Category: POETRY

1991, POETRY, The Uncollected Poems

The Scientist Poem

emorywolf3

This is a poem
written to the scientist,
asking questions about every molecule and nebula,
about things we cannot see.
They dictate these things,
make us go to labs try and prove it.
Eighty-five differentiated kinds of cells within the body.
It’s strange, almost perverse,
that prokaryotic and eukaryotic cells filled with cytoplasm
contain little organelles that work to keep the cell alive,
just as our organs do us so to speak.
Lysosomes, ribosomes, golgi bodies,,
all work in a labyrinth of membranes,
consisting of a double layer of phospholipids and other lipids,
forming flattened sacs and tubes that segregate the contents
from each other,
the Labyrinth of Minos.

I have to take their candor word
there are chromosomes
consisting of DNA
which wrap around protein macromolecules
and a few other things,
slammed into a nucleus.
Everything consists of these nuclei,
with their chromies and maps,
their messenger, RNA.
So these DNAs are the foremen of the construction of an organism.
Deep in the alleles of the chromosome they work long hours,
so that all cells and DNAs can live in kyosei (Japanese meaning ‘symbiosis’).

I have to take on faith
that these things are true,
living,
yet they bray me with their codex.

You are the worshiper of the god of mechanism,
and the dance of the embryo.
With the Oocyte of Mary laid on a cold table
soaking in chemicals of static.
It makes me realize
the gods are scientists,
and this planet just an experiment.
I wonder if we are the control
or some mutant strand,
somewhere off the genetic drift.

1991, POETRY, The Howling

The Hunt

emorywolf3

The Hunt

All day we hunted, but found nothing.
All night we hunted.
Finally I stop, turn and naively ask.
“What are we hunting for?”
“I’m hunting for a man.”
“And what am I?”
“a Wolf”

All day we hunted, but found nothing.
All night we hunted.
Pausing in my stride,
I turn to her.
“What am I hunting for?”
“The earth, the moon, the sun and the stars.”
“Why?”
“You tell me;
I hunt man because my flesh is hungry.”

All day we hunted, but found nothing.
All night we hunted.
I stopped.
“Why do I not hunt you?”
“Because I hunt man
and you do not like the taste of his flesh.”

A little further
a spring bubbled up from the roots of an old oak.
She hesitates there.
Se knelt down on her knees,
dips her hands into the cool water
and drinks.

She reaches her cupped hands out before me.
“Here, drink.”
As the crisp water touched my chapped lips,
the morning sun shines down her blouse,
and the man rises within me.
I fell to the earth,
chatted with the moon,
dreamed of the sun,
as I danced among the stars.
It is hard to follow.

Name Giver whispered in my ear.
“when you don’t know where you’re going
and the want is always there.
It pulls in ways you may not comprehend;
however you are weak,
a slice of what you could be.
Remember that.”

All day we hunted, but still nothing.
All night we hunted.
The Huntress turns and naively asks.
“What are you hunting for?”
“A mate.”
“Why not hunt me?”
“Because you hunt man
and I will not;
for in hunting man,
it is not me you see,
but yourself.
Hunt yourself as you would me.”

All day we hunted, nothing.
All night we hunted.
She halts, and glances over at me.
“Why do not hunt for a She-Wolf?”
“Because it is not my stomache that is hungry,
but my spirit.
Isn’t that why you hunt,
you want something that isn’t before you?
A contemptible tower.”

All day we hunted.
All night we hunted.
She tarries,
reaches out and stops me.
“Do you secretly hunt me?”
“Sometimes I have.
Is it not the best hunt for the hunter,
to hunt the Huntress?
but I do not go for the kill.”

1987, POETRY, The Howling

I draw a moth

emorywolf3

I draw a moth,
a hawk
dusty brown wings
spread
never moving
forms
life to paper.
It dies in light.
It comes to suckle the dream syrup
the nectar of light,
just before it’s caught in the fan
and spit out the window.
Wolf came to me,
long crazy black hair
dancing around his mouth.
“Why do you care what they think?
They only drain you of life.
Find those that give
by giving nothing to you,
but yourself.
Love those as you are,
not as you want to be.
Leave the acting for the Actors.

One must learn the first rule:
Always think for yourself,
keep control over your life,
the latter is the hardest part.”

A Mythological Autobiography of a Wolf, POETRY

That younger brother

emorywolf3

That younger brother

We all know how it is to be lost,
listless, incapable of facing the world.
Consciousness diffuses and spreads
as butter melts in a plate underneath a heat-lamp.
We try to focus on an idea;
however, the mind refuses to grasp.
In this state of consciousness
an act of humiliation or disaster makes us worse,
plunging us lower into the depths;
into a state where no effort seems worth taking.
The butter underneath the heat-lamp,
a dehydrated brown stain.
When something seizes our interest,
goes our way,
one has energy, velocity and force;
suddenly, meaning is self evident.
It’s all around for the taking or asking.
As we examine our past and moods of defeat,
we experience a feeling of pity and remorse,
questioning
that younger brother’s weaker less mature decision.

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

Flash light to the stars

emorywolf3

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:
survival
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.