Momma’s Rain has just been released by Gatto Publishing. Check it out at: http://www.gattopublishing.com/" title="http://www.gattopublishing.com/" target="_blank"http://www.gattopublishing.co...

The novel is available as an e-book and also on CD.  The CD version is complete with nine songs written and performed by the author.  If you’re interested, the first chapter and an interview with the author may be viewed at: 

http://mommasrain.4t.com/about.html" title="http://mommasrain.4t.com/about.html" target="_blank"http://mommasrain.4t.com/abou....  You may sample the music at: http://truefire.com/list.html?store=original_music &" title="http://truefire.com/list.html?store=original_music &" target="_blank"http://truefire.com/list.html...;viewauthor=3554

Songs included on the CD are: Death in Small Houses, Haunting Me, Farewell Captain Charlie, Of Lips, Mother, and Wine, I’m Bound to Ride Again, Slay the Dragon, Legend of New Horse, Cold Winter Eyes, and Curse of Days.

Momma’s Rain

American Camp:

Frail Monsters/Wounded Souls

begins the saga of a destitute family, during the 50s, struggling with abuse, tragedy, and the demons within themselves. Adults who tend to steer towards the complicated grittier side of literary fiction, hard-boiled and up-close, will appreciate SternerHowe's latest work.

The story opens with seven-year-old Tim, the protagonist and narrative voice in the book, escaping into the cellar of his family's run-down rental home, away from the horrible scene of his brother Jerry's abuse at the hands of their father. When he finally makes a return to the kitchen, his mother discovers his hiding in the basement and aims to soothe his worries while defending her husband's actions.

The next morning, Tim's brothers are missing. He and his mother set out in the cold to search for them, without his father's assistance. Tim conditionally gathers discarded cigarette butts for his mother as he usually does – the only act that keeps his mind from believing something horrible has happened to his brothers.

By the third day of their disappearance, Jerry and Peter are caught stealing from a store and are brought home by the police. Due to the awful publicity of their father being a suspect and not being able to keep up with rent payments on their home, the family returns to their hometown.

Their arrival at Denver, Colorado establishes them within the home of the father's sister, Phyllis, and her husband, Jer (whom young Jerry is named after and is the recipient of his uncle's fondest affection.) In a reversal, it is now Tim who suffers ill feelings and abuse by the hands of Uncle Jer.

The boys are registered in school, and Tim finds solace in the only friend he has, his cousin Mary Lou. She tries to help Tim cope with her father and adjust in school. However, when Tim is severely humiliated and punished in class, his mother removes her children for a few days after giving the principal an earful and displaying her true loving nature for her kids.

Finally fed up with her situation, she arrives at the school one day with packed luggage, gathers her children, and flees to a nearby train station; they're bound for Saint Louis, Missouri, where she's offered a room in a boarding house and a job as a waitress. Soon, she becomes romantically involved with Uncle Jer, and his presence is, once again, Tim's damnation. Only when his mother sees blood on his T-shirt one day, she discovers the abuse that's been going on and orders Jer to leave permanently.

Mother and children are on the move again, this time with her sober husband. The family attempts to escape the temptation of returning to their former lives by relocating to Montana. Although the father finds work fixing roofs, it's not enough to make payments; the family is evicted from one housing complex to the next until they are finally established at an apartment building.

One day, it catches fire – mother and children are faced with a time-sensitive issue of trust. The only escape is to jump out of a window, and Tim's father begs his family to trust him one more time.

Children do not hate. They love and hope. Theirs is not a will to avenge but a passion to survive. There's courage and inherent sadness, a truth that children must strive to repair their broken parents and, in so doing, may just save themselves.

Insights Out of Doors 

A late spring, early summer day

I open the garage door

sit in my favorite chair and light a cigar

There is the noise of thunder overhead

No, a tremendous galloping across the roof

A gang of squirrels (I count twenty)

fly into a nearby aspen

Chu-chu-chuttering in squirrel-speak

They charge across the street en masse

and scale the neighbor’s chain-link fence

A blue jay, resplendent in ceremonial masque

alights on the back of my pickup ten feet away

stares at me in its one-eye-at-a-time

wise and wonderful, birdlike way

I say, “How ‘bout those squirrels?”

The jay swoops over the cab of the truck

lands on a roof just over there

proceeds to join me watching the squirrel hordes

who are playing ‘King of the Mountain’

toppling each other from the top rail of the chain-link

It’s eleven a.m. and a fine mist of rain is falling

A morning dove coos a magnificent

accompaniment to the squirrels’ antics

A host of crows, blue-black, aflutter

claim spaces on the top rail

Sparrows follow in their wake

fill a dozen or so chain-link diamonds

with their tiny darting bodies

The squirrels pay no attention, continue to frolic

The birds take wing, fly back to the trees

where I can’t see them again

The neighbor to the west of me

a wise man and sage poet

according to reports from my wife

arrives with a can of gasoline

and soon begins the chore of mowing his lawn

I am annoyed at first

because I can no longer hear the dove

but, as with the birds

the squirrels pay no heed his man noise

Enter the boy across the street

a bothersome and precocious Child

He slams the gate and waves his arms

laughs uproariously as the birds rise in waves

and the squirrels take flight

They charge into my front yard

where they bounce through the boughs

of the crabapple tree

They’re too close for me to watch now

but movement in the chain-link

alerts me to the fact

that the sparrows have returned

Their heads bob up and down

I am lost to their wild rhythm

They remind me of nature’s rendition

of Hollywood Squares

This space was filled with my Children

and GrandChildren a week ago today

I remember as I watch the wind

toy with the graduation decorations

so lovingly hung by my daughters

in celebration of their younger brother’s accomplishments

I was chasing my GrandSons round and round the yard

lifting them into the back of my truck to play

pushing them high on the wooden airplane swing

given me by my Father-in-law

tied to a stout limb in the apple tree

My boys and girls had a water fight

splashed their way through the afternoon

A bit like the squirrels

so rapt was I in the joy of life

that I didn’t notice my fellow creatures

I’ll bet they were watching though

quick-eyed and curious

as we did that thing they do so well

spread ourselves joyously across

a perfect and delightful, pre-summer

Colorado day

The boy’s father across the street

has begun to clean his bright red Dodge

The drone of his vacuum cleaner wakes me

A large black feral cat

struts through the flowerbed next to the chain-link

and effectively clears the deck

Squirrels and birds alike

take to the trees and give him hell

A cop in an SUV idles by

stares over his sunglasses at the man in the garage

He’s too cool to wave and so am I

It is the weigh of things

say the crow to the sparrow, caw caw caw

and the feral cat climbs into my lap

Sometimes I Feel

I have been a player and singer in rock bands for three decades.  I wrote songs for bands before I did any other kind of writing.  My son learned to play guitar about the same time he learned to walk.  I don’t do bars anymore and I wonder what keeps me singin’ until something happens like the other night.  My son, Tommy (who is now twenty-seven years old), has a studio at his house and I went over to lay down some tracks on a CD he’s helping me with. 

Matt, a guitar man with whom I played in bands for twenty-five years, came over to trade some riffs with Tommy.  There was obvious conflict between them and I, very much out of character, stood back and watched.  I wondered how it would work out, the gray beard and the young lion armed with axes and bracing the wall.  Matt was half stewed when he showed up and continued to chug beer after beer.  He toodled around with some old guitar band music, throwing howling laments across the room.  Tommy stayed in the groove of what he describes as his own cutting-edge original sound and hurled his fair share back.  Troy, my son-in-law and drummer, would just about get a beat picked out on his Roland electric drums, then those guitar men would switch tracks and carry that music train away.

I got tired and began to pack my PA system and harmonicas away.  I know all about guitar players and the misty shades of dawn.  Matt was ‘sitting on a stool’, pretty much all the way drunk now.  He was finger pickin’, doodling around on his Les Paul.  He began to pick a rhythm, almost country and, to my surprise, Tommy joined in on the bass guitar.  Troy began the process of uniting the guitars through the awesome mystery (to me anyway) of percussion.  I watched them for fifteen minutes as the power of the piece grew.  Tears came to my eyes and goose flesh claimed the surface of my skin.  The three of them had given themselves over to ‘the danse’.  I backed into a far corner, lest I interrupt with a shout of silence.

I waited fifteen more minutes to see if Matt would give voice to the music.  I had heard somewhere that he had started singing and didn’t want to step on his toes.  He gave me that ol’ sixpack smile of his and shrugged his shoulders.  Hands shaking, I took pen and paper from my war bag.  I powered up the PA, clicked my cordless mic on, and stepped into the danse.  I scribbled down the first few lines I could pick from the air, then allowed my voice to bleed into the haunting spaces between the instruments.  “I been up that road (I stopped, felt it my bones, that it was time to wait);  “And I been down so very damned long” (pause again); 

‘I been almost right” (oh yes, the longer pause);  “And I been, I been so wrong.” 

Matt gave me that look I have seen in the for ever of my music.  The switch-up was coming;  they were heading for the bridge.  I turned around and faced the wall.  What do I do?  I don’t know what to put in here...  the chorus..  what?  Panic...  they’re rolling, these musicians of beat, chord, and note.  I am the word man.  I’m supposed to know what’s next.  Then I did what I have done a thousand times over the years.  I closed my eyes and crawled out of my brain.  The energy of the moment was mine.  All I had to do was reach up into that space just beyond my fingers and pull it down to me.  A tear created its own path down my cheek as I fell to one knee.  The chorus, crushed forever inside me, burst forth and passion issued from my lips:  “sometimes I feel...  I feel like cryin’.  Sometimes I feel...  I feel like singin’.”

The instruments overrode me and, in their insistency, I understood, the next few moments were theirs and theirs alone in this danse, this making of love, to the moment, the air.  She owned us, this mistress and her urgent flow of energy surging and swirling between and around us.  And they came down.  Yes, like warring angels, they sped to a cushion of peace.  What now, Mister Word Man, what now?  My other knee found the floor and I surrendered my all to a breathless pause.  “Like I can’t stand” (wait...  wait..).  The musical spiders are weaving their magick silken chord voices...  “I’m a man.”  And so it went...  a new musical Child was born.

My bar room days are over.  I miss those old players and riders.  I might never see my buddy Travelin’ Matt again but we wrote some kick ass songs, me ‘n him and sometimes I feel.  For that night and maybe one or two to come, I am determined to write and sing for the rest of my unnatural life.  Here’s the rest of the song. 

I’ve been here before

and I’ve been in other places

I just got started

then I lost too many faces

{Chorus}

There s a ride I missed

a few I shouldn’t have taken

Yeah, my heart has sung

It s been on the wrong side of breakin’

{Chorus}

I’ve been fallin down

I’ve picked myself up again

The best part of me

ain’t no third party sin

{Chorus}

I look in your eyes

I am lost to all the rest

There s a fire there

You’re the worst...  you are the best

Chorus}

This song may be sampled or downloaded at TrueFire:

http://truefire.com/list.html?store=original_music &" title="http://truefire.com/list.html?store=original_music &" target="_blank"http://truefire.com/list.html...;viewauthor=3554&item =4887

Madman Chronicles: The Warrior now available at:

http://www.publishamerica.com/shopping/shopdisplayp roducts.asp?catalogid=3425" title="http://www.publishamerica.com/shopping/shopdisplayp roducts.asp?catalogid=3425" target="_blank"http://www.publishamerica.com...

To discover the most dangerous writers alive, go to www.howlingdogpress.com and www.howlingdogpress.com/OMEGA.

There, in OMEGA 4, Weapons of Mass Deception, you will find a selection of poems by Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe.

Websites: http://tomsternerhowe.freeservers.com" title="http://tomsternerhowe.freeservers.com" target="_blank"http://tomsternerhowe.freeser...

 http://pages.prodigy.net/sterner-howe" title="http://pages.prodigy.net/sterner-howe" target="_blank"http://pages.prodigy.net/ster...

I Would 

If I could be a pillow,

a safe place

to lay me down your grief,

I would.

If I could be a basket,

I would gather all your sorrow,

cast it out into the seven directions,

I would.

If I could be a fountain,

I would flow with you

through the seven waters of your soul.

I would always be your friend,

I would.

Madman Chronicles: The Warrior now available at:

http://www.publishamerica.com/shopping/shopdisplayp roducts.asp?catalogid=3425" title="http://www.publishamerica.com/shopping/shopdisplayp roducts.asp?catalogid=3425" target="_blank"http://www.publishamerica.com...

To discover the most dangerous writers alive, go to www.howlingdogpress.com and www.howlingdogpress.com/OMEGA.

There, in OMEGA 4, Weapons of Mass Deception, you will find a selection of poems by Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe.

Websites: http://tomsternerhowe.freeservers.com" title="http://tomsternerhowe.freeservers.com" target="_blank"http://tomsternerhowe.freeser...

 http://pages.prodigy.net/sterner-howe" title="http://pages.prodigy.net/sterner-howe" target="_blank"http://pages.prodigy.net/ster...

Music:   http://truefire.com/list.html?store=original_music &" title="http://truefire.com/list.html?store=original_music &" target="_blank"http://truefire.com/list.html...;viewauthor=3554

Flame

Pushing words away

lest they eat my sleep

become the only part of me

devour those golden hours

which amount to the rest of me

yes, away with dreams and all that seems

possessed to make an end to me

Anesthesia is an art

to which I might at once lay claim

a shallow grave divided

I might just lay between

some token awareness consciousness

which came first coffee or cream

blackout describes the best held dreams

I lit a candle to threaten the stars

but nobody’s laughing in this wayward place

would someone put out the light

stop this ringing in my ears

I am not afraid of the night

but see what is done in the light of day

no...  don’t take my candle away

© 2005 Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe

Madman Chronicles: The Warrior now available at:

http://www.publishamerica.com/shopping/shopdisplayp roducts.asp?catalogid=3425" title="http://www.publishamerica.com/shopping/shopdisplayp roducts.asp?catalogid=3425" target="_blank"http://www.publishamerica.com...

To discover the most dangerous writers alive, go to www.howlingdogpress.com and www.howlingdogpress.com/OMEGA.

There, in OMEGA 4, Weapons of Mass Deception, you will find a selection of poems by Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe.

Websites: http://tomsternerhowe.freeservers.com" title="http://tomsternerhowe.freeservers.com" target="_blank"http://tomsternerhowe.freeser...

 http://pages.prodigy.net/sterner-howe" title="http://pages.prodigy.net/sterner-howe" target="_blank"http://pages.prodigy.net/ster...

Birds I View 

Whomever hears a choir

must needs long for Noel

just so...  those inclined toward

the voices of birds

listen for Spring

as one might any day sing

yet exalt in the clamor

of rich pitch soprano

and tenor rising

on alto bass legs to soar

all ways speak an air of wing

There were five this morning

whose dark coat raven

one more bearer await the pall

together badger the hawk

make a meal of its prey

caw caw caw the hunter

they strut in magnificent jest

whose eyes four hundred years

they live each and longer even

unimpressed by fate

scavengers and better for it

Such are the birds I view

gray tongues wagging lament

threatening at once to land

that the sky would fall

to bury its stick pins

ebon cloak name night

these bits of blue/black

lift the mantle and fear not

that gone unexplained

its quick reason a dark bead

such are the birds eye view

© 2005 Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe

Madman Chronicles: The Warrior now available at:

http://www.publishamerica.com/shopping/shopdisplayp roducts.asp?catalogid=3425" title="http://www.publishamerica.com/shopping/shopdisplayp roducts.asp?catalogid=3425" target="_blank"http://www.publishamerica.com...

To discover the most dangerous writers alive, go to www.howlingdogpress.com and www.howlingdogpress.com/OMEGA.

There, in OMEGA 4, Weapons of Mass Deception, you will find a selection of poems by Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe.

Websites: http://tomsternerhowe.freeservers.com" title="http://tomsternerhowe.freeservers.com" target="_blank"http://tomsternerhowe.freeser...

 http://pages.prodigy.net/sterner-howe" title="http://pages.prodigy.net/sterner-howe" target="_blank"http://pages.prodigy.net/ster...

Dear Reader,

Looking into faces of choir

whose voices reach, pass us through

more each the crowd

tone upon tone upon tone

delicious...    & nbsp;  

The Madnesses:

Writes of Spring

Love.  Ah yes, what else is there in the Spring...  youth..  the bloom of youth on love’s face.  A poet would name it so and never Summer, that lustiest season of all.  The rebirth of all things cries out regeneration, reaching to the Sun, a smoldering fire.

A scent of lilacs in the city and country hay alfalfa are the stuff of sweet dreams, each purple shade an infancy of desire.  Memories serve and quiet us not of a Springtime scent.  First he wonders, will she speak; then, oh my, what will I say...  through a dribble of drool sweet day.

She wonders at him, silly boy.  Her hand longs to be held.  She blushes for him in his state of stutters.  He concentrates on the top of her head, her angel’s hair, ‘til his lips make her name.  She is all flustered, then blushes a bit for herself.  Her hand longs to be held, what else..

Nearby, robins danse, strutting red breasts apart, heads bobbing, eyes on eyes, ebon orbs rapt; a primordial wreath hung between them.  White moths flutter in mist haloes above swaying blades of grass.  Gardeners guard darling sprouts array.  Bicycle Children stop to dap stones on still waters’ face.  The voyeur falls off his bench.

Our soon lovers go each apart to their homes where true madness begins.  His dinner untouched, an unprecedented event; mother cannot imagine what has caused his vacant-eyed and feverish mien. She has experienced these phenomena but never outside her personal sphere.  She lies him down, an ice-pack on his forehead and wonders the matter. 

Our girl is a-dither.  She flits about, her wandering way a path butterflies might find cause to follow.  Glass and mirrors give her pause, serve to verify what she saw in his eyes.  Father sends her to her room, admonishes her to settle down, sits in his worry chair and wonders the matter.

These three have marked time, the girl and boy, and poet voyeur.  By some fantastic coincidence, the very next day, they are found in their same places.  The young couple walks, her woman-girl voice a merry verse to the poet.  He is portly come stately, his stage-prop a cane which he twirls a couple of times as he meanders a wander to follow. 

Her voice at once disarms the boy, challenges and forbids him.  A Spring breeze plays tickle with his hairline beads of sweat.  He thinks maybe he should ask her but there is no room between her chatter. For this he is both thankful and confused.  He bites his tongue while his hand takes a mind of its own.  It actually touches her fingers.  She responds with a squeeze and the next thing you know..  they are walking hand-in-hand.  This delicate, exotic, angel creature has, in a single gesture, answered every prayer, each and only, the wishes of his heart. They stop as our aged poet drops his cane and claps his hands.  Eye to eye, the three are one, a primordial wreath hung between them.  Our poet bends to pick up his cane, back complaining.  By the time he is erect, they are moving, swaying together in the dapple shade of budding trees. 

He finds a bench, a bit of shade for himself, squints his eyes, the more to see.  They are face to face, hand to hand to hand to hand.  She thinks, maybe a kiss, maybe a kiss my first.  Our boy thinks the same, of course.  Then realizes he has cut his tongue, a tiny bit of copper-warm blood, reassuring somehow.  Will she come tomorrow, he asks.  I have a walk each day, she confides.  Me too, he smiles...  same time?  She is shocked to see herself so in his eyes, skips away.  A flirting glance back, we’ll see.

Our poet watches them go their ways, then bends to the scrawls in his notebook.  A chuckle of youth borrowed slips past his lips.  His cane in the crook of an arm, there is an uncharacteristic spring in his step as he returns down the path.  No need to wonder the matter.  He smiles to himself, imagining the words, the end he will write to this piece, the sharing of lovers, his wonderful madness, its spiral web of time.

----

© 2005 Thomas Paul {WordWulf} SternerHowe

Madman Chronicles: The Warrior now available at:

http://www.publishamerica.com/shopping/shopdisplayp roducts.asp?catalogid=3425" title="http://www.publishamerica.com/shopping/shopdisplayp roducts.asp?catalogid=3425" target="_blank"http://www.publishamerica.com...

To discover the most dangerous writers alive, go to www.howlingdogpress.com and www.howlingdogpress.com/OMEGA.

There, in OMEGA 4, Weapons of Mass Deception, you will find a selection of poems by Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe.

Websites: http://tomsternerhowe.freeservers.com" title="http://tomsternerhowe.freeservers.com" target="_blank"http://tomsternerhowe.freeser...

 http://pages.prodigy.net/sterner-howe" title="http://pages.prodigy.net/sterner-howe" target="_blank"http://pages.prodigy.net/ster...

Music:   http://truefire.com/list.html?store=original_music &" title="http://truefire.com/list.html?store=original_music &" target="_blank"http://truefire.com/list.html...;viewauthor=3554

A compelling read!   
Daniel Meyer
Texas  (12/27/2004)

An epic and compelling adventure. An artful blending of motorcycles and the unique souls who ride them, clashing cultures, family love, the loyalty and honor of friends, stunning betrayals, and inconceivable evil all swirling in a land teetering between apocalypses. Join Wulf as he leads his people into the labyrinth, part of which is a futuristic underground habitation that just might be their salvation...or something much, much more.

Excellent!   
Sherry
Vero Beach  (3/5/2004)

Immerse yourself in this voyeuristic world with a junket through a timeless labyrinth and an abyss of imagination. The book is like an all day multi layered tasty jawbreaker – very complex and delightfully mystical down to the very last bit. The story opens at the conclusion of the world conflict in the year 2010 with Wulf saying a farewell to his loved and trusted friend, Hood. The farewell is an elaborate high ceremony at the Stone Mountains behind the City of the Rock. Wulf is a descendant of the North American Peoples and a member of Lord of the Dragon. He created a community known as the Cave of the Dark Heart. With help from the ancient Book of the See, Wulf along with his staunch companion, genus Cajun Angelo, boldly search for a secure haven for his people. The reader will jump in and out of dreams into nightmares in a flash of a thundercrack. In one mad dream Wulf experiences an intense vision of “ a worm crawled out of her mouth, white and fat, burrowing itself between her bleeding lips, feeding.” Meet the soul hopping Patron who is “fueled by hate and a burning lust for revenge”. There is nothing cookie cutter about this book. It has a distinct style all its own. It is written with an elaborate herculean and provocative style. This book aggressively takes on in limitless futuristic action the very human elements of mistrust, fears, abuse, sex, tenderness, love, and the dynamics in all relationships. This is not a book you can skim. The author vibrantly interweaves creativity, intensity and exquisite detail. Mr. Sternerhowe also provides music that may be downloaded from his site that correlates to the chapters in the book. A unique concept that should not be missed by the reader. The Madman Chronicles: The Warrior offers an adult cerebral momentousness makings of a first rate epic. Sherry Russell Author/reviewer

Warrior,The Madman Chronicles   
Maggie
USA  (2/10/2004)

Having read just three chapters, I knew I needed to add it to my collection. This is a fast paced, well thought out book with multi themes that require you to read slowly. I am looking forward to its arrival. The characters are not only drawn well, but have had flesh and blood added to them everyone. I am looking forward to the whole book.

Warrior, The: Madman Chronicles   
Christy
Arvada, Colorado USA  (1/24/2004)

What a ride! I couldn't put it down! The characters are so real that you feel what they feel as if you're one of them (you definitely want to be). This novel keeps you on your toes anxiously waiting for what will happen next! You'll ride a rollercoaster of emotions from cheering to crying! Thanks to this thrill ride I've been to the Great Stone Mountains, the family Wulf spiritual ground, and felt the hope of After Earth. Read this novel and you'll have been there too! I can't wait for the next one! To the author...Word! Wulf!

Madman Chronicles: The Warrior   
Paul
United States  (12/3/2003)

" Madman Chronicles : The Warrior " By Thomas Paul ( Wordwulf ) Sterner Howe Reviewer : Paul Berube, Author/Poet SternerHowe's novel is a futuristic shocker containing something for everyone. This excellent work of fiction will keep you on the edge of your seat and glued to it's pages from start to finish. Join SternerHowe in this wild ride through the bat and giant spider infested caves of THE LABYRINTH or the beauty of AFTER EARTH. Walk walls with Wulf and Andrew or leap into a soul or two with The Patron. Enjoy the cajun humor of Angelo or the eroticism of Lila and beauty of Jennifer. Cry, laugh, love and sing with the entire cast of characters or just fly through Vera's world of Cyberspace. Whatever your preference you are truly in for the treat of a lifetime. This novel is definitely an outstanding read.

A true man   
Brandie
Illinois  (11/17/2003)

You will absolutely marvel as you join Wulf in his action packed journey in the not so distant future. Witness the heroics as him and his comrade the Cajun, Angelo perform heroic feats and obstacles. This book is sure to keep you at the edge of your seat just waiting to turn the page. The details make you feel as if you are right there living this adventure with our new found friend Wulf. Thomas Sternerhowe shows great talent and skill in his writings. This is most definitely a book you will want to read again and again!!

To my Child... all of them.

What follows is a true account to the best of my knowing, a chronicle of

desperate people living in a desperate time, held together by the haunting

auspice of hope, a proud People unwilling and unable to give up and

finally...unable to forgive. The right and true names of persons and places,

timelines, have all been changed to protect the guilty. So falls the warrior

down.

Counting the dead

in the eye of the dragon

tear stains

blood

Chapter One

Farewell to Hood

Once and forever blooded.

Never mercenary... forever tired

After the Great Conflict Wulf’s friend, Hood, was buried with high ritual

ceremony. At the conclusion of the conflict a final body count was made.

Hood was on the list of the missing. After two months of no contact and the

body never having been found, he was considered missing in action and

presumed dead. Over five thousand soldiers gathered, representative of all

of the thirteen tribes of the Cave of the Dark Heart. They appeared at the

gathering place in ones, twos and tens. At the time of leaving they made way,

riding two abreast. Snaking through the city at the feet of the Great Stone

Mountains, over five miles of unleashed lightning and thunder, they made

way. Never had the gooseflesh claimed Wulf as it did that day. Five thousand

hearts strong, he felt them breathe as one. As they mounted their steel dragons

he felt himself swallowed by raw sound, pure muscle and blood, mechanical

fury. He was lost to those moments as he had never been lost before, drowned

in a living flood of roaring engines, brotherhood and tears. Wulf was only a

man, a man born to the See...

They rode high into the Stone Mountains behind the City of the Rock.

When they reached the top and at the moment of the rising of the sun they

tore a hole in Mother’s skin, their hands bleeding into her. Hood’s favorite

dragon was brought forth, black and silver, flames burning on her smooth

skin. His riding leathers, boots and favorite personal weapons were tied to

her sides. She was wrapped in chains and ten men made a solemn procession

as they bore her to her final place of rest. She was lowered slowly into the

warm embrace of the earth.

Then a viewing was made and five thousand men dropped pieces of

themselves into the earth that she would not walk the other side alone,

searching for her lone rider. The Lords of the Dragon would be with her. She

would have maps and words, messages from those who had loved him and

fought beside him, golden keys for her gates. Wulf cut all the hair from his

head and face. On top of this he dropped six ears severed from the heads of

their mutual enemies. Finally... a golden tear from the trap at his throat and

the leather strap and worn buckle from the shifting leather of his favorite

fighting dragon.

Hood was one of the twelve who had shared with Wulf the mystery and

challenge of the House of Discipline as eleven year old children, facing one

another and the other eleven chosen each and every day for seven solid years.

For twenty- five years they had ridden, fought and loved as brothers of the

blood. Wulf had combed the field of battle inch by inch, searching for his

friend. It was unbearable for him to bid farewell to Hood’s empty suit of

armor... but he was gone... The ritual and offerings devoured all of the first

day and half the night. In the midnight, under the cold light of a hard full

moon, the hole was sealed... to be healed.

Wulf found a smooth stone bathed in the full light of the moon. He rubbed

and cleaned it with his bare hands and tears falling, chanting over and over...

“Ty Ke Yi Yut Te... Ke,” the death song of the Cave of the Dark Heart. He

knelt in the center of the grave, taking two tiny glass vials from a small

leather bag on his belt. One vial contained a dark-colored liquid. Wulf

uncapped the vial and drank deeply, consuming half its contents. He then

recapped it. The other vial was full of the white staying-powder of war. Wulf

opened it and laid a thick line of the fine white crystal substance across the

blade of his field knife, again leaving the vial half full. He paused in his

chanting and inhaled the powder through his nostrils, cleaning the blade

with his tongue, then driving it deep into the earth in the center of the grave.

He continued chanting... “Ty Ke Yi Yut Te... Ke.” With his thumbs he pressed

the vials into the freshly turned earth on each side of the blade. He held the

moonstone in both of his hands, turning and caressing it. His chant became

louder, more intense, his kneeling body rocking back and forth with the

rhythm, the sound and strength of his voice, a voice both beautiful and mad.

It became a keening thing, wailing, disembodied and howling forth as he

raised the stone of the moon high over his head. With a final gut-wrenching

scream, he brought the stone down with all his weight, burying the blade and

vials beneath it. He stood slowly, reverently, backing away, whispering, “Ty

Ke Yi Yut Te... Ke.” His eyes wild and uncomprehending, he collapsed at the

edge of the circle of men surrounding the grave.

The Captain of the Guard made a chopping motion with his arm and

explosives were detonated causing a small mountain of stone four times

Wulf’s height of six feet to fall on top of Hood’s grave. The silence of five

thousand fighting men paid quiet homage to the humble pile of stone standing

as a shrine over the tomb of Hood. Many brothers, Wulf included, wrote

messages of farewell in their own blood on smooth faces of the stone. Wulf

made a haiku:

Soldiers

Across the dark night,

once and forever blooded,

we are bleeding still.

After the explosives and writing of the blood many great fires were made.

The families, women, Children and elders of those mourning, were coming

to join the warriors of their blood. At first sight of the fires, a prearranged

signal, they made a caravan and sometime later began to arrive. They made

a grand feast and celebrated with wines, bitter dark beers and the peace of

the smoking pipe.

For seven days and seven nights they reinvented, remembered and relived

their lives and times with the Hood. They praised and cursed him, laughed

for him and cried. Most of the men remained awake throughout with the aid

of the fine white waking-powders manufactured for the long nights of the

war.

Finally, exhausted and spent, they rode five thousand strong into the

seventh night. Across one hundred and fifty miles, riders split off in ones,

twos and tens to make warm the fires in the caves of their homes. Having

been host of the event, Wulf rode the circle. He took the Nomads and those

who chose to linger with him to his home outside the City of Stone. His

children made them welcome, all seven waiting expectantly for the arrival of

their Father. One more night the men sat up, telling the younger ones of the

ritual and glory of the man they laid to rest, Wulf with a Child on his lap the

entire time.

After a few days of rest the men fell into a routine as most men do. They

would spend the days attending to the needs of the dragons, formulating

future plans of rendezvous, trading stories and secrets. They would ride across

the long nights, into the City of Stone and other small mountain towns where

they would attend the drinking rooms, cards, games of chance. Their favorite

recreation by far was gathering in the smoky rooms, underneath the low

lights, where the night ladies made their danse.

By the second week of Autumn the last of the Nomads bid Wulf a fond

farewell. His final guest, a Cajun by the name of Angelo, made the decision

to winter in the City of Stone. He endeared himself to Wulf in his own peculiar

way, “‘Sides mon ami, I got nuttin’ goin’, we be mekkin’ dis a coo’ winter. I

done made up m’ mind!” Wulf insisted Angelo stay in his home, which was

only a couple of miles outside the city proper.

© 2005 Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe

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His eyes are closed

and a tear

runs down his cheek

It gathers

in the filth on his face

makes soft mud there

His rifle

leans against his left shoulder

butt to the ground

its bayonet

gleaming hard and steel

through the liquid red

of new blood

running

running down

to stain the gray cloak

of his uniform

His eyes open

and he looks down and down

upon the body

of his just-slain enemy

Blue material

absorbs and hides

the blood much better

he thinks

laughs hysterically

He reaches inside the shirt

of the dead soldier

searching

sobbing

and there he finds

a large red paper heart

adorned with real lace

and fine spun glass

His weeping is absolute now

He falls to his knees

eyes to the sky

beseeching God

He reaches inside his own vest

discovers his own mortal wound

In each of his hands now

he holds a large paper heart

white lace

fine spun glass

and blood fresh of nation

He sees the inscription on each

identical:

“My dearest Johnny”

He bends down low

cries out in his pain

looks

into the dead eyes

of his enemy vanquished

face to face

moaning

live lips

to dead lips

Death’s embrace

he cries

dies

© 2005 Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe

Madman Chronicles: The Warrior now available at:

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To discover the most dangerous writers alive, go to www.howlingdogpress.com and www.howlingdogpress.com/OMEGA.

There, in OMEGA 4, Weapons of Mass Deception, you will find a selection of poems by Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe.

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Might Have Said 

I might have said I love you

ten thousand echoes reside

Three wandering Moons of Atlantis

conspire to conceal, they hide

the city; my love is a rainbow

whose path is come open and wide

a tumble me down and forever

whistling of prayer, neap tide

I might have said who are you

whose sleep I have come to share

far misty mountains abiding

a halo of Sun as they bear

tree Children; my love is a whis’pring

wind through the needles, their hair

Lift me up, I’m a flying man

whose heart is lighter than air

I might have said where are you

lonely nights lying awake

a misty gath’ring of shadow

fair ghosts of tomorrow may shake

their heads, my love is a phantom

a cry of hope for their sake

whose spirit may lie in my bosom

a lay me down I would make

I might have said I’ve found you

into the face of the night

The Sun, a cascade of falling

makes narrowing pathways of light

A fire, my love is a ribbon

shimmering gem of delight

the body of faith come rewarded

healing caresses ignite

I might have said I love you

then finally found your face

the stars, a sprinkling of Heaven

find sorrow and come to erase

the dark, my love is a promise

a choosing of time and place

whose moment I have come seeking

has found me and blessed me with grace

© 2005 Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe

Madman Chronicles: The Warrior now available at:

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To discover the most dangerous writers alive, go to www.howlingdogpress.com and www.howlingdogpress.com/OMEGA.

There, in OMEGA 4, Weapons of Mass Deception, you will find a selection of poems by Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe.

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A Vanishing Face 

If truth were a sparrow and I learned to fly

I would never again walk to catch a lie

If moments were forever and days could be years

love was a rainbow and happiness fear

I would drown in a moment of fear every day

color my love with your smile and say

I love you today and yesterday too

only tomorrow will know what to do

I’ll hate you never, love’s kindling feeds the flame

I’ll always hear whispers of your sweet name

My clothes may be ragged, these shoes may be worn

My shirt may need washed, these underwear torn

Only the sparrow knows of the seed

dropped down from heaven, our love to feed

Clothes do not matter, the heart tells the tale

Success is not beautiful to those who fail

My love and your love, two hearts as one

Summertime breezes, summertime sun

Remembering touching, the softness was real

No words to express how it made me feel

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;  

Blue eyes turned hazy, a vanishing face

I reach out in vain to be back in that place

I don t really blame you, these bars I can t climb

And I’ll never forget the last time

No, I’ll never forget the last time

© 2005 Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe

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To discover the most dangerous writers alive, go to www.howlingdogpress.com and www.howlingdogpress.com/OMEGA.

There, in OMEGA 4, Weapons of Mass Deception, you will find a selection of poems by Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe.

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Inner Piece

I DECA - Interlude

At dawn they loosen the chains

skin tears steel remains

The jailer spits on the floor

rattles his keys in the door

shines a light prison eye

lines of bars no Earth and sky

makes small talk scratches his ass

belches and passes gas

touches your girl’s picture on the shelf

same hand touches himself

chuckles and locks himself outside

where he is a prisoner and monsters hide

You curse yourself the single tear

and damn the life that put you here

No smokes and filthy screws

II Deca

One:    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;  

Drop your ink bottom bottle out

no wellspring of knowledge there

Artisans standing idle attention

fifty guns aimed heart and mind

No mercy shown and faith be damned

they fall then others make the line

Sheol the lady holds them all

abode of darker spaces

Water clear shine like glass

disappears upon the image of itself

Poets human bondage witness

Glass blower’s breath creates a seed

of emptiness wall of need

Two:   

A room full of empty persons

whose Children parenting class

must teach that which should be known

drop ball echo soundless void

Sentenced to recovery rehabilitation

assumption of previous culpability

Two nickels and a dime won’t buy

passage in a land of quarters

Four parts the dollar makes us whole

our tiny boats tippy canoe

Babies hiding in the basement

earn us a following of broken dolls

tidy down in four square walls

Three:

We are delivered foundling

into a nuts and bolts universe of dread

False light and surgeon’s knife

instruments smile mother’s pain

This nether world of strangers

so unlike we like we

share some thing night living damned

Air no liquid pryzm peace

instance of thorn no rose to hide

These pierced explosive event

birth an altar and death benign

Where the bubble might have been

a shroud held close diaper pin

Four:  

They rode a camel through it

hurricane with a woman’s name

She earned a new coat of lies

a jungle of parasites within her skin

The beast rode her and named her

wanton woman who fair chances

Flames inborn and begging ignition

there’s a humpback do it again

The picture is too real

where life is the wrong size to wear

Are we going back there again

Take your picture in the parking lot

pants down shooter gonna get caught

Five:   

Pretending Summer lasts all night

lay down beside an open wound

Call it Earth call it mother

Certainty is Sunrise and Moon sleep

There are no certainties human

beings obsessed and certainly damned

lay persons erecting pagoda

trying Gods on for size and effect

Dream and call them a visit

hopeful prayers in the temple

mournful cries of despair

Who is kidding whom they might

scare say boo shift to the right

Six:    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   &nbs p;

In a shouted whisper valley voices

come as soughing willow sighs

uniting pale Summer shoulders

drawing them mountain shrug of days

What minute twists of eon they share

embarrassed cough

behind the hand of Winter

Severe ailment plucky human seed

worn as a garment of fishwife

Rotting wonders does she really care

one Child asleep in her lap

another dead at her withering nipple

She holds them even nurtures the same

what milk unto blood the body game

Seven:

With a freshet of Sun in his eyes

a flask of under blanket wine

morning dogs nip at his heels

lips pucker pull nipple flask

and night is come wrested away

His friends call him Jesus in the afternoon

They laugh and fall off the bench

She looks fine behind the shade

Half closed eyes make silhouette

flaws made hiding and undisclosed

table dances with lesser angels

There is black light a view screen snow

sound to match where dancers go

Eight: 

Counting the other man’s money

whose sweat is punished falling there

Tainted crisp currency of prophet

seizeless net and write it off

Exercise in the gloom room

hundred pound wait full body press

will eventually push hold you down

The door opens at nine bells

ringing ‘cross tenement concubine

wears a tight load of errant seed

a nest between her legs

Where dead birds go to hide

egg reptile rip her wide

Nine:  

She makes breath on the telephone

He decides to carry a loud stick

to protect himself from far woman

There are seven such maladies

Ain’t no wonder the world

and what degree infinity

Taxes those exes from Texas

are all blows beneath the belt

dire sent and thrice meant

as a curse of foul witch

Join the circle swagger

to this wandering Children lost

hearts come the tempest and tossed

Ten:    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;  

There are tin men on the radio

found hiding under the knob

a twist of which summons

Served and rightly quashed a People’s Court

Divided net ace after ace

go unanswered sing and follow

the bouncing ball of life after life

Follow come on you follow me down

Violence thrives in the city night

Owls swoop devour wisp of soul scent

as bees bumble sex the flower

Will want decide or noxious need

flora human where demons feed

(continued)

Madman Chronicles: The Warrior now available at:

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To discover the most dangerous writers alive, go to www.howlingdogpress.com and www.howlingdogpress.com/OMEGA.

There, in OMEGA 4, Weapons of Mass Deception, you will find a selection of poems by Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe.

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Inner Piece

This work is dedicated to Jesus Christ, Elvis Presley, Jim Morrison, Abraham Lincoln, Friedrich Nietzsche, all those hopeless creative addicts of life.

Introduction By Decree

Motoring Colorado Ninety-three

Rocky bad ass Mountains to the west of me

a fist full of pink bellied dawn

I got no excuses

surrounded by the See

drowning in a mess of pastel hues

scared to death and fluffy as hell

Sometimes it’s hard to breathe

a surrounding warp tide

No one trims these grass

bet your damned sweet ass

A coyote pulling on a carcass

He’s too skinny to eat in the daytime

flinches at passing cars

Snarls and nowhere to hide

I was mean like that when I was young

still am on a good day

Some times I threaten to pull over

go sit my ass on a rock and pretend

I am free of the cares of this world

Mister Mountain calls my name

whose snowfields hold my death

some thing to look forward to

I feel them tugging at my skin

I ain’t dead yet damn it

There’s a trail of blood

where something heavy was dragged

It’s me I bite down on my black steel gun

I like to kill things

after they have torn and beat me

and left me for dead

Prelude

It began in the middle of me

I started over learned to be free

erased nurturing holding hands

that I might fall begin to stand

Those close to the pot fingers in

stepped away from my fresh sin

Children of my blood I took

opened up and had a look

I set myself afire away

from the middling heat of the new day

Circled ‘round began to danse

that I might just take a chance

We giggled boys and girls we did

those Children mine and their father kid

Together we just might make it

One:    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;  

Her mouth is open ‘O’

as the choir church doors swing wide

A bird speaks from the fourth chair

what stentorian voice

Frail limbs supporting roles of oration

bind them mouth to beak and more

codependent infirmities

whose might relies note of song

displays a hidden rite of Earth

mystery borne breath of her laugh

Bond of light morning bird cry

where is wed feather hair

arms and wings embracing there

Two:   

A Sun mounts expectant rise

The boy lifts from his bed of night

May find peace defying dawn

father’s hand his head upon

Tied to the firmament of life

invested and divested

of father’s dream may pass for truth

A son’s reward shallow next

he may seek and find for himself

teach father a path to relent

For a tired Sun needs to lay down

become the one lit other’s Moon

where fire burns the one too soon

She makes a barefoot pilgrimage

weather or not an ice on her toes

the mark Winter Spring delight

Caution rides a feathering wind

Storm dancers pay homage there

is no cold dress for a warm heart

An adult Children always

born solemn and glad become

Spring a sidestep skip away

She makes a giggle in church

slams her father’s midnight door

Cold toes peeking light beneath

Winter blanket Spring bequeath

Automobile watching mirror

loved ones journey left behind

Window glass front future loom

tapestry woven fragile threads

what make life binding web

a thousands of lifting and falling down

first step hold me and last step done

Only one eye makes the glass

sees before not after twice

some thing missed when looking back

and flying through the crossroads

Hands waving still goodbye

broken glass and the weepers sigh

Five:   

Red dot pencil life of shame

two score years and count them nine

People are afraid to die in there

are no caged animals content

Seeking corners to hide round rooms

gross display of privacy lost

Her eyes are behind him

They strangle the life from his son

dares to touch him in his box

wakes the beast to fornicate

breed like tiny monsters

They love like starving priests

whom may give the very least

Six:    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   

    & nbsp;

He seize her as a tiny bird

wet hair and body smooth water

plays her as a minuet

quarter time forward slow

She spreads her wings before him

that he might use her fly away

join lightning Summer mountain

Refuses to leave her live alone

Chooses to die together

and never live apart

ecstasy these lover’s art

A sweet duet their pulses sing

She holds him and their hearts take wing

Some times he reminds himself

of those he tends to loathe

Of them he is then one

believes he deserves the best

receives instead the worst of the lot

wields an instrument of voice

opiate sword and thrust aside

his fellowmen a wounded cause

tossed down the lion’s throat

Gladiator gobbling the Moon

and promising as paladin

Courage a gauntlet wandering boot

a loss of causes rendered moot

As in casual religiosity

rabid rabbinical need

fed ort ritual slaughter

and the fervor of innocents

Fasting on the killing ground

a smudge of sin marks the sky

soon owns that broad expanse of skin

under whose citizens tweak

ride snow mountains on thin slats of board

give themselves over to vanity

and the greed of Nation

Hands washed skin tight plastic drape

nip and tuck blessed Earth to rape

The day we might feel a thing

slips by swift leather thong

binds us eternal and quicker still

We mete ourselves out younger

Some are meant to be found

It is a pure damned wonder

Where feet touch a ground wire meet

mud slick toes wiggle they might

make commerce of red faces

and touching after dark

We killed bugs in a bottle

The hungry boy he used to be

ate them he won’t look at me

It is impossible to live with dignity

Body functions desire deny us

We are offered up simple

rutting lumps of flesh packs of lies

lost seeking a death of sleep

dominion over Earth

Trapped in the screaming universe of self

there is no peace in flesh

Slaves are we to nagging voice

feed me please me make me whole

There is still time to make the Gods laugh

They made us small we grew taller

Stood up, made ourselves smaller

(continued)

Madman Chronicles: The Warrior now available at:

http://www.publishamerica.com/shopping/shopdisplayp roducts.asp?catalogid=3425" title="http://www.publishamerica.com/shopping/shopdisplayp roducts.asp?catalogid=3425" target="_blank"http://www.publishamerica.com...

To discover the most dangerous writers alive, go to www.howlingdogpress.com and www.howlingdogpress.com/OMEGA.

There, in OMEGA 4, Weapons of Mass Deception, you will find a selection of poems by Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe.