~Zephyr Incidental~

01/14/2012

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~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~


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 Danse/After Midnight~

11/29/2011

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~standing on the parapet~
~drifting~
~falling away~
~he combs his moustache~
~tries the lock on the door~
~he can’t get out~
~she can’t get in~
~he laughs at his own sex games~
~a prisoner of id~
~aware~
~startled awake~
~a leather thong about his throat~
~locomotives blasting through his mind~
~bird-speak in the outside yard of himself~
~darkness fails to quiet the night of leather wing & dervish whispers~

~The Danse/After Midnight~

Listening to a train again blowing down the tracks, his room has a window he refuses to look out of.  Do you have any idea of your timelessness, how you took his breath away in a single note of dismissal?

With pen in hand, he is strong.  He wields the slender instrument, uses it to dig holes in himself, with firm hand and quivering gait to pen mystery, bravely walk away, weeping to that monster awful shrieking whistle – God!  Damn those wandering tracks of love.

You tied a strip of rawhide around his wrist, kissed him sweetly in your poor lost house.  You smelled and looked lovely, asked him to leave so you wouldn’t have to say goodbye in the morning, in the blue morning, there to attend him, birds in the yard, creatures who speak a language he understands. 

It is the hour before midnight, a time of deep, blue/black darkness.  He is a leather wraith drifting down the road, climbing out of the muck of himself.  Established of ebon spirit, he experiences liberation, divinity, vulgarity of faith as he seizes the opportunity to finally know who he is, discover through crumbling walls of reality, the bare dangling roots of creativity, the mangled remnants of his self-worth tied inexorably to a lady lost, you, to yourself, in yourself, seeking.  He is not the knot of leather tied. 

He hears a child laugh while enjoying conversation in a room full of strangers.  This night he is claimed of shame, a man failed in the midnight hour.  He damns his tears their salty tracks, prays to deaf gods for the peace of leather dreams, faces the night alone in his icy human flesh. 

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

09/22/2011

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Picture
~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.

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