6-21-2023
Those without Graves
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
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
04-05-2023
03-20-2023
02-28-2023
02-25-2023
02-24-2013
02-23-2023
02-22-2023
02-20-2023
02-10-2023
02-03-2023
01-26-2023
12-30-2022
Thanks to my talented sons, Tommy, for the guitar work and Zedidiah, for putting together the video for this song. I feel like the three of us have been doing this together for thousands of years.
Farewell Captain Charlie
Seems like we were talking and arguing away
when I walked out the door to see the sunny day
Vaguely I remember what it meant to kiss your lips
but then I’m sure you know how my memory slips
how my memory slips
Yes, I really loved you, more than I can tell
I followed you to heaven; we ended up in hell
There’s nothing more surprising than seven yesterdays
I’m thinking of tomorrow, all that I can say
oh, all that I can say
is farewell Captain Charlie
bright and sparkly eyes
patches on your blue jeans
a teardrop in the sky
a teardrop in the sky
Yes, farewell captain charlie
all good things must end
molded plastic kingdom
boys turn into men, boys turn into men
Farewell Captain Charlie
Seems like we were talking and arguing away
when I walked out the door to see the sunny day
Vaguely I remember what it meant to kiss your lips
but then I’m sure you know how my memory slips
how my memory slips
Yes, I really loved you, more than I can tell
I followed you to heaven; we ended up in hell
There’s nothing more surprising than seven yesterdays
I’m thinking of tomorrow, all that I can say
oh, all that I can say
is farewell Captain Charlie
bright and sparkly eyes
patches on your blue jeans
a teardrop in the sky
a teardrop in the sky
Yes, farewell captain charlie
all good things must end
molded plastic kingdom
boys turn into men, boys turn into men
Pariah 12-18-2022
Pariah
On a cold steep night
Harley rumbling ‘tween my knees
I watch the beggar man dig
his gleeful dance at morsels found
a gobbling pirouette
Eyes closed tight
a beast warren of hunger
prowling bones of the poor
Momma got no fat kids
Proud and fearful, she prays
She works at the club restaurant bar
a ten-penny waitress, pinch and tip
empties plates into her hideout bag
treasures she smuggles home to her litter
Ah, Mister Beggar Man
we are brothers of the blood
Underneath coffee grounds
slick ash cigarette, lies the prize precious ort
We are proud in our poverty
angry in our shame
wrong side of never and lost, found wanting
I kiss the wind between us, ride fast into the night
On a cold steep night
Harley rumbling ‘tween my knees
I watch the beggar man dig
his gleeful dance at morsels found
a gobbling pirouette
Eyes closed tight
a beast warren of hunger
prowling bones of the poor
Momma got no fat kids
Proud and fearful, she prays
She works at the club restaurant bar
a ten-penny waitress, pinch and tip
empties plates into her hideout bag
treasures she smuggles home to her litter
Ah, Mister Beggar Man
we are brothers of the blood
Underneath coffee grounds
slick ash cigarette, lies the prize precious ort
We are proud in our poverty
angry in our shame
wrong side of never and lost, found wanting
I kiss the wind between us, ride fast into the night
12-06-2022
11-30-2022
11-28-2022
11-27-2022
11-23-2022
11-22-2022 - 2nd verse
11-20-2022
11-18-2022
11-16-2022
11-10-2022
11-09-2022
11-06-2022
11-04-2022
Fade 11-03-2022
Hinge 18: Corona - 11-01-2018
10-27-2022
10-25-2022
10-22-2022
10-20-2022
10-18-2022
10-17-2022
Bad Juju - 10-15-2022
Bad Juju 10-05-2022
09-27-2022
09-23-2022
Lonely Only 09-22-2022
09-21-2022
09-19-2022
09-18-2022
09-17-2022
09-15-2022
09-01-2022
08-31-2022
08-29-2022
08-25-2022
Pariah 08-23-2022
08-22-2022
08-21-2022
08-17-2022
08-16-2022
08-15-2022
08-12-2022
08-11-2022
08-10-2022
08-09-2022
08-07-2022
08-06-2022 Ikigai
08-05-2022
08-04-2022
08-03-2022 Meditation 5
08-01-2022
07-30-2022
07-29-2022
07-28-2022
07-27-2022
07-26-2022
07-14-2022
Pray excuse my edge
Dismiss me out of hand
Angry man
on a barstool
on a toilet
opening a hymnal
singing his praises
False security
protection
of religion
of dependence
of sanctions
in a cage
in a urinal
in a pocket
Rage spends itself
is the currency of monsters
is the spittle puke
is blood dripping from the ceiling
Did someone die in here
blood splatter and perfume
red blots on the page
bookmark
Wait
You missed the part
where I enter
front stage center
dark horse black
No
He crossed the room
spilled his guts
fell over the porch rail
drowned
on his blood gorge
on the sidewalk
Federal Boulevard
in front of the bar
in public
on the wrong side of night
Well
he fucked up the bathroom
Who’s gonna clean up this mess
Cops don’t care
They are tin men in the city
citizen protectors
in a protracted environment
paid guests at the door
at the table
at the gimmee
more blood feast
I wanna know
if he finished the book
before he mauled the princess
robbed the beggar
refused to acknowledge
and show respect for the band
That piece of meat on the sidewalk
it belongs there
exemplifies
horrifies
glorifies the city fathers
I wanna go home
take the Cherokee princess with me
make her safe
return her to the sultanate
of the people
Mister detective
politician
I am unable to learn your lies
much less believe them
The good man
the angry man
tucked his long knife
into the cigarette machine
I put the princess on a bus
destination
the raped and looted
spiritual ground of our fathers
nails rusting in the bodies
of our friends
the trees
where our ancestors’ children
were crucified
skinned alive
skins worth more
to the white machine
than the hides of brother buffalo
Angry man in a room
on a chair
beneath the glaring false light
staring into the eyes
of his inquisitors
moved past hate
moved beyond sorrow
underwater drifting
floating between life and
un-death
Hanging on
very little left
right horse white
angry man
on the barstool
in a cage
on a toilet
rage
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2022 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2022 ©
Music composed and performed by
Tommy Sterner
Dismiss me out of hand
Angry man
on a barstool
on a toilet
opening a hymnal
singing his praises
False security
protection
of religion
of dependence
of sanctions
in a cage
in a urinal
in a pocket
Rage spends itself
is the currency of monsters
is the spittle puke
is blood dripping from the ceiling
Did someone die in here
blood splatter and perfume
red blots on the page
bookmark
Wait
You missed the part
where I enter
front stage center
dark horse black
No
He crossed the room
spilled his guts
fell over the porch rail
drowned
on his blood gorge
on the sidewalk
Federal Boulevard
in front of the bar
in public
on the wrong side of night
Well
he fucked up the bathroom
Who’s gonna clean up this mess
Cops don’t care
They are tin men in the city
citizen protectors
in a protracted environment
paid guests at the door
at the table
at the gimmee
more blood feast
I wanna know
if he finished the book
before he mauled the princess
robbed the beggar
refused to acknowledge
and show respect for the band
That piece of meat on the sidewalk
it belongs there
exemplifies
horrifies
glorifies the city fathers
I wanna go home
take the Cherokee princess with me
make her safe
return her to the sultanate
of the people
Mister detective
politician
I am unable to learn your lies
much less believe them
The good man
the angry man
tucked his long knife
into the cigarette machine
I put the princess on a bus
destination
the raped and looted
spiritual ground of our fathers
nails rusting in the bodies
of our friends
the trees
where our ancestors’ children
were crucified
skinned alive
skins worth more
to the white machine
than the hides of brother buffalo
Angry man in a room
on a chair
beneath the glaring false light
staring into the eyes
of his inquisitors
moved past hate
moved beyond sorrow
underwater drifting
floating between life and
un-death
Hanging on
very little left
right horse white
angry man
on the barstool
in a cage
on a toilet
rage
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2022 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2022 ©
Music composed and performed by
Tommy Sterner
07-13-2022
07-12-2022
07-11-2022
principled father
mother of purity
absence of vanity
sincerity of purpose
all things humane
freedom at any cost
safety in numbers
glory in defeat
atonement of sin
pity as pacifier
normal assemblage
benevolence of royalty
holiness of priests
the erect politician
moral policeman
singular motive
best intentions
chaste kisses
government promise
lap of luxury
sincere beggar
sex for sex sake
love for sex sake
heaven sake
reconciled victim
rehabilitated rapist
whenever 'I'm sorry'
love other than self
existence of oases
a dignified death
sincere amnesty
this bears repetition
this bears repetition
this bears repetition
art for art's sake
man in gods' image
woman as reward
honorific recognition
original sin
any reference to aeon
distance as love bait
I won't hurt you
my dog doesn't bite
obvious intentions
light of day
light of night
wise men
animals as speaking idiots
other than human
shared prosperity
faith in dervish
sanity of justice
welfare Cadillac
clean water
drug counselor
psychological awareness
social security
hope for the poor
foundation of family
driving on the telephone
green peace
war on drugs
capital expenditures
common sense
lifetime warranty
satisfaction guaranteed
customer service
free rent
damage deposit
Christian forgiveness
the open sea
dumb animals
good guys and bad guys
them and us
clean living
winners and losers
a free ride
one square inch unpolluted
relief valve
escape key
any true witness
other than chaos
normal behavior
square corners
outer limits
inner peace
immaculate conception
protective custody
a round tuit
acceptable losses
the flying man
death of gods
age of reason
missionary largesse
preventative medicine
innocent until
free will
human connection
mated for life
dominion
funereal disguise
bread winners
non combative personality
organized religion
a striving toward normalcy
process of elimination
running stool
amicable reconciliation
affordable housing
good drivers
critical mass
high priest
drug lord
dutiful wife
eclectic taste
the third breast
idle conversation
state of unrest
state of Colorado
state of being
merciful heaven
absolution of sin
war and peace
battle mockup
unadulterated flesh
season of plenty
life on far planets
this one in particular
backup system
angels and hat men
ladies of the night
accidental collusion
intentional chaos
will to power
wont to shame
acronymic truth
prison politic
unequivocal device
prayer endings amen
random violence
any number of senses
innocence lost
a shovel full of Eden
plastered in Paris
father as bitch
same gender parents
man as god
holy remembrance
holy cow
mythical union
forward thinkers
successful committee
I didn't mean to
a bad seed
the good son
overkill
homing pigeons
Christ on a toothpick
sincere prostitute
honest john
solemn oath
They sat in a circle, the two of them. Theirs was a shared awareness of nothing. Infinite possibilities, a vision of Lords danced between them, will of Creator, wisp of essence. Incapable of boredom, with some sense of humor, a combined energy, was given birth the moment.
Having no sense of entitlement, not only did they not name the child Time, it was loosed, allowed a will of its own. These of the circle yawned as their child adopted a spiracle tone, wrapped itself in universe, mad inventions of its own. The result, what it created, made a terrible howling and the parents, annoyed by the child's noisome toys, allowed the two-sided circle to close. Thus were erected the heir apparent and errant parent.
The spoiled child, angry and alone, playing in the blood of its mud, began to manufacture discontent and a creature whose image mirrored what it imagined it might be, given mortality and physical form. These chose to idolize themselves and porcelain gods in their image.
The child, Time, swore a fury of vengeance upon the beings it had made, that they would wither away, face always a declining and decrepit flesh, hunger ever more for youth as Time itself devoured all before and about them.
Finally, each moment was named for this merciless master. The hollow spheres of its kingdom were erected temples owned in the name given the master and that name was GOD.
fidelity of flesh
unintentional idol
death after life
Mirage won the Marija Cerjak Society Award for Avant-garde/Experimental Writing 2002
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2022 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2022 ©
Music composed and performed by
Tommy Sterner
mother of purity
absence of vanity
sincerity of purpose
all things humane
freedom at any cost
safety in numbers
glory in defeat
atonement of sin
pity as pacifier
normal assemblage
benevolence of royalty
holiness of priests
the erect politician
moral policeman
singular motive
best intentions
chaste kisses
government promise
lap of luxury
sincere beggar
sex for sex sake
love for sex sake
heaven sake
reconciled victim
rehabilitated rapist
whenever 'I'm sorry'
love other than self
existence of oases
a dignified death
sincere amnesty
this bears repetition
this bears repetition
this bears repetition
art for art's sake
man in gods' image
woman as reward
honorific recognition
original sin
any reference to aeon
distance as love bait
I won't hurt you
my dog doesn't bite
obvious intentions
light of day
light of night
wise men
animals as speaking idiots
other than human
shared prosperity
faith in dervish
sanity of justice
welfare Cadillac
clean water
drug counselor
psychological awareness
social security
hope for the poor
foundation of family
driving on the telephone
green peace
war on drugs
capital expenditures
common sense
lifetime warranty
satisfaction guaranteed
customer service
free rent
damage deposit
Christian forgiveness
the open sea
dumb animals
good guys and bad guys
them and us
clean living
winners and losers
a free ride
one square inch unpolluted
relief valve
escape key
any true witness
other than chaos
normal behavior
square corners
outer limits
inner peace
immaculate conception
protective custody
a round tuit
acceptable losses
the flying man
death of gods
age of reason
missionary largesse
preventative medicine
innocent until
free will
human connection
mated for life
dominion
funereal disguise
bread winners
non combative personality
organized religion
a striving toward normalcy
process of elimination
running stool
amicable reconciliation
affordable housing
good drivers
critical mass
high priest
drug lord
dutiful wife
eclectic taste
the third breast
idle conversation
state of unrest
state of Colorado
state of being
merciful heaven
absolution of sin
war and peace
battle mockup
unadulterated flesh
season of plenty
life on far planets
this one in particular
backup system
angels and hat men
ladies of the night
accidental collusion
intentional chaos
will to power
wont to shame
acronymic truth
prison politic
unequivocal device
prayer endings amen
random violence
any number of senses
innocence lost
a shovel full of Eden
plastered in Paris
father as bitch
same gender parents
man as god
holy remembrance
holy cow
mythical union
forward thinkers
successful committee
I didn't mean to
a bad seed
the good son
overkill
homing pigeons
Christ on a toothpick
sincere prostitute
honest john
solemn oath
They sat in a circle, the two of them. Theirs was a shared awareness of nothing. Infinite possibilities, a vision of Lords danced between them, will of Creator, wisp of essence. Incapable of boredom, with some sense of humor, a combined energy, was given birth the moment.
Having no sense of entitlement, not only did they not name the child Time, it was loosed, allowed a will of its own. These of the circle yawned as their child adopted a spiracle tone, wrapped itself in universe, mad inventions of its own. The result, what it created, made a terrible howling and the parents, annoyed by the child's noisome toys, allowed the two-sided circle to close. Thus were erected the heir apparent and errant parent.
The spoiled child, angry and alone, playing in the blood of its mud, began to manufacture discontent and a creature whose image mirrored what it imagined it might be, given mortality and physical form. These chose to idolize themselves and porcelain gods in their image.
The child, Time, swore a fury of vengeance upon the beings it had made, that they would wither away, face always a declining and decrepit flesh, hunger ever more for youth as Time itself devoured all before and about them.
Finally, each moment was named for this merciless master. The hollow spheres of its kingdom were erected temples owned in the name given the master and that name was GOD.
fidelity of flesh
unintentional idol
death after life
Mirage won the Marija Cerjak Society Award for Avant-garde/Experimental Writing 2002
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2022 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2022 ©
Music composed and performed by
Tommy Sterner
07-10-2022
07-09-2022
07-08-2022
07-07-2022
Dapping
The three brothers scoured the shoreline, carefully picking and choosing, culling, then met, each with a dozen special stones in his pocket. The oldest said to the youngest, “You’re the littlest, so you go first. Come on, give us somethin’ to shoot at!” The six-year-old took a deep breath, rared back and heaved a stone. Kerplunk. It fell a few feet in front of where he stood at the water’s edge.
Then the skinny boy with freckles, the middle brother, laughed and kissed the stone in his hand. “Lemme show ya how to do this!” He backed up half a dozen steps then ran to the water’s edge. His stone hit the surface of the water flat, skip, skip-skip, seventeen skips and maybe more as it bounced out of sight.
Zzzz-zt. The three boys stopped what they were doing and turned in the same direction as if their movements had been choreographed. They stared at a spot a short distance away where their fishing poles were propped on Y-shaped sticks stuck in the mud. The middle pole was bent over and, as they watched, went horizontal. Zzz-ip and it disappeared underneath the water. The boy with freckles dove in after it. “No!” the oldest boy yelled.
“No! No!” the smallest boy echoed. They watched wide-eyed as he followed the fishing pole under the muddy water.
The thin boy bobbed up a few yards out, then swam easily back to shore. He climbed out of the water and plopped himself down dejectedly on the ground. “Yer gonna get in trouble fer losin’ yer pole,” his younger brother warned, “Daddy says yer allays losin’ stuff!”
“Come on, you’d better pull yours in too,” the older brother interjected.
The youngest boy took his pole to hand. “I got somethin’ big ‘n heavy.”
“Oh, it’s a big ‘un!” the older brother exclaimed. “Reel mine in!” he said to the middle brother, “I gotta help him!”
The middle brother joined them. “Looka that,” his big brother laughed, “Looks like we both snagged your line.” Back in the water the skinny boy went but this time he came back with his pole. It took all three boys’ efforts to reel it in because there was a two-and-a-half-foot trout on the hook.
The boys cleaned, cooked, and ate that fish. No one would ever believe how big it was. They went back to dapping, lazing away the summer afternoon. The older brother, who always won, had his best throw, twenty-one skips.
The skinny boy topped that with a twenty-four. No matter what the boys did, the day was his. They are few and far between, those days, for the middle child and sweeter in the bargain.
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2022 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2022 ©
Music composed and performed by
Tommy Sterner
The three brothers scoured the shoreline, carefully picking and choosing, culling, then met, each with a dozen special stones in his pocket. The oldest said to the youngest, “You’re the littlest, so you go first. Come on, give us somethin’ to shoot at!” The six-year-old took a deep breath, rared back and heaved a stone. Kerplunk. It fell a few feet in front of where he stood at the water’s edge.
Then the skinny boy with freckles, the middle brother, laughed and kissed the stone in his hand. “Lemme show ya how to do this!” He backed up half a dozen steps then ran to the water’s edge. His stone hit the surface of the water flat, skip, skip-skip, seventeen skips and maybe more as it bounced out of sight.
Zzzz-zt. The three boys stopped what they were doing and turned in the same direction as if their movements had been choreographed. They stared at a spot a short distance away where their fishing poles were propped on Y-shaped sticks stuck in the mud. The middle pole was bent over and, as they watched, went horizontal. Zzz-ip and it disappeared underneath the water. The boy with freckles dove in after it. “No!” the oldest boy yelled.
“No! No!” the smallest boy echoed. They watched wide-eyed as he followed the fishing pole under the muddy water.
The thin boy bobbed up a few yards out, then swam easily back to shore. He climbed out of the water and plopped himself down dejectedly on the ground. “Yer gonna get in trouble fer losin’ yer pole,” his younger brother warned, “Daddy says yer allays losin’ stuff!”
“Come on, you’d better pull yours in too,” the older brother interjected.
The youngest boy took his pole to hand. “I got somethin’ big ‘n heavy.”
“Oh, it’s a big ‘un!” the older brother exclaimed. “Reel mine in!” he said to the middle brother, “I gotta help him!”
The middle brother joined them. “Looka that,” his big brother laughed, “Looks like we both snagged your line.” Back in the water the skinny boy went but this time he came back with his pole. It took all three boys’ efforts to reel it in because there was a two-and-a-half-foot trout on the hook.
The boys cleaned, cooked, and ate that fish. No one would ever believe how big it was. They went back to dapping, lazing away the summer afternoon. The older brother, who always won, had his best throw, twenty-one skips.
The skinny boy topped that with a twenty-four. No matter what the boys did, the day was his. They are few and far between, those days, for the middle child and sweeter in the bargain.
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2022 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2022 ©
Music composed and performed by
Tommy Sterner
07-06-2022
Africa in White
I am almost Africa
rife with insidious disease
colonized and raped of century
set upon by lions
and my lions are all died
carried away on stiff trunk ivory
torn from the jaws of my giants
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2022 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2022 ©
Music composed and performed by
Tommy Sterner
I am almost Africa
rife with insidious disease
colonized and raped of century
set upon by lions
and my lions are all died
carried away on stiff trunk ivory
torn from the jaws of my giants
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2022 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2022 ©
Music composed and performed by
Tommy Sterner
07-05-2022
07-03-2022
07-01-2022
The Butterfly Poet
It finally arrived,
that 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: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2022 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2022 ©
Music composed and performed by
Tommy Sterner
It finally arrived,
that 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: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2022 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2022 ©
Music composed and performed by
Tommy Sterner
06-30-2022
06-29-2022
When I was very young
I promised myself
I would come to know my children
to listen and learn from them
No gift compares
nothing in life lasts so long
The only certainty I have ever known
that children are the all
A Child Is
A child is a sprinkle of sunshine
come to illuminate the inner hallways of our existence
A child is the answer to all we are
the solution to all we would be and are not
A child is responsibility defined
the perfect symmetry of reward foreshadowing deed
A child is proof-positive of worth
when the questions come falling
“Who am I?”
“What have I done?”
A child is a keeper of promises
Indeed
a child is a beautiful promise kept
A Child Is was published in Whispers of Inspiration 2005
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2022 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2022 ©
Music composed and performed by
Tommy Sterner
I promised myself
I would come to know my children
to listen and learn from them
No gift compares
nothing in life lasts so long
The only certainty I have ever known
that children are the all
A Child Is
A child is a sprinkle of sunshine
come to illuminate the inner hallways of our existence
A child is the answer to all we are
the solution to all we would be and are not
A child is responsibility defined
the perfect symmetry of reward foreshadowing deed
A child is proof-positive of worth
when the questions come falling
“Who am I?”
“What have I done?”
A child is a keeper of promises
Indeed
a child is a beautiful promise kept
A Child Is was published in Whispers of Inspiration 2005
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2022 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2022 ©
Music composed and performed by
Tommy Sterner
06-28-2022
06-27-2022
06-26-2022
06-25-2022
06-24-2022
06-23-2022 - Alfalfa Dreams - Quodlibet
06-23-2022
06-22-2022
If I Never
To Fatherhood, the daughters and sons of my life.
Father's Day 2021
If I never
If I never
held you in my hands
I might wander
this lonely road
I might wonder
who I am
if I never
held you in my hands
If I never
held you in my hands
I might wander
this lonely road
I might wonder
who I am
if I never
held you in my hands
06-17-2022
06-15-2022
06-15-2022
06-14-2022
06-13-2022
Winsome
Magoo Diaries
A universe
peopled by blind citizens
older than their eyes
younger
a bit
than death
Waiting rooms full
elder care clinics
anybody's guess
who's next
stretcher bearers
weasels
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2022 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2022 ©
Music composed and performed by
Tommy Sterner
Magoo Diaries
A universe
peopled by blind citizens
older than their eyes
younger
a bit
than death
Waiting rooms full
elder care clinics
anybody's guess
who's next
stretcher bearers
weasels
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2022 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2022 ©
Music composed and performed by
Tommy Sterner
06-10-2022
06-04-2022
Axiom 06-04-2022
06-02-2022
05-31-2022
05-31-2022
05-30-2022
05-28-2022
05-18-2022
12-31-2021
10,000 Whispers Haiku #9810 - Remnants of the Storm
Due Process of Law 3-22-2021
2-12-2020 - Lincoln's birthday
~momma's rain~
$11.41
$11.41
~cranial loop~
$5.16
$5.16
~quodlibet~
$5.54
$5.54
~spiders 'n snakes~
$10.10
$10.10
~gordian objective~
$10.49
$10.49
After Earth
$10.95
$10.95