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jake aller Jan 22
I stood outside
Between the trees
In a field

On the outside of town
Beneath the lunatic rays
Of the blood red full moon

The lunatic lights of the moon
Casts a wild primeval glow
On me

The hormonal chemicals are unleashed
The wild beast within
Escapes it chain

And I howl with delight
A werewolf
Free at last

To run amuck
Free of its civilized restrains
Throwing off its clothes

Stripping naked
Running wild
Naked and free

A wild man
Enjoying his freedom
the second of my lunatic poems
Eleanor Sinclair Nov 2018
The wind speaks to me at night
It cascades and whistles in mid flight
I see in it the wonder
And destruction like the thunder
It tells me of the clouds
And how they love to clump in crowds
Perhaps the wind will save us
With it's mighty and powerful gust
I wish to ask it questions
And to express my confessions
The howling shrieks seems mournful
Like those of a mere mortal
I suppose nothing is free from pain
Even nature is bound by chain
How I long to ask the wind
Why it's voice must rescind
For days at a time it will not visit
My window pane forgets its kisses
As I forget its touch on my skin
I wonder where my wind has been
Sharon Talbot Aug 2018
Our Dog Howling at Sunset

At sunset, the dog howls at sirens in town.
If he were snowbound in Talkeetna,
A hundred miles from nowhere,
What would he howl at instead?

I saw my husband trudging through the frost,
His blue jacket half-tinted orange and red,
“I don’t like the way you sound,” he said
As he left, deserting one who was already lost.

If I were a thousand miles from him now,
Listening to the wolves’ mournful cries,
And my beloved shunning me as he does now,
Would I pretend to believe my lover’s lies?

Or, instead, would it be enough to exist
Where the short summer dies on winter’s grist,
And true love’s a dream born on a dreamer’s mist,
And the one to stay with is the one you’ve just kissed?

If I lived in a land so cruel and hard,
Would I be bargaining with my soul?
If love’s short date were but a moon’s silver shard,
Would he be a passing thought, and my son the whole

Of any future we had scattered out on the snow,
Or caught in the rime-bound trees?
Would I see then what I already know—
That his future lies with himself and not me?

As our wolf howls a timeless wail to the air
I can listen and guess at its season.
I can comfort myself it will always be there,
Beyond human hopes, beyond reason.

Far wiser, the black-furred hound, than I,
To sing out his ancient song.
Waiting, watching, as we struggle and die,
Only to pass his wisdom along.

Waiting, hoping as he does for a touch,
He is made to think that he asks too much--
Waiting for a kind word or loving hand--
Wild and alone, in humanity’s bleak land.

A southern writer once lamented the lack
Of courage in humankind,
And suggested we borrow the strength we see
In the branches of an olive tree.

Yet there’s more courage in the dog-wolf’s cry,
Penned out on our city-cropped lawn,
As if he knows the grief of my son and I
When the man we both love is gone.

“Could we not as well” take a lesson from him,
Our wild and loyal friend?
To howl out our sorrow and loneliness,
Though the pain might never end?

Now, in the twilight I hear my lover return,
With no greeting to me, and I burn
For the summer’s newborn passion I recall.
The twilight wolf’s mourning tells it all:

That we never will have what we had before
That love can die just as well as it’s born,
That a child is the only one who restores
What is lost to the lonesome, the wolves, the forlorn.

July 6, 2001
A long-ago falling out and later mended.
Mark Wanless Apr 2018
"The Howling"

The howling independent self phantom
Of the egoid crumbles rainbow features
Born au natural to give us this
Eternity pin ***** conscious aggregate
Now here and bearing without knowledge
Light and dark dream shapes reality worlds
Stimulus response desire fear wheel-go-rounds
Seanathon Apr 2018
I ache
Like a long howl
Out of the wolf of the mouth
Bellowing at a bright moon
Just out of reach
I ache
I will always be a night person.
Seanathon Mar 2018
As the wind whips through the valley, so do these thoughts breeze through my mind.


Contemplating you and then some, other someone, some other time.

Steadfast and true as are the rooted trees of are.

Not ours mind you.

Though the wind itself is never so consciously on my mind.

You are.
At times.
On mine.
All breezes you never see coming... No duh lol
Bethie Jan 2018
Outside the wind is howling death
A screaming gale of endless breath
Over the hill she comes and goes
What she is, but few may know
Inside her she is not so mean
As her outside makes her seem
Her soul is quite a peaceful one
Heard by few and friends of none

Inside I sleep in gentle peace
With dreams of gold that never cease
What I am, but few may know
For I only give what I want to show
Inside I am a screaming gale
A howling death of rain and hail
My soul is wrought with pain and fear
That none will know and few will hear
It makes me wonder: who is the monstrous and who is the gentle?
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