~in loving memory of Momma~
~love, hope & prayers for brother Jack~
~deepest devotion to my children & grandchildren~
~Family Thanksgiving~
~a basket full of hugs & kisses~
~a piece of cherry pie~
~a warm smile on a cold morning~
~a place to go & cry~
~stories to tell & secrets to keep~
~those kites that refuse to fly~
~holidays at Grandma’s~
~& there’s Grandpa’s knee to ride~
~a symphony of tiny voices~
~pictures hanging on the wall~
~loneliness & happiness~
~bathtubs in the hall~
~beginnings & birthdays~
~& fires in the fall~
~those letters that say, “I miss you~
~I miss you most of all”~
~all the fourth of Julys exploding~
~& when there’s a scraped-up knee~
~magick kisses chase the pain away~
~& cats up in the tree~
~new shoes & hand-me-downs~
~those brand new glasses, “I can see!”~
~fighting & loving & loving & fighting~
~the past that’s the past of “me”~
~bicycles & training wheels~
~& time gets in the way~
~fairy tales & teeth under pillows~
~that place where the old dog lays~
~special seats to sit & blankets to hold~
~report cards & bright sunny days~
~little pockets full of bugs & bolts~
~picnics & camping & weekends away~
~where some friends belong & some are just friends~
~all kinds of neat stuff to share~
~noses & roses & photograph poses~
~everyone’s favorite chair~
~countless messes made by “Mister No One”~
~the search for the three-legged teddy bear~
~pennies in couches, pencils & cookies~
~the feeling: there’s always someone who cares~
~it’s you I’m really talking about~
~& the others I’d like to see~
~what we are is what it really means~
~to be part of a family~
~I guess drifting apart is natural~ ~the way Gods intend it to be~
~to be apart and a part, full circle~
~is to be part of a family~
~we all must grow in our own direction~
~surely we must strive to be free~
~but ever so often we should meet & remember~
~what it means to be family~
~it is you I’m really talking about~
~the pieces of you that are me~
~the pride I feel in the sharing~
~being part of a family~
~Family Thanksgiving was published by Mel Brakes Press 2010~
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~a squirrel on the mailbox~
~attempting to argue me out of breakfast~
~a church bell sends it flying into a tree~
~it chitters at children skipping down the street~
~I smile & go inside~
~it gets my breakfast after all~
~Tintinnabulum~
Sparrows nesting in the eaves flit dangerously near strangers crossing the porch. Hungry cries from the nest announce the event of birthing has come and is gone. These tiny shrill voices are nature’s call to morning as sure as the sun rises. A fat cat lays in the yard purring, pondering its next meal.
A child laughing nearby, whose tinkling voice somehow defies the tar rubber roar of traffic, is a sweet reminder of Sunday, late spring and bare feet, wiggly toes and dandelions, knows well to celebrate, embrace and engage the day. A deep rumbling in the earth precedes a low flying train.
A man with love in his heart makes a low humming sound, deep, deeper in his being than that of conscious awareness. His spirit becomes an instrument, a finely tuned harp, upon which wind fingers play and the voice of his lover. A smile visits his lips. True beauty is borne, sweet silence on a Sunday morn.
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© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~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.
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© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~Larimer Street in Denver~it’s the place to be for the in-crowd, sports junkies, girls on the make~the haves pushed the don’t haves out years ago~it used to be skid-row~I liked it better then~spilled some blood there~not all of it my own~
~George’s Hands~
His knuckles were pushed back, forever swollen in his huge hands whose fists had made him king of the Larimer Street Bars. Quiet and soft-spoken, he took this sixteen-year-old kid under his wing. I worked the yard with him at a scaffolding company. It was my first job and he was my boss.
George took me to the bars some Friday nights after work. The Yellow Cab would pick us up and drop us off in skid row downtown. When we walked into the bars loud voices hushed in respect. Madmen and wild women parted and made way for me and my gentle giant friend.
George put my hand to a wrench, taught me to drive the Case forklift, though he never drove a car and I asked him why. He swore me to secrecy then showed me a document from his wallet that stated his driver’s license was revoked forever for driving getaway cars from bank robberies in the thirties and forties.
Within a year I was George’s boss. He pushed me ahead of himself, told me I would be a man of words, that he was a man of hands. A year later, when George was fifty-six years old, his cigarette smoking and bar room brawling days caught up with him in a rush. I’ll not forget his gasping breath, its halting whoosh as emphysema put him down.
I had helped George tag all his tools and wondered why he would paint them bright orange to separate them from the others in the shop. At seventeen-years-old, after my first pall bearing, George’s wife had me gather them up and bring them to her. She said he meant for me to keep them, every single one of them. They were many, amassed over twenty hardworking years. I loaded them back into my hotrod Mustang, shed a tumble of hard-bitten tears. I have been haunted and blessed the whole of my life by memories of George’s hands.
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~feet rooted in epiphany~
~eyes riveted to her boughs~
~bated breath~
~senses tingling~
~spirits lifting~
~we are going~
~we are flying on the ground~
~stepping through clouds~
~your hand in mine & the next~
~& the next~
~The Heaven Tree~
~the night the Heaven Tree appeared~
~we were excited & enamored, ecstatic
~beneath its mantle of star leaves~
~lone wanderers o’er its earthen root~
~feet to path & spirits soaring~
~wildly alive in the ebon shade~
~the night was a prayer to kneel~
~the Heaven Tree whispered to us~
~secrets of the Children of the Universe~
~the storms and rainbows of their days~
~those before and after soon~
~our spirits were filled with light~
~timelessness, eternity~
~standing ‘neath the Heaven Tree~
~hands reaching, others holding~
~a circle of love on the ground~
~faith we were lifted~
~into the boughs of the Heaven Tree~~
~spirits kissed upon the lips of gods~
~eyes embracing the vast community of humankind~
~delivered of moment, gifted to be~
~on the path beneath the Heaven Tree~
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~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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~the morning caught me looking the other way~like the face in the mirror~
it continues to look back and the dog won’t stop barking~
who are these dead people in the room staring from the black glass box~
~Sunday Come Early~Sunday came too early, 7:30a.m., the dog banging on the door downstairs. I took her some water, told her to be quiet, went back to bed. A few minutes later she commenced to bark, bringing the neighbors into our morning. Resigned to my fate, I got dressed and went outside. Like a spoiled child, one way or another, the dog usually gets her way.
Sunday morning came too early, 1a.m., my wife and I finished watching a movie, Sling Blade. John Ritter was in the movie. He’s dead now in real life. Dennis Hopper died last year. It occurs to me that the deaths of these actors I’ve been watching most of my life, in some vague sense, has something to do with me. As if my aching bones weren’t reminders enough this Sunday morning come too early.
Aging is relative to life, isn’t it. Like it or not, if it isn’t occurring, neither are you. So I’m thankful for the good ol’ dog, my coffee morning wife and stepdaughter still asleep in her rooms upstairs, especially gifted and thankful for my five wonderful children and their sweet little ones.
I take several moments each day and night to dwell on those specific and special children of mine. The night would never end if I hadn’t held them close in my mind and spirit with each breath. Sunday morning wouldn’t occur. Who would water and quiet the dog. I am glad to be a man who has done so, three cups of coffee in to a Sunday come early.
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~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~
~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~~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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