and it hurt real bad so Mommy and Daddy bundled him up and rushed him to the hospital. Sure enough, his leg was broken. The doctor set it and put it in a cast but that wasn’t the worst of the problem. Christopher was a bleeder, a hemophiliac. So they kept him in the hospital for a couple of days, helping his blood and monitoring him.
No more ‘cannon balls’. A year later, when Christopher began to feel very sick, no park either. He had a big grown-up disease and people were afraid of and for him. That’s when he began to make necklaces and fly away with his new friends. Mommy and Daddy weren’t happy anymore. They wore sad smiles and talked and wept late into the night. Christopher heard them but pretended not to know. They took him to lots of doctors and hospitals and sometimes when they returned home and Christopher felt a little better it almost seemed as if they could all be happy again. Until the next time.
One morning Christopher’s legs hurt so bad he had to use the walker-thing to make it from the bedroom to the kitchen. He climbed painfully onto the chair and almost fell getting his Froot Loops from the high shelf. He made it though. The pain tried to make him cry but he wouldn’t let it. The house was already full of tears. He started the coffee and made his necklaces. This time, only this time, he forced his stiff aching fingers to make two extra big ones. He put them in a circle around Mommy and Daddy’s coffee cups.
He put the thirteen tiny necklaces on his fingers, wearing them like happy delicious rings. He gripped the walker-thing, careful not to damage the gifts he had made for his friends. He was kneeling on his bed, arms resting on the window sill, small hands palm up and reaching out the window. He was too tired to take the rings off but it didn’t matter. This time, only this time, his friends flew to him, their wings fluttering kisses against his face, their tiny mouths careful not to injure him as they walked his palms, then flew away with the gifts he had made. And this time, only this time, Christopher flew away with them.
Christopher’s Mommy is mad. She drives her car with tears in her eyes, her face a mindless contortion of pain’s window. There are seven directions to go, she knows, East and West, North and South, Up into the Heavens, Down into Mother Earth, finally into Self. She ignores all six of the former and swims her tears into the latter. Mommy, what’s the matter? She drives to the car park and walks in her trance to the place with the marble stone.
Out of her bag comes a crooked little bowl, a tiny tin box and a colorful carton of breakfast cereal with a cartoon caricature of a goofy bird on the front. She sets the bowl on the stone and sits herself down in the snow. Her dress is old and her legs are cold as she makes a necklace for Christopher, then one for herself. She drops hers over her head, then makes a circle around the bowl with the other. She proceeds then to make the small ones, how many, how many, she wonders. She is mad for the answer as if it might fly her Christopher back into her starving arms.
Christopher’s Daddy is sad. He drives his truck with fear in his eyes. He drives North and South, East and West, but never ventures into the haunted worlds of the remaining three directions. He always finds her there, after all, at the far ends of the path of those four, physically anyway.
He tries to talk to her, to make her wear a blanket against the dark early morning chill. He loves her too much and forever and she pulls him down and down to sit next to her in the cold snow. She takes his face in her hands and asks him, “How many, how many?” He sits with her, joins her forlorn and lost agony. They weep in their Winter hearts like two mad and lost, unhappy children, beseeching the Gods.
They lay down as the sun comes low and flat, out of the East, one on each side of the stone. These are the places they have made for themselves, their hands reaching, fingers touching, over the mouth of the smiling bowl. The sun brings his tiny messengers, with their sweet songs of the crisp winter morning, wings smooth and fast against the silence of the dawn.
Their bodies are numb and that is good. The dumb pain of their mutual loving and hating, lost in the freezing sorrow of endless waiting. Dear God, forever is here.
Christopher likes to wake up early.
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~Christopher Early was first published in Writers Room Magazine~
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