~Haunting Me~

01/25/2012

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~my sons’ guitars~
~play through me in waves~
~they are my life quest~
~our music~
~making more of me than I am~
~feels pretty damned good~
~just for a minute~
~seems like everything is okay~
~then I come back to earth~
~take a quick look around~
~ah hell it ain’t~

~Haunting Me~

~thinkin’ ‘bout endings
~about going away
~unanswered questions
~they are promises broken
~they are lies left unspoken
~they are haunting me

~down in the city
~‘round a fire left burning
~flames of society
~maybe hands in a prayer
~maybe blood of the slayer
~maybe haunting me~


~round in the chamber~
~a far random target~
~bullets come tumbling~
~surely messengers running~
~surely vengeance forthcoming~
~surely haunting me~


~death on a thimble~
~we been taking it easy~
~any way we can get it~
~on a fast road to nowhere~
~on a death horse we go there~
~on a haunting me~

~lady~
~you are~
~a vision of Sunday~
~a river of falling~
~a chant in the evening~
~a dry well of wanting~
~the church of my haunting~
~church of my haunting~
~church of my haunting me~

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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
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~Birds I View~

01/16/2012

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~singing in the loft~
~balcony~
~feathers dripping dew~
~& doo on you~
~wings fluttering~
~talons grasping~
~a circling retreat~
~dive of vengeance~
~masters of survival~
~reptilian spore~
~lizard wings wizard~
~tongue in beak cawing~
~dripping aeon~
~a limbing gasp~
~egg fertilization~

~Birds I View~


~whomever hears a choir~
~must needs long for noel~
~just so...  those inclined toward~
~the voices of birds~
~listen for spring~
~as one might any day sing~
~yet exalt in the clamor~
~of rich pitch soprano~
~& tenor rising~
~on alto bass legs to soar~
~all ways speak an air of wing~

~there were five this morning~
~whose dark coat raven~
~one more bearer await the pall~
~together badger the hawk~
~make a meal of its prey
~caw, caw, caw the hunter~
~they strut in magnificent jest~
~whose eyes four hundred years~
~they live each & longer even~
~unimpressed by fate~
~scavengers & better for it~

~such are the birds I view~
~gray tongues wagging lament~
~threatening at once to land~
~that the sky would fall~
~to bury its stick pins~
~ebon cloak named night~
~these bits of blue/black~
~lift the mantle & fear not~
~that gone unexplained~
~its quick reason~
~a dark eye bead~
~such are the birds' eye view~

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Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
Birds I View was published in  Newsletter Inago
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~An Other~ {Father Song}

12/27/2011

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~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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  Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
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~Brothers~

11/03/2011

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~he is fallen hard~
  ~my dearest brother~
  ~tomorrow I follow the trail~
  ~of our Cherokee blood~
  ~from this place~
  ~California~
  ~to rejoin him~
  ~lend my spirit to his healing~
  ~1400 miles~
  ~to our Colorado~
  ~speak a word if you will~
  ~in his favor~
  ~& mine~

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  © artwork & words conceived by & property of 
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
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~My Heaven }Etude)~

11/03/2011

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~My Heaven }Etude)~


~my heaven is escape me~
~my heaven is escape me~
~my heaven is escape me, brother~
~my heaven is a woman~
~my heaven is a suckling child~
~another man’s shame~
~another man’s glory~
~ye-ah~
~my heaven ‘e been gone for a while~


{go out laughing}

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~Instance of Id~

09/17/2011

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Picture
~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. 

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~Flame~

09/06/2011

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Picture
~is a dream the night when sleep won’t come~
~the day after the day after~nightmare existence~
~shadow candle flame~drifted off with a pen in my vein~
~awoke needles in my eyes~blood is a hard master~

~Flame~

~pushing words away~
~lest they eat my sleep~
 ~become the only part of me~
~devour those golden hours~
~which amount to the rest of me~
~yes away with dreams and all that seems~
~possessed to make an end of me~

~anesthesia is an art~
~to which I might at once lay claim~
~a shallow grave divided~
~I might just lie between~
~some token awareness~
~consciousness~
~which came first~
~the egg or the bean~
~blackout describes the best-held dreams~

~I lit a candle to threaten the stars~
~but nobody’s laughing in this wayward place~
~would someone put out the light~
~stop this ringing in my ears~
~I am not afraid of the night~
~but see what is done in the light of day~
 ~no don’t take my candle away~

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~Eyes O’ Wonder/Line of Sight~

09/02/2011

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Picture
~Eyes O’ Wonder/Line of Sight~

~these eyes have watched~
~the spring grass blowing~
~they have tossed~
~& turned the clouds of afternoon~
~into images of~
~summer on the way~
~we are passing~
~we are going~
~& the zephyr it is blowing~
~it is gentle~
~in the evening~

~these eyes have closed~
~with worry under lashes~
~they have spilled~
~their tears when laughing~
~there is nothing they can’t see~
~nothing we can’t do~
~when we’re ready~
~when we’re going~
~we are lying in the grass~
~we are angels on the ground~
~when we fall down laughing~

~these eyes have opened~
~they have wondered~
~the horizon~
~loved the eyes beside them~
~they have winked into the dawn~
~closed themselves away~
~found a path across the room~
~& gone walking~
~through the blowing blades of grass~
~to the only one they knew~
~would come to find them~

Hudson Review published February 2009
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~The Butterfly Poet~

09/01/2011

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Picture
~The Butterfly Poet~

~it finally arrived~
~that day words wouldn’t come~
~the empty feeling refused to go~
~she tore her hand~
~from the glove of her mind~
~watched her imagination~
~those minute remnants left~
~dribble onto her notebook~
~a blot pattern blood ink~
~she 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~

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~Esplanade~

08/31/2011

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~Esplanade~

~there’s an angry carpenter building~
~a table without any legs~
~a mother teaching her children~
~to fetch, sit up & beg~
~the dogs of night make a prayer~
~for the lady without any hands~
~as she applauds the one-legged preacher~
~who left his parts in old Viet Nam~
~the little drug angel darlings~
~stare into the guns of the raid~
~& the children under the table~
~bless their hearts...  Esplanade~

~you will never know where I’m going~
~until your feet taste paths I have been~
~a tear & a cup overflowing~
~sins of the lost captain’s men~
~I wonder if I might find purchase~
~a brick or a ring in the wall~
~a coffin to hang on forever~
~to hear the great sparrow’s call~
~there’s a chorus of blind singing patriots~
~flying a song without wings~
~they may lose their direction~
~they will never forget how to sing~
~she is an opening flower~
~a path for the living parade~
~lay down in her soft bed of roses~
~to bleed...  ah sweet Esplanade~

~may be the gods do not see them~
~may be the gods’ eyes are blind~
~there is no end to their praying~
~for surely the gods must be kind~
~& they hide away from the madman~
~who tells them they are betrayed~
~he waits for the full moon to take him~
~then he howls, howls...  Esplanade~

~dead poets speak through their silence~
~they whisper “return nevermore”~
~a child looks in the mirror~
~wonders, ‘why the hell was I born~
~some one has slain all its warriors~
~tortured the king of its soul~
~mother and father are preying~
~in the bar room for pots of its gold~
~life is the constant reminder~
~death, the warrior who waits~
~fate owns the face in the mirror~
~the key to the lock on its gate~
~so have you noticed her freedom~
~the laughter behind all her lies~
~where chaos & order go dancing~
~& only chaos survives~
~I walked the shores of her oceans~
~soft & cold & afraid~
~followed the paths of her creatures~
~cross her vast expanse...  Esplanade~
~I have tasted the breath of her seasons~
~her bitter root & sweet wine~
~& though I know she is wounded~
~I seek her like something divine~
~as I approach her wound I am kissing~
~the blood drops her suffering made~
~my feet caressing her footsteps~
~my lips whisper...  “Sweet Esplanade”~

~she lays her pain out before me~
~the soft ragged edge of her truth~
~I lick the scent of her fire~
~with the misguided tongue of my youth~
~the scars are written upon me~
~from sleeping too close to the wound~
~skin so easily broken~
~on this eggshell side of the moon~
~& the tides are breaking forever~
~on a sweet violin never played~
~where only warriors are dancers~
~on the last grass...  Esplanade~
~I’m breaking bread with the serpent~
~making love with the mice~
~there’s a game I play with the devil~
~betting against loaded dice~
~& I die at the end of my prayer~
~my face breaks the earth unafraid~
~your heavy stones on my body~
~I whisper...  “Sweet Esplanade”~

~I have drunk myself into stupid~
~sung her praises through my whiskey breath~
~for the tender peace of her body~
~the long-suffering pain of her death~
~I keep a piece of her soul in my pocket~
~& I sleep with her every night~
~I hear the wind through the willows~
~& kiss her lips when we fight~
~but a beggar has set her on fire~
~for a ransom that will not be paid~
~a thief has stolen her jewels~
~she suffers it well...  Esplanade~

~there is a ghost haunting my castle~
~she cries, I think I know why~
~her heart is ten thousand times broken~
~she tries, they won’t let her die~
~so she crawls in my bed of an evening~
~struggles to keep me awake~
~I find myself reaching for her~
~hungry for the love we could make~
~courage lies under the blanket~
~the windows are dirty inside~
~you cannot see through a mirror~
~just going along for the ride~
~she is all, she is all that exists~
~make myself naked & wade~
~follow her down ‘til eternity passes~
~she is all, she is all...  Esplanade~

~all tangled up in my covers~
~afraid of the dark & the day~
~I wait ‘til she comes to hold me~
~& chase my darkness away~
~then I lay at her breast like an infant~
~suckled & cozily warm~
~she covers my seed with the earth of her body~
~to shelter me from the storm~
~I drink her milk & I bite her~
~feeding upon her the same~
~I call her triangular mother~
~& know her by no other name~
~with her blood & milk on my muzzle~
~I cry in the mess I have made~
~she wraps me in flowers & powders my ass~
~she is all, she is all...  Esplanade~

~I live in a box in the attic~
~measure my space two by two~
~drag myself out for holiday weekends~
~& photograph pictures with you~
~maybe I’ll take you there with me~
~touch with my hands in the dark~
~which one is which~
~I get so damned confused~
~like a child playing with cards~
~the best of the times I am rolling~
~in fields of flowers & shade~
~watching the children as they start their journey~
~into her heart...  Esplanade~

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