~just like father~

02/29/2012

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~soon after the turn of the century~
  ~Quodlibet won the Marija Cerjak award~
  ~for avant-garde/experimental writing~

~Quodlibet was then published by Howling Dog Press in its Omega series.  The piece will be available in print from Howling Dog with graphic art by the author 2012/2013~


~jewels in her tiara~
~spider children~
~dreams astound her~
~she holds it in until~
~breathless~
~she is startled awake~
~no one notices~
~but her day is coming~
~she saw ghosts dancing~
~knows full well what that means &~

~XVII.  just like father~

~she demands fair measure~
~what comes owing as her own~
~holds it out against her~
~is appalled by father’s ignorance~
~the thick skin of his span of years~
~but warmed by the embrace of her man~
~quite fearful at deeper levels~
~a creeping awareness~
~of the need to compare them~
~her pain is a shield~
~she covets her jewels of children~
~grace on one hand~
~smooth as silk~
~spider’s milk~
~anger shifting~
~changeling~

http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
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~familiar rain~

01/27/2012

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~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}

http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
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~The Moth/A Sign~

09/21/2011

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Picture
~The Moth/A Sign~

I took a day off work as a "preserve my sanity" day.  I lost my Mother July 11, 2004.  Her birthday was September 7th so I had Sunday to reminisce her.  I'd been angry at her for choosing to leave and, on top of that, not sending me a sign as she had promised, from the other side.  The eighteenth of July I was sitting in my midnight room writing, using a notebook of lines jotted down in 2003 for inspiration, written ten months before her death.  A tiny moth alit on the arm of my glasses, its wings aflutter, caressing my right temple. 

A feeling inside bid me resist the urge to bat it away.  After a few moments, it flew over and landed on the sheet I was writing from.  It lingered over a line that read: "A wee bit wicked and its impact was felt all the more in its brevity...  there are Earth Angels who would name it sin...  but what do they know of sin."  I reached for my camera and took a few pictures of the tiny creature so I wouldn't convince myself later that it was a dream or a fantasy the likes of which I am inclined to conjure up.  After our private photo shoot, it returned to perch on my glasses once more.  They came then, a tender-weep if you will, tears waiting four years to call my name.  The moth flew up and through the window of this old farmhouse in Arvada.  Signs are signs, aren't they?  There was nothing earth shattering as I might have expected, no falling stars or lightning striking through my window exciting my flesh. 

I don't travel to exotic faraway lands or jump out of airplanes, nor feel the need to.  I raised five wonderful children.  Natives of Colorado all, we live in Arvada, Wheat Ridge, and Golden and quite like it here.  I'm a simply complex man who likes to write and sing, make music with his sons and watch his daughters dance.  The visit of a tiny moth is an epiphany to me, what some others might simply squash and toss into the wastebasket.  

http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
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~The Moth/A Sign?~

07/23/2011

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Picture
~The Moth/A Sign?~

I took a day off work as a "preserve my sanity" day.  I lost my Mother July 11, 2004.  Her birthday was September 7th so I had Sunday to reminisce her.  I'd been angry at her for choosing to leave and, on top of that, not sending me a sign as she had promised, from the other side.  The eighteenth of July I was sitting in my midnight room writing, using a notebook of lines from 2003 for inspiration, written ten months before her death.  A tiny moth alit on the arm of my glasses, its wings aflutter, caressing my right temple. 

A feeling inside bid me resist the urge to bat it away.  After a few moments, it flew over and landed on the sheet I was writing from.  It lingered over a line that read: "A wee bit wicked and its impact was felt all the more in its brevity...  there are Earth Angels who would name it sin...  but what do they know of sin."  I reached for my camera and took a few pictures of the tiny creature so I wouldn't convince myself later that it was a dream or a fantasy the likes of which I am inclined to conjure up.  After our private photo shoot, it returned to perch on my glasses once more.  They came then, a tender-weep if you will, tears waiting four years to call my name.  The moth flew up and through the window of this old farmhouse in Arvada.  Signs are signs, aren't they?  There was nothing earth shattering as I might have expected, no falling stars or lightning striking through my window exciting my flesh. 

I don't travel to exotic faraway lands or jump out of airplanes, nor feel the need to.  I raised five wonderful children.  Natives of Colorado all, we live in Arvada, Wheat Ridge, and Golden and quite like it here.  I'm a simply complex man who likes to write and sing, make music with his sons and watch his daughters dance.  The visit of a tiny moth is an epiphany to me, what some others might simply squash and toss into the wastebasket. 
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