Lee Simmons sent me another poem and it’s great.

I know you loved his first poem, so I’m proud to share this one with you too. Lee’s a hell of a writer and we’re fortunate to have him writing for us.

THE BABIES KNEW

It all [...]]]>

Lee Simmons sent me another poem and it’s great.

I know you loved his first poem, so I’m proud to share this one with you too. Lee’s a hell of a writer and we’re fortunate to have him writing for us.

THE BABIES KNEW

It all happened during a moonlit night,

Drinks were being downed left and right,

People were shoutin’ and all were blind,

Time was short, it was a half past nine.

Minds were dark and cloudy this night of fear,

People were scared and pullin’ at their hair,

Minds were goin’ and guns started blowin’,

People lyin’ dead and no one knowin’.

Spirits were down and the nerves were up,

Blood was flowin’ from every cup,

Heads were bobbin’ and legs were flyin’,

No one heard when the babies started cryin’.

ONLY THE BABIES KNEW

YES….THE BABIES…………….THE LITTLE ONES

ONLY THE BABIES KNEW

ALL THE BABIES….ALL THE DAUGHTERS AND SONS

Those left alive, the ones not dead,

Started lookin’ around, around for their beds,

Instead they saw their clocks and were struck with fear,

For their eyes could not see what their ears did hear.

Everyone was silent now, every livin’ thing,

People were wishin’ what their hopes could not bring,

Babies stopped cryin’ and started to sing,

It stopped the wind, it stopped everything.

“WE ARE THE SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF EVERY SHADE

TIME HAS STOOD STILL AS WE HAVE BADE

WE ARE THE SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF YOU ALL

WHY DIDN’T YOU LISTEN WHEN WE TRIED TO CALL”

As the whole world listened to their babies sing,

They were struck with awe at what was happening,

Sounds of silence, the song was done,

What was the meaning of the song just sung…

ONLY THE BABIES KNEW

YES…THE BABIES….THE LITTLE ONES

ONLY THE BABIES KNEW

ALL THE BABIES…ALL THE DAUGHTERS AND SONS

NOW IT IS DAWN AND THE BABIES OF THE WORLD ARE GONE…………..

Lee A. Simmons

Thought and Light.

Good Morning from the towers of A Word with You Press in Oceanside, California

Less than a week to get in your entry to our contest Tempus Fugit…Will You?  It’s all about time travel, and isn’t it time you traveled to those keys and pulled up the rules of [...]]]>

Good Morning from the towers of A Word with You Press in Oceanside, California

Less than a week to get in your entry to our contest Tempus Fugit…Will You?  It’s all about time travel, and isn’t it time you traveled to those keys and pulled up the rules of the contest and submitted your own entry? : www.awordwithyoupress.com/category/tempus-fugit-will-you-rules-winners/

Here is an entry from a newcomer, who travels time to change but one event.  She calls her entry:

Haunting Shadows

by Sabrena Pattat

Tonight's haunting shadows become tomorrow's morning wood as seen from The Word

By Sabrena Pattat

“Is this gonna kill me? Read my palms!” Aurella half asks and half demands the psychic.

“It might, if you are not careful enough,” comes the reply.

Aurella nods and turns to leave the tent. John follows, quickly getting ahead of me as he’s my bodyguard.

“Are you sure it’s safe to do this?” John asks me quietly after the reading.

“What harm could come from breaking the Tempus Fugit Act?” I whisper in his ear. “Besides, it’s so new that no one would know we broke it, if we take the right precautions” I continue just as quietly, backing away slightly.

“I’m not sure about this, Aurella, so many things could go wrong…” John says worriedly.

I glare at John. “If you’re so uncertain about this, after all of my hints, than I will gladly make sure you cannot betray me”

John gulps and nods fearfully as I begin to power on the various systems that would allow us to travel through time and space.

“Here we go, 1986…”

“Remind me why you wanted to come to this time and place, again?”

“You know why, you wanted the same thing! I don’t want to lose my parents again…Do you?”

John looks reserved. “No, but… how do you plan to fix what went wrong? Will they know it’s you?”

“No, I plan to sneak in as a new scientist and arrange it so I ‘die’ in a car crash a few years after I save everyone.”

“What happens if you get caught?”

“I don’t plan to, I will have back ups in place that will kill me first and before you ask, I won’t tell you what they are.”

“Well… if you’re certain…”

“I am. You shall remain here with the gate in case anything goes wrong and we need to leave quickly.”

John nods. “Good luck, Aurella.”

Aurella shakes her head. “Call me Cara”

John agrees and amends his words, “Good luck, Cara.”

Aurella Takeshi, now known as Cara Brown, steps through the gate.

“I hope you can do this, Aurella, for your sake and mine. You weren’t the only one who lost family that day.”

He waits.

Literati!

As some of you have discovered, I traveled back in time and allowed each participant in our contest to submit two entries instead of just one in our contest Tempus Fugit…Will You?   Nicholas Bertrand got the memo, and here is is second [...]]]>

Literati!

As some of you have discovered, I traveled back in time and allowed each participant in our contest to submit two entries instead of just one in our contest Tempus Fugit…Will You?   Nicholas Bertrand got the memo, and here is is second entry, which he calls:

The Future is in the Past

by Nicholas Bertrand

Nostradamus wanted to be a fortune teller; but he didn't see a future in it.

There’s only one man that can tell me what I need to know. This crazy disease is going to kill me; I just know it must be Dermatailecultis. Damn doctors don’t know what they’re talking about. I know I’m right. Nobody just has cold sweats, a runny nose, and nervous twitching without something being horribly wrong with them.

If I can just find out for sure I can try to come to terms with my end. I just need to avoid the tempus agents. Besides Drew told me they time travel so much that you catch temporalites from them. I don’t even want to start to get into how horrible that would be. I heard your hair falls out and everything tastes green for some reason.

Now that I think about it, that apple did taste a little funny.

Well he has to be able to help me. I just have to get to him. It should be around the corner here somewhere.

I pass a French aristocrat and cover my mouth. Last thing I need is to catch the plague.

That’s when I see his house. I cross the courtyard and reach for the bell before I grab it though the door opens. This is exactly why I came here.

“Bonjour.”

“Please you must help me Nostradamus! Is this gonna kill me? Read my palms!”

I hold out my hand and he looks at me with a confused look. “Je ne comprends pas? Quoi?” he looks down at my palm and smiles then holds up a finger motioning for me to wait and pulls out a loaf of bread and places it in my hands. Before I can say anything else the door closes and I’m left in a dazed confused state.

O crap the Dermatileculitis must be advancing Nostradamus must of known and didn’t want to contract anything. It’s all over I’m really going to die. There’s so little time, I can’t do everything. Oh why couldn’t he of told me how much time I have at least. A French aristocrat passes by(*), and I bring my handkerchief up to cover my mouth. You can’t be too careful.

*

French Aristocrat Maxmillien de Bethune, The Duke of Sully, Finance Minister to Henry IV, and the aristocracy from which I have fallen so far, warms a bench and waits for me to make something of myself! Hey! Maybe I can travel back in time and ask him how to make my fortune! (Oops--I don't speak French)

Literati!

How could we possibly have known without taking the last time-travel train to Clarksville that these highly evolved musicians would have something to do with orchestrating an entry into our competition Tempus Fugit…Will You?

Newcomer to our site Tenley Newton made that discovery herself during time travel. I [...]]]>

Literati!

How could we possibly have known without taking the last time-travel train to Clarksville that these highly evolved musicians would have something to do with orchestrating an entry into our competition Tempus Fugit…Will You?

Newcomer to our site Tenley Newton made that discovery herself during time travel. I had my doubts, but then I saw her face; now I’m a believer.

The four Monks--Friars of a feather frock together

Here is her entry:

HIGHLY TRAINED MONKEYS

by Tenley Newton

Ariel stepped into the booth. It was a single; there were no more doubles since the 89^th amendment to the Tempus Fugit Act. Most of the amendments addressed issues relating to past travel because of the dangers of paradox. There were far fewer restrictions on future travel, and most of those had to do with information and monetary control.

The booth was dimly lit and Ariel had to wait a moment for her eyes to adjust enough to discern the placement of the seat. She sat, sank back into the adjustable foam and placed her hands in the scanners. The seat made corrections for her body and within fifteen seconds she was comfortably settled.

A soft, female voice chimed “Welcome, Ariel 02N0593459dash00034. When would you like to go?” Ariel was a bit startled despite the gentle voice. This was new. She was used to the old screens.

“Day 329 Year 2241”

“You spend too much time visiting this day, Ariel 02N0593459dash00034.”

“There’s no amendment against it.” She was upset by this new wrinkle. She’d always visited this day and the screen had never said a thing about it since the 47^th amendment had made it impossible to interact with anyone in the past. She could only observe and feel, which was good enough for her.

“How about another time?” asked the now sinister seeming voice.

“No.” She was determined to spend her last credits for the year on that day with her baby boy. “Day 329 Year 2241” The lights came up on the clear screen and began flashing a red error message. Ariel was alarmed. This had never happened before. She adjusted her vision correction to read mode. The screen displayed this message:

“Error #5,000,000,003,728: This time cannot be accessed at this time. A team of highly trained monkeys has been dispatched to deal with this situation. Show them this code along with yours when they arrive.” A long page of code followed.

The chair contracted to confine her there, and her hands heated on the reader. The glass of the booth cleared and she saw armed monkeys surrounding the center. Terrified, Ariel shouted “Please! Quickly! Is this gonna kill me? Read my palms!”

Wee paws for sensation identification

Why not monkey around in our contest yourself right here: www.awordwithyoupress.com/category/tempus-fugit-will-you-rules-winners/

Literati! 

I remember these words from over ten years ago when the books editor of the San Diego Union Tribune told me to send him my ss # (no, not that SS) after I had written my first review.

But if you want to get paid for the [...]]]>

When: 4-5 p.m., Saturday, Feb. 25
Where: ArtLab Studios, 3536 Adams Ave. in Normal Heights
Your Investment: $10San Diego Creative Connectioninvites certified career and life coach Angela Martin of Defining Success Coaching for an encore presentation of her well-received talk on marketing for artists and creatives! If you missed Angela the first time, this is a great opportunity to discover more about marketing creative projects in ways that are natural to us, as well as defining our niche market. Not to be missed!Angela Martin, owner of DEFINING SUCCESS COACHING, is a speaker and a certified career and life coach who uses proven techniques to help people make a great living doing work they love. Her specialty is in coaching and consulting people in creative roles to see themselves get the recognition they deserve, hear about themselves in their industry, and finally feel satisfied even when they previously felt stuck. After spending years as the youngest Creative Services Manager in the advertising industry worldwide (and at the agency that came up with Got Milk? nonetheless), she now pulls from her experience to help others achieve what they truly want out of their work.Angela is also the Work-Life Balance Writer for San Diego’s Examiner.com. She has previously served on the Board of the San Diego Professional Coaches Alliance.

What: Marketing for Artists & Creative Types
When: 4-5 p.m., Saturday, Feb. 25
Where: ArtLab Studios, 3536 Adams Ave. in Normal Heights
Your Investment: $10
More info: www.sdcreative…Please feel free to pass this on to your group or join us yourself as well. Thanks so much for your time, and I hope you have a peaceful day.Sincerely,
RachelRachel M. Moore
Owner & Creativity Coach
San Diego Creative Connection
rachel@sdcreativeconnection.com
619-609-7278 

And my thanks to author David Boyne for sending this along.  Check him out at davidboyne.com/

The Tutu Factory, East Hell’s biggest employer, was gone now, and wasn’t coming back. The connivery that had produced this sad state of affairs had thrown hundreds out of work, savaged the tutu markets, and the result was an angry populace looking for answers and revenge.
In their [...]]]>

The Tutu Factory, East Hell’s biggest employer, was gone now, and wasn’t coming back. The connivery that had produced this sad state of affairs had thrown hundreds out of work, savaged the tutu markets, and the result was an angry populace looking for answers and revenge.
In their collective retro wisdom, however, there was never any doubt that Mayor Mute Gangery, the architect of the dismantling of their workforce, was anything but a decent, hardworking fellow who could show them how to balance the city’s books, become individually successful, and turn it all around. He was silent most of the time, just pointed to signs that the miniscule crowd around him would dutifully applaud. Signs that said “This Is How We Do it!” and “We Mirror Society!”
When he ran for Mayor, no one really bothered to show up at the East Hell polls, so he breezed through in a landslide. Mute’s first order of business was to fire all the school janitors, just as he had silently promised, and replace them with students like Billy Welper, who in addition to being one of the smartest kids on the planet, was also one of East Hell’s poorest.
Billy was tired, something that never should happen to a twelve-year-old. After classes were over one rainy Tuesday afternoon, his mom took him to see the school doctor, who demanded $35 up front, then stuffed it in his wallet.
“Let’s have a look-see.” he said. He shone a light into Billy’s eyes, checked for scale on his tongue, felt him all over for any possible tumors, and took his temperature. Everything seemed normal.
“So what’s the problem, Billy?” He got an answer he hadn’t expected.
“I’ve been trying to postulate the inevitability of a societal meltdown given the current ethics parameters versus the knowledge base of the status quo, and I keep coming up with a big fat zero,” replied Billy.
His mom interjected. “Billy’s a hypergenius, y’know?”
“Sure. Whatever.” The doctor continued messing with his tray of shiny instruments.
Billy continued. “It’s been giving me nightmares. I’d rather be writing the celestial navigation protocols for a trip to NGC 2770, the supernova factory. Oh…and I hate that stupid janitor job.”
“Well, boy, nuthin’ we can do about that.” The doctor then addressed Billy’s mom. “Mrs. Welper, this is a common malady, it’s happening everywhere. I’m going to give you a prescription for Billy.”
He wrote something illegible on a scrap of paper, then dismissed them. “This will calm him down, let him focus on his job. I’ll see you in a month.”
“I’ll pick you up at ten, hon.” Billy’s mom gave him a kiss and left. A few minutes later, he was alone in the empty building.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Billy thought. He shuffled into the broom closet, got the big floor polisher out and pushed it once down the hallway leaving a nice shiny and clean trail behind. He took a break and went into the boy’s room, staring at his face in the mirror for a long time, searching for an answer to his dilemma.
“Stupid pitiful mirror…” He studied his own eyes. “You and the Mayor and his buddies can’t even come close to reflecting me.”
Billy had explored post modern social theory and rejected most of it, except the parts about positivism and antipositivism. Social contract? There wasn’t any. Social conflict? Now there was a tool he could use! Might as well fire that one up now!
At a quarter til ten, with a full moon beaming down, Billy went back to the broom closet and retrieved the matches, then went to the empty classroom he had just cleaned. The entire floor was empty. Good. He hand lettered several fliers that said “FIGHT THE POWER!” He lit a match, dropped it into the wastebasket under the teacher’s desk and walked calmly next door where he repeated his actions. So far so good, no alarms. There weren’t any anyway, the school couldn’t afford them. He locked the doors and went outside, scattering the fliers on the school lawn.
He was waiting at the curb for his mom just as the first desk was catching fire. He opened the passenger door, hugged his mom, and they drove home. Billy felt better.
Actually, he felt quite good. By the time he and his mom pulled into the driveway, he had already improvised the qualitative and revolutionary underpinnings for the next social paradigm, and in his mind had destroyed Mute Gangery several times over.
His mom called up to his bedroom. “Billy, don’t forget to take your medicine!”
“OK!” replied Billy, watching his own face in the mirror while throwing the pills into the wastebasket.

Founder Desmond Tutu expands his clothing line to include wings and halos

Good early morning from Oceanside, California

Literati!  We have a new entry into our contest Tempus Fugit…Will You?  Diane Smith was inspired by the master-flasher Sal Buttaci to send this in. Blessed is he/she who invents new words (truthiness, anyone?).  We can now add crispified and wrinkler to our [...]]]>

Good early morning from Oceanside, California

Literati!  We have a new entry into our contest Tempus Fugit…Will You?  Diane Smith was inspired by the master-flasher Sal Buttaci to send this in. Blessed is he/she who invents new words (truthiness, anyone?).  We can now add crispified and wrinkler to our lexicon, thanks to Diane, who calls her entry

The G-Ring/G-String Conundrum

by Diane P. Smith

Wrinklers, just the size of a micrometer, lined Saturn’s Titan-Ring.  The few that survived, rattled cups, blew cheap palm whistles―begging for Time Chips.   One cruel Saturn-snotsky, fed  lazy Saturn-actylites Time Chips, torturing the poor Wrinklers who needed the chips more than anyone.  We watched, helpless, as one Wrinkler tried to slam a chip on its scales, but the flying claws of the snotsky pecked the Time Chip right off the Wrinkler as it shrunk, and gave it to yet another Saturn-actylite.

“I can’t even see that Wrinkler anymore. I hate those snotskiites.  They should be outlawed around here, not palm

oil!”

Henry Wrinkler hitch-hikes through the galaxy

My companion turned his head away slapping Time Chips on his wing that had been crispified in the illegal stuff—an act that could result in eternal banishment to Mars.

[As an aside, The Tempest Fugit act, [although, often referred to as The Tempest F-It Act] under statute fourteen, expressly prohibited the preparation of  Time Chips in palm oil as the oil accelerated osmosis, and do forgive the cliché, causing time to just fly over peaks and crashing valleys, but after all, it was worth the risk!  And we were on the Saturn-time-flying-in-a-negative-illegal-way-instead-of-a-dreary-positive-way-as-a-form-of-rest-from-the-ordinary-consumptive-osmotic-palm-oil-Time-Chip vacation.  For legal reasons, it was only advertized as prescribed given the cypher protocol on trashy commercials which allowed one word, not 360 words.]

“Is this gonna kill me? Read my palms!” he cackled.  “I just wanted to try the G-string on the G-ring.”

“How many palm oil Time Chips@!I$%@?””

“Five.”

“Are you sure they were palm oil Time Chips?”

“Dunno,” he said as his cackles grew quieter and his beak smaller, the patches dropping off.

I pulled his downy time flying feathers back and scrutinized the life line of his palm.

“You’re time line is shrinking! Get on that micro-ice-particle or you’ll slip through to the G-Ring.  Give me your feather, stretch…”

“But, that’s what I want!” He wriggled free, leaving me for all of flying time.

***

I’m younger now.  I realize we never should have used palm oil Time Chips—even on vacation.  Time may fly, or it just might fall to the G-Ring, your friend forgetting you forever, on another’s tiny G-String.

Diane Smith (right) also hitchhiking through time in search of a --oh!...WAIT! There's one now!

Good evening all, from The Word in Oceanside, California.  We are four blocks from the beach, but if I can get my passport in order, I intend to travel forward in time so that global warming will have rendered us as beach front property, and I shall then resume [...]]]>

Good evening all, from The Word in Oceanside, California.  We are four blocks from the beach, but if I can get my passport in order, I intend to travel forward in time so that global warming will have rendered us as beach front property, and I shall then resume my duties.

Nicholas Bertrand has entered the appropriate time warp with a story for our Tempus Fugit..Will You? contest. Here is who he has to slay–oops!-what he has to say!

He calls his tale

New Time Old Nightmare

by Nick Bertrand

They look so happy tonight, walking hand in hand blissfully unaware of what is about to happen to them. Any second now it will happen and the world will be changed for both of them. I’m not going to let that happen. I’ll stop the bastard first.

BEEP BEEP the alarm on my watch sounds.

Shit, this is going to be close– the tempus agents are close. The couple stops as a man slithers out of the woods. I’m too far to hear the words but they have been engraved into my soul after all this time.

The man from the woods reaches toward the girl, as the girl cringes away her date nervously reaches for something in his jacket he can’t seem to find.

I grab my gun and run toward the couple. The agents burst from the woods behind me screaming, but I don’t hear them. I need to finish what I started so long ago. The girl screams and moves in front of the man with the gun. There’s no more time I have to do it now. A shot rings out and fills the night with its deafening tone.

The girl looks at her body confused, the man from the woods runs the other direction, and the woman’s date drops his gun as he falls to the ground.

I feel a blow from behind me as the agents tackle me to the ground. I can hear the girl screaming and then twist my head to look. My strength is draining faster than I expected; I can barely move any longer. “Jason you fool, what have you done?’ I look up at the agent– his face is frozen in fear as he looks down at me.

“Is this gonna kill me? Read my palms!” the words are barely audible. The agent looks at my hands or through them. They slowly vanish soon the rest of me will follow. “Is sh…. fe?”

“Ya, she’s safe.” The agent stands up and the wormhole opens up behind him as the agents walk away. Back to their own time, back to her new time! I smile and the world goes black.

He said they were temp agents, so this is the crew of the zombie temp agency in Austin, Tatious (OH? Tempus Agents? There's a difference?)

Enter a time warp yourself here to enter our contest: www.awordwithyoupress.com/category/tempus-fugit-will-you-rules-winners/

..and this is about time, you know.

Literati!!

Good morning from Oceanside, California, and the towers of A Word with You Press–aka The Word.

Mac Eagan is submitting here his second entry into our contest Tempus Fugit…Will You?  Everyone is allowed two entries, unless of course I travel back [...]]]>

..and this is about time, you know.

Literati!!

Good morning from Oceanside, California, and the towers of A Word with You Press–aka The Word.

Mac Eagan is submitting here his second entry into our contest Tempus Fugit…Will You?  Everyone is allowed two entries, unless of course I travel back in time and change the rules...oh-wait!  I have already done that–and you didn’t even know!

According to Mac,

The Future is Ours, not Yours

by Mac Eagan

Blake Renner stood in front of the alleyway.  He scanned the crowds, studying people, sifting through the carnival atmosphere, looking for signs hidden in the darkness.  Fires burned in steel drums, their lights casting exaggerated shadows.  Clips of unrelated conversations ricocheted off buildings and asphalt, hitting his ears in unpredictable and sometimes amusing patterns.

“Do they make it in blue?”

“Is this gonna kill me?”

“Read my palms!”

Renner gave a slight smile.

Time travel invention opened up new worlds of economic opportunities.  There were legitimate enterprises and then there were hustlers and grifters.  Those who claimed to have time-travel technology, in spite of Tempus Fugits restrictions, and promised the universe to those willing to pay for it.

No one tried to “read” palms anymore, but the expression had survived and been adapted to a new practice, where “guides” placed temporal displays onto their mark’s hands.  They claimed the display used “adapted tech” to follow a palm-print into the future and send back images of where that person would be.  The video was always distorted, grainy, and counterfeit.  The guides offered vague interpretations of the display, and the mark unwittingly gave details the guides used to make it seem they had a unique ability to connect the present to the future.

The taint of ionization in the air seized Renner’s attention.  He looked deeper into the alley, focusing his attention on the lights and shadows.  At the alley’s end, stuck in the corner, Renner saw a cerulean afterglow fading away.

Renner sprinted towards his target, shoving his way past buyers and onlookers.  He pulled his badge from his pocket and stuck it to his overcoat’s lapel.  People turned in confusion as he sped by.

“Out of the way!  Temporal Enforcement!  MOVE!”

When Renner arrived, the location was empty.  True time-tech, but illegal.  He surveyed the ground, looking for details.

Among the gravel and dirt, blending in with the strewn garbage, Renner saw a crumpled cigarette pack.  He picked it up.  Heavy.  Renner opened his com-link.

“Well, I just missed him.  But ready a holding cell – I found his homing beacon.  When he comes back, he’ll be in for a surprise.”

Blake Renner wearing his flasher overcoat for flash fiction contest

Why not be a future winner?  Here is how… www.awordwithyoupress.com/2012/02/06/fugit-lets-just-do-what-sal-says/

Veterans’ Writing Project is proud to introduce a poem from a new voice in our family of veteran writers. Lee Simmons is a Vietnam Veteran, February 1970 thru April 1972. I just received this poem and couldn’t wait to share it with all of you. This truly gave me [...]]]>

Veterans’ Writing Project is proud to introduce a poem from a new voice in our family of veteran writers. Lee Simmons is a Vietnam Veteran, February 1970 thru April 1972. I just received this poem and couldn’t wait to share it with all of you. This truly gave me chills when I read it. It’s……….well – you’re just going to have to read it for youself. I know you’re going to love it.

So here, for his premier on the Veterans’ Writing Project, I am proud to present Lee Simmons’ poem, Old Wolf.

OLD WOLF

by Lee Simmons

Last night a wolf appeared in a Dream,
He was hunkered down lying next to a stream,
In the forest, where there should have been noises, there were none,
No birds singing, no deer grazing, no eagles soaring, no wind blowing, there was just the brightness of the Sun.
I sat cross legged next to the old codger and patted his matted gray fur,
His shoulder blades arched as he stood, first on one leg, the the other,
OLD WOLF turned his head, and his eyes, Black, Bold and tired, stared into mine,
His head reared towards the Sky and he bayed a mournful song that brought tears to my eyes.
With his head lowered, he placed his left paw across my legs and released a low thundering moan,
Again his tired eyes met mine and a Brotherhood was born between two Souls, with one Spirit being shown,
Words were needless, as our minds merged as one with Earth and Time gone by,
He let me see his World and I entered with Wonder and Excitement, but I soon started to cry.
Years ago he had roamed the Lands, both high and low, never alone, never afraid,
The Old Gray Wolf’s coat was a fine silky silver in his younger age,
He was the Leader of his pack, and a King amid his race,
Man and Beast alike, awed by his Strength and Bravery, reveered his Kingdom, but raped and pillaged his space.
OLD WOLF didn’t know Man’s meaning of Fear,
He grew Braver and Bolder with each passing year,
His brush with Death was met head on with Fury and Rage,
Escaping Death’s Hand, brandishing scars that lied about his age.
OLD WOLF cast his gaze into another time,
Our Souls, cast into Evil’s smokey haze, fell further into grit and grime,
We past through Killing Wars and Fields of Death,
Where Man and Beast lay side by side without breath.
Pain was felt as we past through years of unrest,
We alone could see what Mankind could do, could do while at his best,
I cried no more, for I could see what Man had become in his ageing process,
No matter how Technical the Power grew, the basic Sense of Survival, was the Final Test.
Floating side by side, with my hand clutching his fur, we rose above the Mist of Time,
We rose above the Evil that has clouded even the Purest of Minds,
We ended our Journey, Old Wolf and Me, with his paws still stretched across my leg,
I had seen the difference in Love and Hatred, and the Birth between Life and Death.
As we parted, no goodbyes were said, my eyes opened towards the ceiling above my bed,
As I lumbered from my place of rest, I felt both a Peace of Mind, and a lingering ache in my chest,
Standing and Stretching, I walked to the room’s window, to let in the fresh morning air,
I brought my hand up to cover a yawn and in it’s clutch, lay a handful of fine silvery hair.
That nights Journey, into Old Wolf’s World of the Past, returned without Grace,
A feeling of exhaustion crept over my senses and the scar on my chest, brought forth a new face,
OLD WOLF had performed his Task well, in expressing and extending to me, his Knowledge of All Pain,
Scars upon the Body, Heal with Time, but Scars upon the Memory are wounds that drive Man insane.

Lee Allen Simmons
I am a Vietnam Veteran, Feb ’70 thru April ’72.