09-18-2022
09-15-2022
05-09-2022
In loving memory of my Mother, Carroll Belle Hart (Stene-Sterner)
7 September, 1931 – 11 July, 2004
Momma’s hands held mine, patty-cake, tickling my piggies, baby powder soft. “I was raised by sisters in a Catholic orphanage,” she told me. My tiny fists around her fingers, I learned to walk in Momma’s hands.
Momma’s hands offered love and solace, fingers pushing Vicks into my nose, rubbing it into my chest, pinning towels tight around a cold that never had a chance, caressed my face, trembled, that I might be tended by, the awesome healing power of Momma’s hands.
Momma’s hands knew every part of me, my young and broken heart. A cradle they would make that I could feel safe and secure beneath their wings, a tender-keep they were. Brothers and sisters, each and all, gathered within the circle of Momma’s hands.
Momma’s hands birthing and growing, teaching and knowing when to let go, when to shelter and pull away, the wounds of her life made small by the desire to tend to helpless things, danger held at bay and more ‘neath Momma’s hands.
Something fell Momma down. We gathered in ones and twos in the hospital ICU, doctors and nurses understanding, shaking their heads. “I’m so tired,” she said. They lay limp at her side and I wept at the sight of Momma’s hands.
“Where’s the priest?” “Are those the sisters?” she asked my sister. “Are they coming to tell me what they used to tell me. Wake up, little girl, don’t you cry?” Her voice was thin, “I’m not gonna die.” A tear slid down her face, “I’m going home.”
Later, after she has rested, she is much weaker, once proud lips full, no, clouded eyes, the merciful opiate haze of morphine. Oh, you candle spirit, what are we without you? What is life without her?
Time stops. My lips, one last kiss, those hands, whose job is done are finally at rest. I lift them up, one by one. I kiss them goodbye, Momma’s hands.
7 September, 1931 – 11 July, 2004
Momma’s hands held mine, patty-cake, tickling my piggies, baby powder soft. “I was raised by sisters in a Catholic orphanage,” she told me. My tiny fists around her fingers, I learned to walk in Momma’s hands.
Momma’s hands offered love and solace, fingers pushing Vicks into my nose, rubbing it into my chest, pinning towels tight around a cold that never had a chance, caressed my face, trembled, that I might be tended by, the awesome healing power of Momma’s hands.
Momma’s hands knew every part of me, my young and broken heart. A cradle they would make that I could feel safe and secure beneath their wings, a tender-keep they were. Brothers and sisters, each and all, gathered within the circle of Momma’s hands.
Momma’s hands birthing and growing, teaching and knowing when to let go, when to shelter and pull away, the wounds of her life made small by the desire to tend to helpless things, danger held at bay and more ‘neath Momma’s hands.
Something fell Momma down. We gathered in ones and twos in the hospital ICU, doctors and nurses understanding, shaking their heads. “I’m so tired,” she said. They lay limp at her side and I wept at the sight of Momma’s hands.
“Where’s the priest?” “Are those the sisters?” she asked my sister. “Are they coming to tell me what they used to tell me. Wake up, little girl, don’t you cry?” Her voice was thin, “I’m not gonna die.” A tear slid down her face, “I’m going home.”
Later, after she has rested, she is much weaker, once proud lips full, no, clouded eyes, the merciful opiate haze of morphine. Oh, you candle spirit, what are we without you? What is life without her?
Time stops. My lips, one last kiss, those hands, whose job is done are finally at rest. I lift them up, one by one. I kiss them goodbye, Momma’s hands.
Enough
Fearful of death,
determined to live forever,
impossibly worried,
blind by half,
we scurry through
the scattered alleys of life.
In our time of youth,
not enough time,
rarely enough money,
hardly enough love,
grasping at ends,
scarcely ever enough.
Adulthood
finds us pursuing religion,
politics and careers,
running downhill,
fornicating,
procreating,
recreating,
scorched in a pyre of ignorance,
tangle-fires of youth.
We struggle to earn enough,
be enough,
realize we haven’t learned enough,
paid enough attention before,
thought we knew it all,
frustrated
that our children know too much
about the wrong things,
refuse to listen
to what we have learned.
Nearer to and acutely aware of death,
fearful there is not time enough
to protect and teach them to survive,
we worry the empty rooms
of elders passed.
Graying and balding,
regretting, forgetting,
slowing, going down,
sentimentally elemental,
we are overcome
by chance thought
that what has been
may be enough.
Our spirits prepare us to journey,
leave our feet behind
on worried paths we have trod.
We begin to remember
cocoon water births
with new eyes,
caress what is left,
our lovely children and life mates,
that we may tell them in our going
the joy of knowing
they are the all and ever,
more than enough.
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2021 artwork and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2021
Music by Tommy Sterner ©
Fearful of death,
determined to live forever,
impossibly worried,
blind by half,
we scurry through
the scattered alleys of life.
In our time of youth,
not enough time,
rarely enough money,
hardly enough love,
grasping at ends,
scarcely ever enough.
Adulthood
finds us pursuing religion,
politics and careers,
running downhill,
fornicating,
procreating,
recreating,
scorched in a pyre of ignorance,
tangle-fires of youth.
We struggle to earn enough,
be enough,
realize we haven’t learned enough,
paid enough attention before,
thought we knew it all,
frustrated
that our children know too much
about the wrong things,
refuse to listen
to what we have learned.
Nearer to and acutely aware of death,
fearful there is not time enough
to protect and teach them to survive,
we worry the empty rooms
of elders passed.
Graying and balding,
regretting, forgetting,
slowing, going down,
sentimentally elemental,
we are overcome
by chance thought
that what has been
may be enough.
Our spirits prepare us to journey,
leave our feet behind
on worried paths we have trod.
We begin to remember
cocoon water births
with new eyes,
caress what is left,
our lovely children and life mates,
that we may tell them in our going
the joy of knowing
they are the all and ever,
more than enough.
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2021 artwork and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2021
Music by Tommy Sterner ©
10-19-2020
Visions of a Night Child
Eyes peering through nights’ window
liquid notions, natural fluid movement
shadows dance and stop
For a heart-beat, even sound is dark
Senses swim in a sea of velvet
sinking, suffocating
Red satin dress, tight and wet
quivering she-beast waits
She will crawl
No one makes the night passage alone
Eyes peering through nights’ window
dark shapes gliding
smooth shadows sigh
What hollow sadness they must know
Careful wounds bleed black
tears worn across
fragile porcelain masks
Smile frozen, lips broken
frail beast keening
she dances the danse of all lost animals
Unsure, pale prisoner
in the night cage of her life
poison wrapped in golden
promises, lies dipped in sanity
fine-tuned to imbalance
ransom, twisted love game
suicide threats and love fades away
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2020 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2020 ©
Music composed and performed by
Tommy Sterner
Eyes peering through nights’ window
liquid notions, natural fluid movement
shadows dance and stop
For a heart-beat, even sound is dark
Senses swim in a sea of velvet
sinking, suffocating
Red satin dress, tight and wet
quivering she-beast waits
She will crawl
No one makes the night passage alone
Eyes peering through nights’ window
dark shapes gliding
smooth shadows sigh
What hollow sadness they must know
Careful wounds bleed black
tears worn across
fragile porcelain masks
Smile frozen, lips broken
frail beast keening
she dances the danse of all lost animals
Unsure, pale prisoner
in the night cage of her life
poison wrapped in golden
promises, lies dipped in sanity
fine-tuned to imbalance
ransom, twisted love game
suicide threats and love fades away
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2020 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2020 ©
Music composed and performed by
Tommy Sterner
4-7-2020
8-24-2020
4-9-2020 I Would
3-27-2020
12-30-2019
Wandering Gypsy - 12-16-2019
11-12-2019
10-23-2019
These hands awoke in water
to the voice of mother hum
That first bit of solace
I swam and sucked their thumbs
When the outside invaded
these hands made tiny fists
held themselves before me
punched holes in the mist
These hands have whispered prayer
whose voice the life I’ve lived
a quiet thanksgiving, my children
precious gifts life has chosen to give
These hands have reached for heaven
asking and wondering why
resolute, returned to the prayer
voices of answers inside
These hands have known the woman
in all her moods and graces
She led them through the darkness
into her secret places
When she touched and held them
these hands were hers to teach
They stood upon her body
she drew them down to reach
These hands have served as warriors
to put the monster down
and fluttered in confusion
their life blood on the ground
They’ve gripped the steel of cages
when pushed behind the door
been manacled and chained
at odds with law and war
These hands have prayed the prayer
pressed against the lips of time
When the final truth has spoken
they have learned to say good-bye
When these hands are finally resting
upon my quiet breast
of all the things these hands have done
they held and loved the best
These Hands was published by Long Island Sounds 2007
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2019 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2019 ©
to the voice of mother hum
That first bit of solace
I swam and sucked their thumbs
When the outside invaded
these hands made tiny fists
held themselves before me
punched holes in the mist
These hands have whispered prayer
whose voice the life I’ve lived
a quiet thanksgiving, my children
precious gifts life has chosen to give
These hands have reached for heaven
asking and wondering why
resolute, returned to the prayer
voices of answers inside
These hands have known the woman
in all her moods and graces
She led them through the darkness
into her secret places
When she touched and held them
these hands were hers to teach
They stood upon her body
she drew them down to reach
These hands have served as warriors
to put the monster down
and fluttered in confusion
their life blood on the ground
They’ve gripped the steel of cages
when pushed behind the door
been manacled and chained
at odds with law and war
These hands have prayed the prayer
pressed against the lips of time
When the final truth has spoken
they have learned to say good-bye
When these hands are finally resting
upon my quiet breast
of all the things these hands have done
they held and loved the best
These Hands was published by Long Island Sounds 2007
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2019 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2019 ©
10-4-2019
My brothers and I were ashamed and afraid, living in the West Denver Housing Projects in the sixties. The taunting of turf bullies was bad enough but our fear came from a deeper place. We were dirty white trash, poorer than the people there. Hiding out, living with our Auntie, we had to keep our noses clean and mouths shut. If someone snitched on us for being there, we’d be tossed out then what.
Cats’ Eyes Cats’ eyes stare from under the car The man used to shoot them when he was a boy rounds of four-hole and poison when you reached it five-pot in the middle He recalls circles drawn with crooked sticks in fresh summer dirt steelies and aggies hot sun and glass orbs ball-bearings far from the wound of their greased sleeves pockets worn into holes bare feet and stone bruises wrestling in the projects with brown children beaten for a dime proud as a piss-ant and twice as hungry cats’ eyes tied into knots in a bag cobwebs and a box of old shoes spider bones and ashes http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2019 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2019 © 
Ten Thousand Whispers - Bacchanal Mystique - 8-5-2019
7-24-2019
The winter wind blows, she blows I say
low and a winter love comes my way Winterkill When I first saw her I knew her name She was too cold too cold even to bleed I knew I had loved her long before I tasted even before my child’s eyes could see Then my small voice was crying out to her She answered always and suffered too much twin frozen rivers tracks of her tears She reaches out to touch brittle bones break Her ice fingers daggers tearing at my heart I am lost My love is the winter http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2019 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2019 © 
Crooked Little Girl (7-13-2019)
Crooked Little Girl
There was a crooked girl She drove a crooked car I met the crooked girl in a crooked people bar She don’t sleep at night talks the hours away wigglin', gigglin' come out to play Little bit o’ gypsy dancin' by the moon likes to play with fire and the silver spoon Crooked little girl drove her crooked car out into the desert underneath the stars Daddy called her princess Momma called her pie Preacher called her darlin’ taught her how to fly Folks sit and wonder why don’t she come home Crooked little girl got the travelin’ bone Native folk don’t mettle with the crooked or the damned leave 'em hell alone hide 'em from the man http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
Reprisal - 6-3-2019
Reprisal
Quiet path of a moon at half rest he lies with his hound watching her ears the patterns of her breathing eerily aware of fear in denial except an awareness that fate attends a knowledge of death Lay down in the hammered grass hallowed earth on the killing ground aware of scores the likely next Too many times with a gun in his hand a prayer in his shoe a life that has shown him the subtle difference between survival and a noble story http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2019 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2019 © 
5-21-2019
Hers was a dragon
mine an angel silhouette They moved as clouds will playing peek-a-boo with the sun soon became one and the same white mass floating Later, a rainbow climbed up from the ground and arched from one side of the sky to the other A late spring breeze promised rain Trees whispered secrets to their leaf children I listened closely to their flutter speak Raindrops melted on my skin faded through another Sunday afternoon of my life http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2019 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2019 © 
Hinge 1 - 5-20-2019
12-22-2018
The sink drip-drips,
the clock tick-tocks. Sounds deeper than blood, engrained like the smell of Papa’s cigarettes and Momma’s fear. He began regretting the future sooner than forgetting the past, remembering fellow long riders and Comacho Charley’s woman, Loretta, sexy damn mean. All that needs be, this storm, this life, he thinks. He lies, reading Tolstoy, jabbering gibberish, on his back, standing up with Bubba Kat. I like this cat too much, he thinks. Would have forgiven mother her damned pets if he’d known then what he knows now. Yes, and his son might have been Nikolai. What a great sound, that name. No room for that in the bottom of his youth. Junior; he suffers embarrassment, disappointment and shame, at the vanity of his used to be, a terrible longing, deeper than eyeless fish, crystal ball blind, to have it all back, lose none of his knowing in the process. As if he finally masters sleep, it will be good and all there is, all that needs be. http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
11-9-2018
He's chasing a barking dog
someone else’s mutt The howling in his brain offers no respite invites him to leave the damned thing alone Relegated to sitting for step-animals he imagines them run over by buses easier to sit for as road kill sustenance for his better friend the carrion crow its legion of death Is it rice in our brain or an infestation maggots crawling where flies have bred There is no wicked for the rest because we evil it worm it away deep caw-cacophony-caw searching for the ringer in a city of bells Her dark stockings, no underclothes the carrion crow leaves its dark issue in her belly hole Vanguards of waste not want not more of the hunt without the un-involvement of prey no quibbling thrill of the kill She invites seven strangers to the table of her sex insists her husband watch them dine who stabs her with a crucifix kisses her blood bubble mouth The carrion crow is her feast of prayer http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
flame 10-17-2018
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 with 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 would at once lay claim a shallow grave divided I tend to lie between some token awareness consciousness Which came first the egg or the bean Blackout describes best-held dreams I lit a candle to threaten stars No one laughs in this wayward place Would someone put out the light stop this ringing in my ears I am not afraid of night but see what is done in the light of day Please, don’t take my candle away http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©  10-4-2018
This piece is written for and dedicated to my Mother,Carroll Hart, 7 September 1931 - 11 July 2004
The Last Violin They said the night was behind us, whose tears had only begun Did you see the one they held prisoner, long for the songs left unsung And there, just above morning, they danced decades gone by lovers beyond this world of chance, caught in the winking moon’s eye I hear the strains of the last violin and the notes, each chord while it plays echoing through my mind ‘til it sings, the last violin of our days Sleep is the ghost we’ve been chasing, wearing faces left over again strangers in masks of our choosing, haunting places we’ve never been Time, the present reminder of pasts, even yet to be shared quicker than they are occurring, wonder, were we really there I hear the strains of the last violin and the notes, each chord while it plays echoing through my mind ‘til it sings, the last violin of our days A symphony sings at your cradle, an Ozarks sweet serenade rocking the night with her fiddle, the player whose aging chords fade You’ve learned to dance on without her, an angel whose feet kiss the floor and all the others stop dancing, the last violin plays no more I hear the strains of the last violin and the notes, each chord while it plays echoing through my mind ‘til it sings, the last violin of our days http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
there’s a white woman in the room
shampoo you can’t judge speed from a distance come on down there is no ending but I do appreciate your rejection beauty abounds on the face of youth freefall tiger loose in the woods midnight fisherwoman lines on water waterline she hid her spirit sun-streaks on the garden submission will of masters a tongue in the cave tasteless commentary witness wisdoms damned to be thirsty fellow witnesses all hail bride of satan to wings aspire shallow aurora shadow of Eos no time like now something fishy swim I don’t understand you thank-you your applause might unearth me respite of tyrants from mouths of babes epithet lullaby a mother to strangers orphans of choice voice of descent six cubed down decision to wear my motor a free and separate passion dizzying rain dithery doo unclear as stark light a bug on the windscreen this dream sequence leggy bits of goo the cueing of partners frazzling thread bits bananas on a plate speaking of winter four times a dollar quarters of century ill-spent years praying for mother who will hold us up robbers upon closing death is a whip nine bells down prisoners of light moth conspiracy war men fan the flames sense of dignity left and right crosses requirements of requiem asleep in the choir voice deeper than stone let us taste his beans the door of opportunity three winds in a vacuum outside waiting, four more we were passed by Dilbert a tin-can tuna melt tryin’ to live in the hills a writer of camp songs she has fish eyes ducks swimming ‘cross the sky each drawer wears a masque alone in the room life is crosstie walkin’ footsteps on the moon sadder than spilt water funnel of mercy she listens to voices owls asleep in the afternoon for a slice of white bread dreams of the kill intent of counterpoint duelists in the dawn portrait silhouette the baby is crying a city on the move weeping mountains witless romantic the emperor sighs legends of god-speak thin binding flesh momma’s smoking a cigarette laughter from the whiskey bar we slept in a roadhouse the moon is at seven with some consideration a sharing of wounds raccoons crossing the yard the wife and I drank tea her personal favorite what children don’t know the clamor of legion awaiting window wooden never bored phat pulpit dancers he was eight parts wisdom the rest must come before a howling of madmen presumptuous creed there are more white cars China is down under kangaroos are not whiskey men philosophers the angel risks imagination shoestring around her throat progression of aims don’t hold me up sharpen your whistle lay down your weapons anticipate this the little man is unbelted we got laws to prove you three times protector bullet in the brain ain’t no wax dummy there are porcelain lips who sing the heart song we are too sick to beg she would rather walk paddle canoe, oar else come fathom the morrow we is in too deep time out for prayers they’re digging trenches television snowstorm resolute madness an eye on the storm shuffling gait twisted scenario truth teasing the pickpocket no crowd control so help us god money fresh folding when praying is preying man beneath the robe don’t climb into the box willing prisoner we police ourselves 1-800-to snitch you ain’t no bargain basement small wonder price we pay nestled on a hill hugged in a closet children are glad houses ante up everyone wins traffic is a phat truck a snail crawls our brain either no leftovers or that’s all there is a treatise on selling out snowmen in the dark stick figures and angels homesick at home a juried selection prisoners executed at dawn the art of living and of living art an eager applicant bottom line aficionados three monkeys for lunch acute indigestion mother spoon nipple simple garden rape pure of poison deadliest sin don’t make those faces injurious by design listen to the song of your loins a children’s choir a lavender sunrise midnight promises house of whispers where lovers reside nothing is perfect errant drift of cloud life change is on the wind a likening to sorrow something’s eating his brain doubt and melancholy no not what might have been what must have been yes http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
Trees 5-23-2018
Tympani of armor, whisper leaves click
roots of dawn, dinosaurs and ants devour us give birth to our children god-brain consciousness chaos, catastrophe stasis, reduced mobility morbidity metamorphosis blood on blood definition diseased to survive destined to breed out Trees Like giant frozen ants they people the horizon Are they marching or clouds passing illusion or prehistoric gait open to specific remembrance certainty of future scenes opportunities in the eye of dawn On the threshold a keen awareness develops presents windows frames of reference to circles we have been tied wandering to bodies of water feet planted, tender roots proud-bent and dependent Each separate universe of skin a community of creatures rapt about its god brain chaos random catastrophic event brittle static hair nests a whisper of dinosaur wing primordial umbrella Trees was published in Newsletter Inago 2006 http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©  (4-30-2018)
Blessings of Phaedra I go down until I am surrounded by yellow music. There is nothing beneath me. My mother’s dead lips smile and say, “See, there is nothing less than we.” The earth is my camp breath, its worms and the heat of my bowels. Night sweat means nothing to those who do not sleep. It is a reminding stench, a pitiful outside offering. Take me down to the circus to witness the misery of other animals, the empirical majesty and absolute dominion of man, where only the elephant is sadder than me. Lost in a sea of green money and fingertip fishes seeking greedy, sucky, moments of avarice, she has eleven open mouths, swallows the whole of me. She promised to keep a frail lantern alight in the window, naming and claiming its message of Phaedra, calling itself home. Falling into a forest of a thousand guitars, whose root strings are tender, is the master of chord. He hangs himself from the nearest instrument, dies on the music of the wind. “Meet me in your dreams,” she cries “next best thing to being there.” Shadow shapes whisper my name. I am blind in the periphery. In every dream, I die. A wounded animal, I smell the rot of my flesh, damn the maggots for eating parts of me left better to putrefy for a friendly chinook to scatter across the end land. Sleep is the kingdom of the healthy, where the strong go to rest and the weak to escape. There are madnesses between sleep where we pariahs, alleys roam. In a pasture of lowing, moon-swept, pastoral and fine, we are the hunter’s lust to slay with fang and claw, all that lives then starve on a body of prey. The pretty boys were singing downtown, making heat for long-legged girls, flinging epithets at old-man beggars and high roller winos. Midnight don’t mean nothin’ to strangers. I got one foot in Jesus, the other in the ditch. Spirituality is a ringworm, makes you itch, digs down underneath flesh, to feast on bone marrow. C’mon, take me out walkin’ until my feet are underwater, eyes full of sand. I’ll look down and wonder, all gritty, where the hell did they go. The man on the radio says ha-ha, talks to girls about their titties and why don’t they join a swinger’s club, do it in front of their old men, breaks for a commercial about shaking babies. Life makes about as much sense as two nickels rubbed together, don’t make a dime. You put it all up front and when it falls down, you walk away and wonder, was it something you said or maybe you didn’t. I knew a man named Jimi. He got hot pissed when they took away one of his m’s, set fire to his instrument, banged his head on the floor. Ah hell, it’s all in the letters. I loathe rooms with four walls, double doors and window mirrors. They see everything you do, look back, contemptuous, to remind you of everything you don’t. Yesterday there was something in my soup. I believe it loved me. The prayer I said over it was beautiful. You are woman, you are my hope, my dream then I killed and ate the damned thing. There may be enough pills in this bottle to still the phantoms behind my eyes that I might cop a few hours of death, leave this drifting shadow place in favor of the delight of ebon fantasies. Be kind to me, you damned night. Allow me acceptance, her invitation and, with the blessing of Phaedra, whose death by her own hand is the sleep death, the revenge of sons. Blessings of Phaedra was published 2008 in The Hudson View and nominated for The Pushcart Prize http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©  (3-28-2018)
It finally arrived the 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 feet of earth and wings of sky an invitation to glory the likes of which I see sun through each a fluttering land beautiful mute you are so much and expect so little you are at peace while I envy you heaven that fair bit of sky http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © |
7-14-2019
When the final dance is over
I'll be holding up the wall with these eyes, a thousand candles years passing down the hall I see you in your soft gown wings of eternal lace in a pirouette, never-ending your fall through the fingers of grace When the last grave has been filled I will stand me aside with my spade bite down through layers of dust lost civilizations have made I will kiss your skin through a candle ashes and blood of your name with lips of ten thousand lovers godforsaken and soon to be slain When the tide is a weeping of rivers flames, a face on the sand I will shed my garment, reveal at last and for once who I am Children awake in the forest wander a garden of moon Sleep now, earth is your cradle held in a moment of lune Whither Go Watching was published by Brown County Writers’ Group (Cupid’s Arrow) 2004 http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2019 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2019 © 
6-26-2019
In loving memory of my Mother, Carroll Belle Hart (Stene-Sterner)
7 September, 1931 – 11 July, 2004 Momma’s Hands Momma's hands held mine, patty-cake tickling my piggies baby powder soft “I was raised by sisters in a Catholic orphanage,” she told me, my tiny fists around her fingers I learned to walk in Momma’s hands offered love and solace fingers pushing Vicks into my nose rubbing it into my chest pinning towels tight around a cold that never had a chance caressed my face, trembled that I might be tended by the awesome healing power of Momma’s hands knew every part of me my young and broken heart a cradle they would make that I would be safe and secure beneath their wings A tender-keep they were brothers and sisters, each and all gathered within the circle of Momma’s hands birthing and growing teaching and knowing when to let go when to shelter and pull away the wounds of her life made small by the desire to tend to helpless things danger held at bay and more ‘neath Momma’s hands Something fell her down we gathered in ones and twos in the hospital ICU doctors and nurses understanding shaking their heads “I’m so tired,” she said they lay limp at her side and I cried at the sight of Momma’s hands “Where’s the priest?” “Are those the sisters?” she asked my sister “Are they coming to tell me what they used to tell me... Wake up, little girlDon’t you cry” her voice was thin “I’m not gonna die” A tear slid down her face “I’m going home” Later after she has rested she is much weaker once proud lips full, no clouded eyes, the merciful opiate haze of morphine oh, you candle spirit what are we without you what is life without her time stops my lips, one last kiss those hands, whose job is done are finally at rest I lift them up, one by one and kiss them goodbye Momma’s hands http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2019 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2019 © 
6-17-2019
Eyes o’ Wonder/Line o' Sight
These eyes have watched the spring grass blowing They have tossed and turned the clouds of afternoon into images of summer on the way We are passing We are going and the zephyr it is blowing rolling gently through 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 lions in the grass angels on the ground We fall down laughing These eyes have opened They have wondered the horizon loved the eyes beside them They have blinked upon the dawn closed themselves away found a path across the room and gone walking through blowing blades of grass to the only one they knew would come to find them Eyes o’ Wonder/Line o' Sight was published by Hudson Review 2009 http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2019 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2019 © 
6-11-2019
Insomuch as We are Able
Insomuch as we are able and ever bent to stand Let us sing a song of children what they say with eyes and tiny hands touching goodness and wellness a solid stand of days Insomuch as we are able and ever kneeling tall Let us sing a song of mother that voice before all others the space she touched within We’ve never been without her simple peace of shade Insomuch as we are able and ever standing down Let us sing a song of family those before and after them circle storms entwining sadness and gladness a gentle cleansing rain http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2019 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2019 © 
5-26-2019
On the ride to work each day
I watch the soldiers' cemetery pass. Everything appears equal there, stone tablets standing at attention, grass trimmed by wiry brown-skinned men. I see a lady bend down; she kneels, sets a cup full of wild flowers before a stone. I feel a hitch in my breath to watch. Flags ever in evidence, the here and now of this place and this day, each grave adorned with a tiny standard, its solemn face. A warm day, end of May I roll to a stop, set my kickstand down, senses immediately assaulted by a most deep and haunting sound. My legs walk away from the Harley standing. I stood open witness, his one-man parade, tartan kilt, regal attire, pipes slung over his shoulder, moaning, set the morning afire. The perfect precision of his gait, distance practiced, known too well. Here marched the spirits of these soldiers to ring their lives with his mournful bell. My heart was flushed with guilt in its watching. His lady, with a single flower, came to gather up her man, his pipes with their mournful singing. She took his arm with her hand. I went to the stone of her choosing where Ian the first was lain, then to the end of the piper's walk, the sky shed a tear of rain. These eyes confused in their seeing. A newer stone whose name the same, here lies Ian the third. I followed the voice of the piper, loneliest sound ever heard. And there was Ian the Junior, standing aside with his wife, a fair compliment of mourners bidding farewell to a life. What greed mine curiosity shown. The pipes trailed away in their singing, a reverend mumbled words to the sky that Lord, they are brave in their going, these lads to their sweet by and by. A final note owned the moment to soar with its spirit way up high. The crack of twenty-one rifles, exclamation marks against the sky. What mortal undone was I. Ian the second passed by me, his proud pipes bellowed once more. His wife let fall of her flower on top of that last mortal door. And he paced from Ian to Ian, this man no one could save, whose soldier's sin was still to be living with father and son in their graves. And the rain hid my face from his eyes. Those without Graves was published by International Veterans Poetry Archives 2004 http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2019 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2019 © 
5-3-2019
1-22-2019
11-22-2018
I didn’t enjoy working at Wal~Mart
especially didn’t care for the lunchroom too much bullshit for me The tin bosses hung out there I’d go freeze or sweat in my truck in the parking lot on break I was rewarded one day when a most beautiful ugly angel appeared No Beggar Simple I saw him first one September morn, a rotund personage and yesterday, picking aluminum cans from the trash Today was different as I sat parked in the lot eating lunch outside Wal~Mart watching him, once more His arm arched out as if involved in a great sowing A wing appeared from behind his hand then I saw the gulls The tin-can man was transformed into one who calls birds from the sky Before my eyes, buildings disappeared The tarmac was a field of tall waving grass Sound of waves breaking joined the calls of white swooping birds This man, their friend, strolled in front of the windscreen of my pickup oblivious of me, transcended of moment His greater being, truer self, shone the bag filled with cans lain aside in favor of hands and a heart filled with love for his fellow creatures No Beggar Simple was first published in Literati Magazine, Arts Poetica http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
8-26-2018
There’s an angry carpenter building
a table without any legs a mother teaching her children to fetch, sit up, and beg The dogs of night make a prayer for the lady without any hands She applauds the one-legged preacher who left his parts in old Vietnam Innocent drug angel darlings stare into the guns of the raid 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 and 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 I doubt they’ll 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 whisper “return nevermore” A child looks in the mirror wonders, ‘Why in hell was I born?’ Someone has slain all its warriors tortured the king of its soul Mother and father are preying in the barroom for pots of its gold Life is a constant reminder death, the warrior who waits Fate owns the face in the mirror the key to the lock on its gate Have you noticed her freedom the laughter behind all her lies where chaos and order go dancing only chaos survives I walked the shores of her oceans soft and cold and afraid followed the paths of her creatures cross her vast expanse Esplanade I have tasted the breath of her seasons her bitter roots and sweet wine and 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 Her scars are written upon me from sleeping too close to the wound skin so easily broken 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 cry out “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 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, goddam, I know why Her heart is ten thousand times broken She tries, they won’t let her die 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 filthy inside You cannot see through a mirror just going along for the ride She is all, she is all that exists make myself naked and wade follow her down ‘til eternity passes She is all, she is all Esplanade All tangled up in my covers afraid of the dark and the day I wait ‘til she comes to hold me and chase my darkness away Then I lay at her breast like an infant suckled and cozily warm She covers my seed with the earth of her body to shelter me from the storm I drink her milk and I bite her feeding upon her the same I call her triangular mother and know her by no other name With her blood and milk on my muzzle I weep in the mess I have made She wraps me in flowers and 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 and 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 and shade watching the children as they start their journey into her heart Esplanade http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©  4-12-2018
Dusk
Night comes welcome in the golden dusk, standing between earth and sky, spirit full, end of day.  (4-4-2018)
Writing his way into her heart speaking of hope dreams and aspirations naming a flower bait-switching to her name the poet’s illusion the sound in his mouth blood of his pen Pureblood If I was a writer I would write your name twice write your name twice teach your feet to dance to the sound of my voice sing to you in octaves of ink and desire pages of love and love on each page I would capture your eyes stoke your inner fires with a pureblood of word paint passion in layers with the brush of my pen delivered in ebon dirges and odes of delight ballads heroic and romantic So singing, woman I would lay you down gently a lost beggar poet plead bravely to join you there share your soft pillow luxuriate in the scent of your hair I would whisper to you of halo the exquisite madness of love Lo, I am not so gifted though I attempt to rise to lofty, soaring heights that I might find myself in love and loved in your eyes There is deep hope for my pen that the spilling of its blood is quite enough to write your name twice If I was a poet I would sit ‘neath your window down sing to you my verses a moonlight serenade until you rose to come with me on a path where we’d walk hand in hand I would write your name twice write your name twice http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©  (12-30-2017)
Waking up to lavender skies, peeling off layers of sleep. The future comes from the east. Dreams and schemes of deliverance appear as opiate fantasies, spiders crossing the web of morning, dusty remnants of dusk. Eos resides in our spirits, immune to time’s messages. Fresh breath is dawn, whispers aweigh. Secrets of night lain on cloud pillow, held high and higher yet. Promises to self are kept. Now lift me up then sing to me, voices fresh a-morning, a cleansing solitude, a lullaby just before full consciousness, eve is lost. Behold the celebration to which dawn aspires. Ode to Eos was published by Aurora Review 2005 http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 ©  Icelander Rune (3-1-2018)
Sifting through dust and snow stealing images from others’ clothes Moths and mice, spiders throughout crawling across the web brain Toss a stone, make a bet who were these people Children of earth whose future appears as you Icelander Rune Snow has come to visit Ice fingers point from the sky Mountains sulk in white cloaks Crystal daggers hang from the eaves Starving poets crave the muse gnaw at garments of gods curse life and fear death seek reason in children’s faces make snow angels in the dust Eyes steal from the attic iron hinges, square-down-door winter stuff in a chest pneumonia, dead people’s clothes Icelander Rune was published in The Pettycoat Relaxer 2004 http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©  (12/15/2017)
These Hands These hands awoke in water to the voice of mother hum That first bit of solace I swam & sucked their thumbs When the outside invaded these hands made tiny fists held themselves before me punched holes in the mist These hands have whispered prayer whose voice the life I’ve lived a quiet thanksgiving, my children precious gifts life has chosen to give These hands have reached for heaven asking & wondering why resolute, returned to the prayer voices of answers inside These hands have known the woman in all her moods & graces She led them through the darkness into her secret places When she touched & held them these hands were hers to teach They stood upon her body she drew them down to reach These hands have served as warriors to put the monster down & fluttered in confusion their life blood on the ground They’ve gripped the steel of cages when pushed behind the door been manacled & chained at odds with law & war These hands have prayed the prayer pressed against the lips of time When the final truth has spoken they have learned to say good-bye When these hands are finally resting upon my quiet breast of all the things these hands have done they held & loved the best http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © These Hands was published by Long Island Sounds 2007  (3-15-2018)
I spent my time in the desert, a thousand days, a place called California, crawling through the mess of me, away from my people, searching for the rest of me, scribbling on a steno pad. The 981st day I was eating breakfast at Denny’s and what’s the bum on the sidewalk, face smooshed against the window got to do with it, licking her lips, watching me eat, slobbering on herself. I pushed my plate back, asked the waitress for a doggy bag, emptied the table into it, a sprinkle of coins from my pocket. Dropped the whole mess in a trash receptacle, made the bum work for it like I did. Change Air conditioning and traffic lamentations of the damned outside looking in cardboard signs and weeping sailors on the tarmac gimme, gimme I’m homeless, gimme a dollar an oar they’re going around in circles and dimes http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©  (2-2-2018)
Might have said I love you ten thousand echoes reside three wandering moons of Atlantis conspire to conceal, they hide the city, my love is a rainbow whose path is come open and wide a tumble me down forever whistling prayer, neap tide Might have said who are you whose sleep I have come to share far misty mountains abiding a halo of sun as they bear tree children, my love is a whis’pring wind through needles, their hair lift me up, I’m a flying man whose heart is lighter than air Might have said where are you lonely nights lying awake a misty gath’ring of shadow fair ghosts of tomorrow will shake their heads, my love is a phantom a cry of hope for their sake whose spirit alive in my bosom a lay me down I would make Might have said I’ve found you into the face of the night the sun, a cascade of falling narrowing pathways of light a fire, my love is a ribbon shimmering gem of delight a body of faith come rewarded healing caresses ignite Might have said I love you then finally found your face the stars, a sprinkling of heaven find sorrow and come to erase the dark, my love is a promise a choosing of time and place whose moment I have come seeking has found me and blessed me with grace Might Have Said was published by Cupid’s Arrow 2004 http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © |