~The Butterfly Poet~ ~it finally arrived~
~that day words wouldn’t come~
~the empty feeling refused to go~
~he tore his hand~
~from the glove of his mind~
~watched his imagination~~those minute remnants left~
~dribble onto the notebook~
~a blot pattern blood ink~
~he wrote an ode to the butterfly:~
~whose wings of earth~
~& feet of sky~
~an invitation to glory~
~the likes of which I~
~see sun through each~
~a fluttering~
~land~
~beautiful~
~mute~
~you are so much &~
~expect so little~
~you are at peace while I~
~envy you heaven~
~that fair bit of sky~http://wordwulf.com
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© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~hear them gathering~
~ebon wings aflutter~
~they peck dreams from the eyes of the dead~
~darklings & spider things~
~hop-strutting~
~carcass to carcass~
~irreverent~
~devilish & amused~
~at what passes for life~
~& death~
~as if there is a difference~
~crow~
~its black voice~
~caw caw caw~
~it sees him through the window~
~“go away!” he cries~
~“leave me now this midnight hour!”~
~its head, a swivel thing~
~follows his descent~
~the concrete walls of the cellar~
~veins protruding~
~he hears a thick~
~liquid fluid drip~
~as he walks into a web~
~his hands claw at his face~
~web film on his lips~
~something crawls down~
~the back of his shirt~
~the pull string light bumps his nose~
~his hand follows~
~but he cannot find it~
~he stumbles blindly~
~to the other side of the room~
~clawing at his spider shirt~
~until it is torn away~
~he feels needles~
~spider steps~
~skitter across his skin~
~“webs, webs!” he howls~
~rolls over on the floor~
~alive, his naked skin crawls~
~he covers his ears, closes his eyes~
~the horror sound will not go away~
~a gurgle liquid deep~
~emanates from somewhere within him~
~he sneaks an eye open~
~a faint light is revealed~
~madness held at bay~~he crawls toward it~
~on his knees, hands raised~~over his head reaching~
~saliva~
~he giggles at his gurgle~
~through the moonlit pane of glass~
~her black voice~
~caw caw caw~
~she sees him through the window~
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WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
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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WordWulf
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©A Window & Chalice & Key was published by Skyline Publications
~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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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
Quodlibet was published by Howling Dog Press
~lick wood~
~the poetess has needs~
~for instance~
~to construct her next piece~~a dead baby~
~& a waterfall~
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~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~
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~Questioning Horsery~ (Introduction to Grayson)
There were six million, three hundred fifty-two thousand, five hundred and eighty-three wavelets on her face this morning. She refused to be a victim of dawn tides, exalted in the event she was able to do so. Lying on the beach, body of sand, spirit air, mind spent and set aside, she fell into the waking side of a dream.
Three directions surrounding, vertical columns, fortresses of stone, up and through a lavender/pink firmament she stared. Eyes wide open, other than a hint of a smile wearing her lips, one might imagine her quite dead. Water tickling, gooseflesh wearing, the three-walled prison of her existence suited her fine. “How did I end up here?” The question threatened but she pushed it away. Stone mansion, earthen room, ocean door; she needed them all and nothing more.
Startled by thunder, the incredible percussion of earth quaking, she closed her eyes. Not long though, this respite; she opened them just a bit, peered down across her body supine. Two rosebud nipples erect, extant reminders of her humanness, her flesh, met her gaze and pleased her. “I am woman.” She pushed the thought away.
They came to visit then, magnificent and marauding, a stallion and three mares, manes and tails flying, rays of eos filtering, slices of dawn-light instantaneous, erected, broken, furious, wide-eyed and alive. Her arms, goddess tentacles, feathers lifting, rose from her sides to receive them. Mud silt exploded from their hooves, dappled her white-flesh, excited to ecstasy her nether regions, filled her with white-heat fantastic, orgasmic.
Body arched, wings supporting, she welcomed the tide, water caressing, purging her pinto/appaloosa and leaving her ivory/white. The stallion’s voice roared as he mounted the precipice, the armor of his limbs taut, aquiver, a single gasping breath, and Grayson let it all go. She watched the mares disappear into the clouds behind him and entertained the thought, considered her options, that she might just follow. But no, she smiled and pushed it all away.
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WordWulf
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© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
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