Steven Silent Wolf
A husbandfatheractortruckdrivingmassagetherapistgardeningpipecarrier in awe of the Great Mysterious trying to become a human being. more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
Steven Silent Wolf Poems
Yellow-eyed and awkward walking, Head a-bob, the air shaped blackbird, glossy in the morning glimmer, timid, tastes the lake-shore rim.
E. S. W. & N.
Breath of Air Be born upon our lips The blessing of the Word.
East - I enter life's golden circle born on the wings of the Eagle. My birth is in the Spring,
D.M.V. - Department of Muddled Verses -o...
Like a door, I'm poor at metaphor, and very bad with simile. I'm more than just a little off on my rhymability. My mother, the existentialist, has never cared for meaning.
This clod of earth that I call mine is only dust and dirt, Until your overflowing water spills the green upon the brown.
Human Wisdom, freed from dinosauric strength and lunic light, has sprouted wings
Old Moon Wolf
Krishna Old Man / An Amer-Hindu Haiku
The Four Grandmothers
(East) That Life conceived In Darkness born The Light that lights my eye is Wisdom's Child
Throw me into h e f
The brown strength of roots and the decadence of ripeness fall full against the golden arms that strain to hold the southing sun
The spirit is breathing eternal internal until the Word eternal external matters
Of A Virgin Born
Have you seen the Star of wonder Star of grace Star by which
$5 / Pentecost
Isn't it funny how they always want money the smell of wet wool and cigarette butts
Comments about Steven Silent Wolf
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Yellow-eyed and awkward walking,
Head a-bob, the air shaped blackbird,
glossy in the morning glimmer,
timid, tastes the lake-shore rim.
Still suspicious, sidelong glancing,
hops a few more steps, like dancing.
Gulping now the lapping water,
trusting in the mountain morning,
flinging water from her feathers,
bathing with her plunging beak,
for a moment startled standing,
then retreating up a tree,
calling out her old suspicions
over walking, water-wading me.