Tabetha

How to Make a Wolf Sing to the Moon

 

On a dreary night, where it seems so calm and cool with no sound, but the crickets chirping as the bright full moon rises to the sky. As that moon enters the mid-sky of this night, you hear a soft song that brings chilling feet running up and down your back. That music comes from the wolves in the woods. If you would like that song to be heard, here are instructions on how to make a wolf sing to the moon.

 

On any full moon night or any color of the full moon night is the best time to make a wolf sing to the moon. First, you would need to find a wolf to your liking. One that is most valued is those of the white shiny coat with blue eyes. Some do come in red. Other most valued are the pitch black wolf that only comes out occasionally, especially in the blood red moon. These always have red or white eyes.

 

The more wild the wolf the more beautiful music it will produce. I recommend female wolves since they are more dominant than the males. They are more in tune to what is around them rather than males. Males do also make beautiful music, but I recommend the alphas. A warning to all: Do not force the wolf; it will bite.

 

Once you have obtained your wolf, you must find the perfect night. I recommend the blood red full moon, also known as the harvest moon for black wolves and white full moons for the others.

 

After you have chosen the best night you must set your wolf in the woods. Let it roam and run to it content. Let the wind run through its fur until midnight. Only then will the moon be in the mid-sky. The mid-sky is the perfect moment, the perfect moment for the wolf. This wolf is an instrument of the night bringing music.

 

As soon as the moon is in the right position, you must get your wolf to a clearing. In this clearing there must be rocks scattered in various places. The must be one boulder higher than the others. Let your wolf climb up that boulder. Let that wolf sniff the air and look around the night sky to the moon itself. When your wolf is ready, let it sing its song to the moon. Its eyes locked onto the moon’s face entranced to sing to it. Only the wolf knows what to sing.

My Best Friend

She is the ripples seen in a pond when a pebble is dropped into it

She is a free-spirited wolf roaming the woods

She is the stem of a flower that is always there

She is an innocent kitten that needs care

She is the bear mother of her cubs

She is the Lisianthus among Orchids

She is a pure white pearl out of an oyster

She is the crazy rollercoaster that seems to never end

She is the little turtle that beat the hare

She is my best friend

Drums

Music was my passion. I was really good at it, even at my young age,10 years old, with my red drum set. My mother told me “Greg, Keep it up my son.” I always thought I was that good. Until I went for America’s Got Talent.

My mother did not like the idea when I came up to her, but I wanted to try it. My mother took me to the first day of tryouts. I was the youngest. As soon as we entered the auditorium, I was nervous. There were so many people trying out. I started to feel that I would never get through.

I looked to my mother who was carrying my drum set for me. She gave me a reassuring smile and we sat waiting for my turn.

A few hours came and left. I was getting really impatient. My nerves I felt earlier disappeared, and I was just bored. I grabbed my drum set and started to practice a little bit. Everyone started staring. As soon as I saw every eye on myself, I stopped, put my head down, and put away my drum set. The nerves came back.

Finally it was my turn. My mother stayed back as I entered on stage in front of the judges. The nerves became worse. I could not stop shaking. I started to play my drums and I messed up miserably. I knew I failed. The judges whispered to each other and finally one of them stood up.

The judge started to say, “My boy, you are very talented and I can see you were really nervous, but maybe next time.”

That was it. I could not take part in my passion any more. I give it all up. Here, now, I am selling my drum set. My favorite red drum set. I kept it in great shape. So long my passion for music.

List of Annoying Little Problems

So many people just don’t get it

(Jeez it’s just annoying)

I would not mind the so called “End of the World”

No one actually cares about anything

No one seems to really look at reality or the big picture

People die every day

(Should I not care? Do I care? Well maybe for some and maybe not)

Diseases and other stuff are everywhere

(Well, let us spread that love!)

So many people in this world are stupid

History just keeps repeating itself

They cannot see that we need to take care of the land rather than destroy it

A Bird, My Bird

I am a bird, soaring high and bracing the sky.  How free my bird with hopes and dreams.  Given a life to grant the world greatness and prove others to be the greatest.  So free I am now, not caged, not held back.  Until a storm roams in, destroy me it must.  Darkness comes and clouds me, with demise inside.  Darkness surrounds me, engulfing my very life, my very being.  Choking me and making me suffer, I am trapped.  Caged and not free anymore.  A bird that is tormented and ashamed.  A bird, my bird, unable to break free with clipped wings.  Forever trapped in this darkness and slowly disappearing.

Pain and more pain it endures.  Crying for help and never getting it.  One stands alone, rather not standing but down close to the floor.  A bird, my bird that is pinned and unable to move, unable to breathe, and unable to survive.  Only the end does this bird want, but is kept only to suffer more, never really gone but there to suffer.  My bird kept alive but disappears slowly and painfully. It cannot take any more.  It cannot live its life no more.

No pity came to my bird, so it is painted black. My bird, having to change and fend on its own. How could this bird go on? No, it will have to go on no matter the cost of despair.

My bird fies on and on. Never quitting even though it is beaten down. Even though my bird has clipped wings and even though my bird is pinned. Only alone does this bird try to soar and only alone does this bird think it could only survive.

Introduction to “Trying to Remember my Childhood”

Remembering my childhood is a hard task. Looking back and trying to remember, I could not remember much during my kindergarten year. Maybe I could not remember because it was just too far back. I remember my mother telling me that I ran into the glass door head first, so that could be the reason. Or it could be because I fell off the goat, head first, while riding her; or it could be because my uncle accidentally threw the flat head screw driver at the wall making it bounce and just as I walked in to watch him, it was lodged in my forehead. Well those were my childhood years….

A Poem from a Dream

This is a poem that came to me in a dream

where the trees stood still in the forest

near a home I barely knew.

Because I dreamt of this place

and because I could not tell what it meant

and when I could hear but not speak giving me chills

since I could not imagine of what could happen.

This is the poem that came to me in a dream

where the trees stood still in the forest near a home I barely knew

as though this place is like a town of lost souls.

 

My Favorite Place

Waianapanapa is my favorite place to be. Here I can see the green cabins old as the island itself, the caves dark and cold like the winter that saved Russia, and a bull huge and friendly like a kitten. I can hear the murmuring of the bull as he grazes in the yard, rustling and shuffling of the mongoose in the grass. I can feel the jaggedly -faded paint of the cabin while I stay in cabin number 12. I can see, I can hear, I can feel in my favorite place, Waianapanapa.

 

I Had a Tiger

I had a tiger, that was always sleeping,

But she knows how to keep dreaming;

She always wanted to catch her prey.

She never could, so she prays.

 

Well I Am Sorry

I knew I shouldn’t have parked by the bar

I knew I should have locked the doors

But I didn’t do those things

 

I told you that your car was stolen

I knew I shouldn’t have told you

But it had to be done

 

Your eyes went wide,

And your nose flared

Your face turning red with anger

 

I showed you what was left of your car

Your dices that used hang in your car

It was your favorite car

 

Well I had to do this

As your car came around the corner

Spotless and new

 

Your face turned in shock

I had to laugh

You turned back to anger

 

Well I am sorry

I had to do this

It was April Fool’s Day

 

The Red Stream

I arrive at the Baglioni Hotel, London early spring at 10:30 am. I just had to take a picture. The shadows showing in the morning sky. The red paint making the place look as old as the city. That is right. I am a photographer, Anita Huhn. I look to my bags brought in by the bellhop who looked terribly tired as though he never slept in years. I turned to the desk. There was no one there. I rang the bell three times before someone came to check me in.

I finally was checked in and headed to my room with the sleepy bellhop at my heels. I gave the bellhop a good sum of a tip. I thought he really earned it. The bellhop leaves, and I unpack.

I noticed that the windows were all shut, so I opened them all. The cool breeze enveloped me and looking down I see a stream. I grabbed my camera and took a picture. I looked at the picture and found that there was a white blur. I took another picture. The white blur is still there. Then I look closer and find a hand sticking out of the stream’s waters. I rushed down pass the reception desk, to the back of the hotel where the stream lies. I look into the waters and find nothing there, but a smell that was so vile. I take a closer look and find that the water was the wrong color. It was black and thick. I realize that it is polluted.

Suddenly, a hand lands on my shoulder. I swing around ready to protect myself, but to only find a woman, hunched and sickly white with one hand missing. The woman asks, “What do we have here? It’s all polluted? What a shame. I will tell you a story. Long ago, this stream was crystal-clear. You could see the bottom. I always came here as a child, but one day the stream turned red. The red did not last. It was too thick with gunk, turning it black. What made it red was the poor woman who was drowned here. I tell you my dear, I saw it with my own eyes and I warn you to be careful around here.”

The woman laughed. I look back to the stream and it seems to have become clean and fresh, so I turned back to find the woman disappeared. I look at my camera for the pictures I took. There was nothing. I look around for the woman. She was nowhere to be found. I look around again and suddenly I felt a shove. I drop my camera in the water. Then I felt the cold water touch my skin. It was thick and polluted, tasting metallic. I could not swim to save my life. Then I remembered that woman’s story. I feel something touch my hand, I lift it up, and there it is, the hand I saw earlier.

 

Longing for a Life

“Why am I doing this?” Maggie would wonder as she makes her way to the edge of the cliff with ropes and a belt attached to her. She looks over the edge as a hand lands on her shoulder. She jumps and turns while a man holding the other end of the ropes gives her a helmet, and says, “Are you ready to do this?” Maggie nods and gulps back her fear, her heart still beating wildly.

The man gives her directions and she turns around putting her right foot out over the edge then the next, so she is facing the sky. Her hands tremble as she feels the rope tighten against her weight.

Closing her eyes, she remembers telling her friends, “I don’t do heights! I don’t do heights! Are you listening to me! I don’t do heights,” while they dragged her up the hiking trail to the cliff for parasailing.

She opens her eyes and finds that she is actually doing it. She looks down one last time. Her friends are yelling and trying to cheer her on. She wavers remembering how far down she has to go. She takes a step then another and thinks to herself, “Maybe I could do this.”

 She takes a few more steps, still trembling. Then, suddenly, she slips, screams, and falls. The man holding the rope loses his grip. He later catches his grip, but it is too late. Maggie scrapes her arms and legs then hits her head hard on the side of the cliff. Her helmet breaks and her arms are bleeding as she is hanging there by the ropes to her dear life. She is terrified. She starts screaming for help as tears start to fall down her cheeks. She starts to get dizzy from hitting her head even though there is no visible wound.

Maggie thinks back to what she heard at the poetry slam in the bar she went to the night before, “The agony in my spirit mirrors the shadows of my inebriated eyes” (Silent Pain). Maggie starts to feel tired. Her eyes start to droop and the next thing she knows, she is enveloped in darkness as screams from her friends from below and yells from above her disappear. 

 

Sitting in the Dark

Sitting in the dark with one lamp illuminating the room

And a book in hand

I gather ideas as I read the book

 

Having read many fictional books

And coming up with ideas of my own

I wish to write what is on my mind

 

A thought that I know would disappear

I write it down so I could never forget it

I write those words in my thoughts

 

As though I am a wind speaking though the air

Silent and skilled where no words could create

Where silence gives one thoughts

 

It speaks to all, but no one really knows what it says

Disappeared since those thoughts are only whispered

Whispered so only one person, I, myself could hear

 

Writing Philosophy

Fatalism is the doctrine that all events are subject to fate or inevitable predetermination.

 

Me!

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