Down on the sun-bleached ground, treads a white wolf. Prowling
At the river bank, and seizing the land in which
He has left a deep dent. There is nothing left
In the streams, for they are no longer flowing
Like before. Destined by the bark and branch blockade
Perched at the river’s start. The water has fled, taking
The greenery and mirth away, bleeding out in dread.
The white wolf stares longingly now, hoping
Life forgives his abhorrent and
Disgraced growls.
But he forgets in this moment, that
His great biting jaw is to blame for the depressed landscape
Torn at the base of his grand griping paws.
His scent lurks in the hollow openings of trees, and loose fur
Lingers atop of sullen bushes like a covering
Of thin March snow. He has no say in what should be done now.
And like his distressed whimpering howl, he
Is thrown into the endless nights
Of this soon dying world.
Alas!
When white wolves walk, the skies
Sell their freedom.
When white wolves walk, trees sink
Into their soiled beds.
When white wolves walk, rivers
Stitch their mouths shut.
When the white wolf runs, the world
Is blinked into chaos.
And we
Must answer.
And we must answer.
They have left the earth asunder.
And we -
We must be better.

Your eyes fall so naturally over the body of every girl that walks by,
And they avoid me like I am diseased meat.
Men are wolves and when tamed, they're dogs.
But dogs still eat meat,
And she is quiet the piece.

Wolves stay with their packs.
Penguins travel together.
Humans give their love.

You were my little snowdrop,
             but with every howl
finding courage
to become a
                   blizzard

           of  transparent strength.

When I first saw the moon-
A beacon in the night
Pulling Earth’s tides
Watching over us
So far away-
I understood why
Wolves howl their praise to her

Pan
by Michael R. Burch

... Among the shadows of the groaning elms,
amid the darkening oaks, we fled ourselves ...

... Once there were paths that led to coracles
that clung to piers like loosening barnacles ...

... where we cannot return, because we lost
the pebbles and the playthings, and the moss ...

... hangs weeping gently downward, maidens’ hair
who never were enchanted, and the stairs ...

... that led up to the Fortress in the trees
will not support our weight, but on our knees ...

... we still might fit inside those splendid hours
of damsels in distress, of rustic towers ...

... of voices of the wolves’ tormented howls
that died, and live in dreams’ soft, windy vowels ...

Published by The Chariton Review

Keywords/Tags: Childhood, dreams, enchanted, stairs, fortress, trees, damsels, maidens, towers, wolves, howls, oaks, elms, paths, pebbles, playthings, toys, moss