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(In the early 1920s, Vasili Komaroff was known as the "Wolf of
Russia," an elusive killer who terrorized Moscow's Shabolovki
district for two years before he was finally caught.)
In the previous issue of Rustlings of the Wind,
you were presented with this picture and asked to
write a brief poem or reflection on it. Here are your responses.
The horror of age comes to greet me in the day and calls me within the night.
The sun hurts my eyes as I step into the light.
I have been in darkness so long that it is the only energy I know.
I feel their eyes as I light my daily cigarette
All their questions have slowly dissipated over the years.
No longer do they want to know about them.
They want to know about me now.
They want to know my thoughts.
I am amused to find that once again a photographer is taking my picture.
They have forgotten them and all they want to know about is me.
How ironic they have forgotten them but they will remember me.
Windseeker
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Die? DIE?!? YOU expect ME to DIE?!?
YOU should die first!
Wanna try
Try to
DIE?!?
Lynn
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Inhale young man, inhale
the beast burns beneath my skin
breathe out the blood of the innocent people
desperately clawing for another moment of their elusive lives
he doesn't look like a killer
pam stollings
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Friendly eyes know death
Friendly death knows why
But 'e ain't talkin
Friendly eyes are sorry
Sorry wonders why
A moment too late
Friendly eyes shine warmer
Chilling why's hammer
Down upon his head
Jeneral
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I am but an ordinary man.
What terrorizes you about me,
Is that through my eyes
A relection you can see.
I prey on fear; the fear of men
Men like you, him and me.
What you are afraid to see
is that you too could me like me.
Annie Clément
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He holds a fag up to his mouth,
A month ago he wasn't like this...
He had a home
Not a home like you're thinking though
A real home, where people loved him
He had a wife and four kids
He loved them so much
One day though he saw her with another man
She of course said that he was out of his mind that he was the only man for him
Well now he was
He killed the bastard
Took 500 dollars
and left his home
He never felt at home again
Two years later he went back to see his wife
She had moved on
She called the police right before he tried to kill her
He was never at home again...
Katherine Williams
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i walked alone and feeling wolfen
tired
but never tired enough
i held secrets
that no hands could ever hold
i walked alone and feeling nightly
the cold on my face
a million empty voices
less than a thousand nights
on a far away land that no one remembers
leonardo
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Try your hand at this issue's
Ankiewicz Picture Poetry.
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