2002, A Mythological Autobiography of a Wolf, POETRY, The River

Flash light to the stars

Flash light to the stars.

There’s much to say;
which cannot be said.
There’s much which has been lost.
Simplicity’s Diversities.
I was born with desires
as all men.
this fleshly body
questing for spirit, love, and….,
I so desperately need.
The black river I’ve taken
hasn’t been a high one.
The things I’ve done
don’t link to self pity, nor pride,
but matter of factly:
a pop up.
The black river isn’t marked well.
There’s No GPS nor search engine.
The channel markers are so far apart
It’s hard to see ‘em.
if ya don’t know your heading to the exact degree,
you can easily find yourself grounded
easy prey to the waves
as the storm grows.

A Mythological Autobiography of a Wolf, POETRY, Uncategorized


My father may have given me my name
but it’s my mother,
who’d taught me how to laugh.

It all started after my sister’s birth.
My father’d had a vasectomy.
three years later
after my sister’s 3rd birthday,
I was conceived..
As the months passed,
my mother thought she was getting fat.
She started exercising,
began yoga.
None of it helped.
She just got fatter.

Five months later,
when spring was in full bloom,
the doctor told her.
I was there,
the miracle,
god’s baby
in her belly

She walked out of the clinic,
The laughter echoed
down into the womb
vibrated the cavern.

I absorbed it.

Even today
as I lie in bed
inside a burned-out Print Shop
listening to the cars drive by
there’s a deep bellowing laughter
coming from me
echoing off the bare soot stained walls.
The squirrel outside my window
stops on the branch,
and gazes at me.
I don’t even know why I am laughing;
it just seems funny
in a silly way.
Maybe I am crazy,.
At least I can laugh about it.

A Mythological Autobiography of a Wolf, POETRY


From the branches of the trees, it fell,
like leaves on a fall afternoon,
landing on my head.
It knocked on my eye lids
and showed me a way to clear out
the raging fires in my mind.

I didn’t know what to say
Dyslexic as I was.
Hand and pen deciphered the thoughts inside.
Strangely enough pen and book
taught me how to speak.
Faint as it was
on the tail end of a punishment,
the first poem written
spoke of the fire which still overpoweringly rages
within the abyss of my soul.

‘Then again
who knows
what I’ll do next?
The wind?’

A Mythological Autobiography of a Wolf, POETRY

Sulfur and Gunpowder

There’s the smell of sulfur and gunpowder
which filled my nostrils
as I lit the rocket.
Stepping back,
head tilted back 45 degrees upward,
I bumped into Ray,
who wrapped her arms around me
to help me maintain my balance.

The Rocket shot up through the buildings
and blew,
echoing about the glass and concrete.
Sparks propelled out from the blast,
bouncing off the windows,
and floating downwards to fade into the streetlights.

The smell of sulfur and gunpowder again
wafted toward me;
another rocket propelled itself into the sky exploding.

Sirens sound from the distance,
drawing toward us.
Sarge’s voice broke our gaze upward.
“Come on, cops are coming.”

He spun around and headed into an alley
disappearing among the shadows of the dumpsters
and concrete mountains.
My heart started beating faster,
and Ray’s voice whispered in my ear.
“one more.”
I grinned, “girl you’re as crazy as I am.”
I knelt down and pulled the bottle to me.
“Just happen to have one.”

As I lit the fuse
standing up to watch it explode,
Ray grabbed my hand
and ran
pulling me behind her.
We crossed the street,
and headed into the alley.

The bottle Rocket went off;
the explosion echoed thro’ the city streets,
sending sparks
reflecting off the windows.
Our shadows faded into the streetlights.

A Mythological Autobiography of a Wolf, POETRY


The first few weeks were hard,
adjusting to the kitchen life.
I must’ve wanted to quit a hundred times,
my hand taking apron off
and my feet marching
the rest of my body to the back door.
Every time,
there stood a mountain of a man
between me and the door,
always saying the same thing.
“Are you deserting, private?
Going back into the jungle?”
He’d open the door.
“Just hope you weren’t thinking of leaving without saying good-bye.”
Each time I’d stop;
turning around,
tying my apron back on.
“Just goin’ to have a smoke, sir,
guess now’s not the time”
and quickly returning to dish.

The work was hard and consuming.
I wasn’t used to such hours
and continuous labor,
living in the streets.
My hands and arms told the story;
the scars telling of my exploits in battle,
as the sue chef would tell me
when he drove me to the park
I slept in at nights.

My mother would’ve told me
they were just scars
showing my carelessness;
however, my mother wasn’t here.
There was only this mountain of a man,
who, in the kitchen everyone called Sarge.
He rattled on insanely
about Charlie, napalm, and ‘Nam ,
my father would chatter about
in his drunken stupor.

Each time Sarge dropped me off,
he remarked.
“I’ve an extra room. No charge.
Hell, you could even take a shower by yourself.
What a concept.”

Each time I declined,
opened the door, got out of the car,
waited for him to drive off,
than sauntered into the bushes,
until I found my sleeping bag
and retreated into sleep.

I hated the city,
It bore down on me like a living beast;
it’s breath rotten and stagnant,
decomposing in it’s own fecal matter.
It’s roar’n’screams were relentless.
I don’t belong in the city;
I needed trees, mountains, and the stars
not telephone poles, street lights and high rises.

His offer was always tempting.
It was like a huntress
trying to coerce me into her arms,
“Be weary of a white-man’s gifts,”
my father once lectured me.
“It only means they’re after something.”

Each time
I escaped into sleep,
scared and dead quiet,
pleading with my father
wherever he might be,
this man was different,
this brother warrior,
he’d walked a different path than the others.
my father was not here to guide me;
he had chosen a road called whiskey
and left without me.
And my mother, neither was she here.
She, my loving mother,
who had broken the rules of being a society girl
by marring a red skin at her own advice,
certainly not her father’s.
As much as I’d hate to admit.
My grandfather was right,
my father couldn’t conform
to the Euro/Roman way.
It didn’t mean he was uncivilized;
he was taught to live by different laws
and talks to god in different ways.
He attempted to defeat the dark side
by joining with it,
only to be succumbed by it,
making me an exile,
teacherless in a vile world.
I could never forgive him for that.

Everything I’ve learned
has been learned the hard way,
by my own mistakes, anguish,
bile and by all the books I’ve read.
So I allowed that mountain of a man,
called Sarge into my life,
he became my friend and teacher.
And father he helped me
not follow in your path.