Tom (WordWulf) Sterner

About

Having never seen the same flower twice.

A man on the road usually doesn’t have much in the way of money and possessions. What he seeks is positive energy, vitality of spirit, a predisposition toward hopes and dreams, the hunger and willingness to share them.

The Highwayman

He carries dreams in a bucket. It is shot through with holes and leaking, splashing the tarmac, shoulder of the road, in liquid arcs, tiny streams crisscrossing. He is a sight to see with his backpack and bucket, feet tripping forward, a staccato march toward what is left in the pail, nonchalant as regards what has been spilled along the way. He has half a sandwich left over from a stop at a Seven-Eleven, a battered army canteen full of cheap red wine, a ten-dollar bill stashed in the sole of his shoe.

Round and round, he swings the bucket. The sun highlights a circle silhouette, the arc of his throw, reach of his dreams. Both hands on its handle, he flips it over, sits down on top of it, opens the canteen, takes a conservative swallow. A crow shines blue/black in the tree of his shade. Caw-caw, it speaks to him in its ancient voice. The highwayman laughs, taps out a finger-beat percussion on the side of his bucket-seat full of dreams. He begins to hum and the bird cocks its head. Their eyes meet; they are birds of a feather.

The day passes and the bucket fills with bits and pieces. The highwayman sorts through lies, truth, half lies delivered in steps through holes in his mind. He waves off a ride in a Coupe de Ville, climbs into the back of an old rusty pickup truck with a lovely crowd of Cherokee children. They smile shyly with their dark eyes. He stares at his shoes and smiles back. From the bottoms of their eyes, they are birds of a feather. The children dig into his bucket with curious racoon-like hands, leave more than they could ever take. He insists their father, the man driving the truck, accept the ten dollars he has pressed into his hand while giving it a firm thank-you and shake.

The highwayman sets off down the shoulder of the road to share and refill his bucket of dreams. He offers a wink to the day, a song in the voice of the crow. His step is lighter without the weight of the ten-dollar bill on his mind.

http://WORDWULF.com/STORYBOOK
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2018 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©

2015 Harley Davidson Soft tail

Dandelion, Westminster, Dad’s back yard

Sometimes when I’m sleeping
sometimes I lay awake
Sometimes I should be dreaming, sometimes
I take love for granted
Who would ever guess
It just keeps on moving, love is
Love is like a wheel
Love goes round and round
It is like a wheel
Love goes round and round

There is time for laughing
There is time for crying
There is a time for holding, there is
Years flow by like water
carrying us away
Wonder if our love grows, love is
Love is like a wheel
Love goes round and round
It is like a wheel
Love goes round and round and round

Hold me and forever
Hold me I am never
Hold me going to leave you, hold me
I hear children laughing
I hear children playing
They are me and mine and love is
Love is like a wheel
Love goes round and round
It is like a wheel
Love goes round and round and round and round

http://wWORDWULF.com/SONGS
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2018 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©

7-3-2018 - Spring rain - VB

Louisville, Colorado, looking west, past Boulder
Night comes welcome in the golden dusk, standing between earth and sky, spirit full, end of day.

This is the artistic work of my six-year-old granddaughter, Eden.

Artwork by Eden

Excerpt from the novel:
The patron’s handsome Native American face was a study of agony, eyes squeezed tightly shut, voices of the centuries howling through his tortured mind. To have found his Yllai after all these decades in the hands of her raper was almost more than he could stand. A quick and painful act of vengeance was necessary. Wild in his fury, he sentenced the rapist to be dealt with by the capable and practiced hands of Luis Vasquez, a master with no equal in the art of torture.

Sunset in Colorado, acoustic guitar

Buddy Kat won’t let me get any writing done so, as you can see, he has made himself the subject.

Dandelion, Westminster, Dad’s back yard