Wolfkins Poem by Norma Mahns

The Town, quiet in routine
unknowing of an undercurrent
leaking seepage of steam
through cracks in the ground

The Town, goes on, wondering why
the wind blows ominous clouds by
hearing the howling of a hound
never feeling the Full Moon
or the need to 'moon-walk'
to transform out of body
like weird wolves, hoping to manifest.

The Town, quiet in routine
does not recognize
dog trot transportation
taking place on the sidewalk
in front of their inert homes.

It is difficult to imagine life
without Maenads; they chase after
Dionysus in their frenzy groupiness
disguised in graceful bones.
They are caught up in the chorus line
and cords, picking on change
breaking sound barriers of behavior...in time
Like a cancer, they cling on Dionysus
and feel the world wrapping them
in their hedonistic habits, like
having the time to 'moon-walk.'

The Town, quietly worries
unwilling to commit to be involved
walk upon the same cement
mind boggled, how it even came to be
those cracks in the ground
and the voluptuous Moon.

In the havoc of right or left
black or white, truth or lie, I
remain a Maenad...you a Dionysus.
We draw up each crack, until
it is solid foundation to 'moon-walk.'

Once children controlled by
social consumption, we disrobe
leaving it lay on the street
filling the cracks on the ground
too proud for parental guidance.
We 'moon-walk' throwing the ball
of change, back and forth to each other
leaving us standing every time, vertical
with the Moon in our veins
hoping, to repaint the World
Concave, instead of leaving it Convex.