Tuesday, 12 of December of 2017

Category » Stan Wilson

Stan Wilson – What The Bear Know

see more of Stan’s poems here









the bear(s) know
my garbage is good
hippie garbage.
The bear(s) know
my truck is broke
& so,
hippie garbage is
availble by the yardage,
right now.

The bear(s) know
the big dogs are
chickenshit &
the brave dog
is little.
The big dogs stay
out of range,
the little one,
little more than spittle.

The bear(s) know
they don’t like
my compost.
Maybe it’s the gluten thing,
never a slice of bread,
not a bit of toast.
Doin’ just fine gluten free,
not meaning to boast.

The bear, only one has
been tested &
knows that he’d
better know
what a man w/ a gun
looks like.
He can hear them
ancestors calling,
“gun means run son,”

nothin’ else means nothin’

Stan Wilson
Fall Equinox, 2011

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Stan Wilson – Fresh Air Snoring


An outlier warriorpoet who has attended most all our Warriorpoet Society meetings has a well earned reputation of writing poems that are (as deep ecology editors say) not biocentric enough.

And regardless of his swerving off the road of biocentric emphasis we must recognize his true Warriorpoetness. Stan Wilson, one of the great warriorpoets of our time!

Trickster tendrils
78f7499c01ef9fe96ec039da7a657c89Wrap around poet’s dreams
Loosening bonds & freeing
Subjectivity. All is not as it
Should be or could be
Or would be.
All is as if words
On a page, voices
Whispered deep in the
Heart then incanted
By mad persons strapped
To gurneys demanding
Not lawyers but
Parchment! It takes
i29A village griot to
Parade naked thru
Pacific Palisades marching
Phunky Presidio like
Calling “Presente!” as
The names of nameless
Hobo poets & schizophrenics
Word whispers are read off
over PA systems
Long ago unplugged.
There are no tributes,
There are no statues.
In America,
Life is cheap
& poetics even cheaper.
After police move
The homeless out
Who will the next
“Life-Style” criminal be?
Who will know
W/ no poets,
W/ no crazed word
Stan_Wilson_Fresh_Air_Snoring2W/ no sacred griots,
No new mythos
Can be spun &
Society b’comes
Not only less,
But less than.
America can
Crumble alone
W/ no great
Bards to tell
The tale,
To crucify the guilty,
To demand compassion,
To celebrate joy.
Poets hide disguised
As janitors &
Crack addicts.
Like truth’s
Sleeper cells
coyote_cartCalled awake
By academia/s
Dying, crying
Jet bombs
Shake & bake
Even the tepid
To Red Hot Chili Peppers hot.
Smiles spread over
America’s wounded visage
& doom is jettisoned.
The trickster smiles,
The worm turns.
New soil is built,
a rooster crows, his hens
clucking contentedly.
Somewhere the sun sets
Over Mother Ocean
& in a Tortilla Flat,
thatched roof,
straw bale,
free verse mojo concoction,
a poet takes another
Sweet Jesus hit
Of fresh air.

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