Long Wolves Poems
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Pity, we’re not on their endangered species list;
Just the list of who should be least cared about:-
They fight for red wolves,
but still erode ebon lives;
we’re endangered too:-
What an abomination,
In our nation,
In today’s situation:-
For our lives to matter,
Time for us to gather,
And get it all together:
Pandemic is the Oppressor Syndrome;
We, oppressively murdering our own:-
Let us be aware,
We’ve come too far
To turn back now:
Our immunity is waiting:-
Our ancestors’ labor,
Built this found nation;
This is our home to save
And make it a land of equality,
For others treated like you & me:-
Sand Creek
Dawn arises
And a line of good, blue-coated American boys
Sit astride their horses
Just outside the camp.
They wait
Outside the Cheyanne camp:
Those animals they were here to hunt,
For Country, God and Glory:
They took no mind
Of their own flag,
Fluttering in the breeze
Just behind them.
Who now will prove to be the animals?
With one sharp bark,
And a toss of his hair
Their leader charged forth to kill everyone
In their path,
Panting in the crisp winter air;
All howling and baying.
To kill the innocent Indians there.
They knew not what had happened
As they heard the guns;
Running through the snow in rank confusion,
Men, women and children alike
Felt the sting of hot lead
Invade their bodies,
And fell hard in the grip of merciless death,
Painting the snow with
Great patches of bright red.
And those not so lucky,
Died by the cutlass and the bayonet.
Those who escaped for a time
Were cut by the ice of a frozen creek,
But those cuts were as nothing
To the cut of losing loved ones.
While the bluecoated Goodboys
Robbed the bodies of their clothes
- And limbs -
The hidden still living waited,
And hated,
hated,
hated
The bluecoated wolves were heroes,
So it was said,
But not heroes, only wolves
Would do such in things-
At least wolves do so to survive.
They claimed the Cheyanne were savages,
But it seems they were the best of teachers,
In this respect.
What to do with such beasts as these?
Kill them, surely.
After that, the Cheyanne tried,
And many died, but they tried
All the same.
And in that place,
The bluecoat stench
Shall evermore reek.
Shed a tear,
Shed many,
For the victims
Of Sand Creek.
Imagination Owl was tired today.
He had collected first and second editions
And kept the wolves and hounds away.
Everyone had heard about his collection and wanted a peek.
He was not against showing them, but he had a tired beak.
Tomorrow they want you to do a reading in Des Moines.
He was the kind of orator and reader that many seek.
He had a gravelly voice, and he rarely charged more than a coin.
Not tomorrow, he stated. I need a break of a day or maybe two.
He was tired of fan mail, suppers with widows and old maids.
He sat down at his fire and played a bit with the annoying flu.
Then opened up some missives and read those that made the grade.
When he finished reading the things that delighted him the most,
He took out a pen and wrote the beginning of a fine exciting tale.
He would apologize to his agent, his mother, and his persistent host.
But tonight he wanted a good book, a fire and some fantastic ale.
“Reverse Cyrano”
Reverse Cyrano
new wave poetry
straddles the ruins
milked
with two sugars
dark Tea dreams
red leaves laquer
the vain roadmaps
that stain the ingrained
with pommegranate poetry
the bejewelled heart
sweet and tart
and thick
skinned
sliced and skewered
each granate
a sparkling
hidden gem
within the ruby
words written
riding astride those worlds
like wolves
in those comforting
dicomforting whispering woods
for Cyrano reversed
so easily contracted
a hidden god and a poet
that lost lovers
may find submerged
in disoriented time adrift,
eyes open-wide undestracted,
the ravenous misunderstood unmissed.
Candide Diderot ‘25
We see the sunlight fleeting,
long shadows creeping in,
dark paths the wolves are beating,
we feel we cannot win.
The predators are feasting
in darkness everywhere,
those let alive retreating,
gloom casts a hard despair.
The sounds are horrifying.
we try to look away,
all laws of men defying,
they slay their helpless prey.
No amount of decrying
will change the wolf-kin’s mind,
no hugs or empathizing,
will ever make them kind.
But the darkness is fleeting,
the dawn sets them to fear,
fast away night is bleeding,
rays of the sun appear.
and now the wolves are fearing,
poor sheep they’ve slain are seen,
sheep-dogs are now appearing,
their appetites are keen.
Bold hunters are advancing,
with guns that smoke and burn,
the predators are fleeing,
the sun always returns.
It was night on the Long Island RR
Tony got off, maybe looked at a star
Work was over, a few blocks left to roam—
Did instinct whisper: "danger zone?"
A gang attacked, for whatever he'd got
He was beaten then stabbed and finally shot.
Like positive feedback to inflict more pain
They finally left, but he moved again.
On Lynbrook sidewalks, Tony still crawled
because his American dream; his old life called.
His house in the suburb with kids and wife
He made it to his porch, then gave up his life.
That was 20 years ago, but after all this time
I remember it, though there's been plenty of crime.
Just the juxtaposition, a desperate thread
A dream turns to nightmare, and then you are dead.
The notice said "no flowers - give to breadline instead
A good family stunned, by the sudden blood shed.
That gang's fury, their hatred, it made no sense
a cauldron of emotions, evil and intense.
Emotions don't dampen, no ceiling, no floor.
Hurting you makes them want to hurt you more.
There's a chasm I think between them and us.
So letting wolves loose is a breach of trust
I understand that revenge can go overboard
But don't vote for people who won't use the sword.
New York just did that, and other cities before
If you want peace, prepare for war.
ShaDonna had fallen in love with a god.
He brought night with him on his visits.
She dressed in a white gown, to show her purity.
Her ebony locks were combed to perfection.
Creatures on cliffs felt his presence.
Wolves howled and yipped their approval.
ShaDonna was proud to belong to him.
Constellations accompanied his visits.
He illuminated the earth,
Enticed the tide’s waters,
And brought ShaDonna into her full womanhood.
She was excited to call purple moon her own.
They would never consummate,
which somehow made their pairing more powerful.
A love affair blessed by heaven,
and the howling of wolves.
All throughout the night
the skies are dark and cold.
The stars, fitful, sparkle bright
for dreamers to behold.
Silent nights are never heard.
Wolves sing to the lonely moon.
Crickets chirp, and the only bird
is the owl that softly croons.
Let us watch stars at nightfall
as they all slowly appear.
From here they seem so small,
they shine so bright and clear.
I'll sing of stars all night long,
until the twilight hour's past.
The waning moon joins my song,
thin, wavering shadows it casts.
The edges of the horizon glow
with a gentle shade of pink.
Soon to light the earth below,
the sun is rising above the brink.
I must wait another day
to see the stars once more.
I must find another way
to leave this ground and soar.
The labyrinth of the mind transforms into a somber temple, where glyphs of thought intertwine,
And beneath the dome of the nocturnal sky, hearts like ancient scrolls unfold and burn in incantations.
The only enclosure where man erects his biography is a veritable menagerie of dreams,
A pantheon of thoughts and phantasms, with the altar of bitter desires.
With fingers of transparent dreams, he stretches his wanderings across the inner frescoes,
Where colors blend into palimpsests, and pigment is born only when summoned.
But the depths hide the fog, unleashing sphinxes that roam the corridors of wise chaos,
And the shadows come, the night's responsory, to absorb his light, to fashion his coffin of shadows.
In this labyrinth of the self, celestial wolves and crystal deer spin round the roundel of forgetfulness,
And in the corners of darkness, basilisks nest, dreadlocks of darkness weave the feverish tapestry.
Demons silently ringing at the gate of essence, demand the toll to be freed and transfigured,
And all this reverberation, each turmoil, is an unwritten palimpsest, a silent carol.
Every breath, every tremble of the lip, is an undeciphered libretto, an unsung chord,
In the crypt of his heart, dungeons of unfulfilled passions,
Wandering on a melancholic arpeggio, on strings of a sealed and closed wasteland.
But from the darkness resists, a phoenix of thought, a leaf of hope, an unexpected flight of light,
And man deciphers that in his own labyrinth,
He is the master, the musician, and the sculptor of his boundless life.
Thus, crossing the threshold of flesh, he surrenders to the wave of dreams,
Flying on the rainbow of imagination, in his most sacred sanctuary,
Where his imprisonment is the heart of a living temple,
And he is the hidden angel, in the eternal saga of his own light.
The clock gnaws marrow from the bone,
Its hands are wolves in a quiet room.
I pace the halls of books like a penitent,
Collecting alphabets, equations, broken hymns—
Each one a splinter of fire to brand my palms.
Learning is a lantern, I tell myself,
But it burns both the pupil and the page.
Still, I drink the poison of knowledge,
Measure each drop with trembling fingers,
Because power without mercy is a blade in the dark.
Let the evil ones be caught in their own traps,
Sealed in jars, their whispers locked
Like moths in a museum drawer.
The good should hammer the lid shut—
And yet the shadows leak, they stain the air.
I scavenge disciplines the way crows hoard silver:
Philosophy, astronomy, anatomy,
A perpetual ladder built skyward, rung by rung.
The body sours, but the mind must not sleep,
Not while questions are hissing in the grass.
Don’t hate the players, hate the game—
But I see the board stained with red squares,
Pawns split open, queens reduced to ash.
Still, I move my piece forward.
Still, I mouth the rules until they cut my tongue.
Why are our lives so short?
Because the brain is a storm,
And storms cannot be persuaded to last.