Wolf Notes

Meet You In The Morning

She’s looking for solace 
She’s looking for sunshine 
She’s out of seasons 
She’s out of time 
Winter runs its course 
Like an old October horse

He’s only a pony
He’s only a Mustang
He’s a July moonbeam
He’s got his own gang
Summer runs its course
Like a slow October horse

I don’t have an answer
I don’t have an aim
I can’t tell what you need
I know it’s such a shame
Love runs its course
Like a cold October horse
Oh love runs its course
Like a cold October horse

October Horse

Vincent (Cover with Joliz)

The Jersey streets are alive tonight
And the bridge is flooded with rain
The city’s coming through the windshield
And the wind howls like a train 

Headlights bounce off the gutters
And the girls on the boulevard
A siren closes the distance
And cuts off all the cars

The Red Bank rain hits me
Like a hammer from the sky
But the radio pulls me close 
Lays me out for another night 

The streets lay down so quietly
Like a promise left for dead
And the station’s fading fast
As the hours tick ahead

The screen door’s blowing open
And the headlights disappear
The DJ says the songs are coming
Like some turntable Paul Revere

The Red Bank rain hits me
Like a hammer from the sky
But the radio pulls me close
Lays me out for another night

Yeah, the Red Bank rain hits me
Like a hammer from the sky
But the radio pulls me close
Lays me out for another night

Red Bank In The Rain (with Joliz)

Inspired by the courage and determination of Linnea along with her dog Akela on her Youtube channel, she share stories of van life, DIY builds, and the real day-to-day of off-grid homesteading in the high desert of Colorado. From planting a permaculture food forest to DIY projects, everything here is rooted in sustainability, simplicity, and self-sufficiency. If you're drawn to raw, real storytelling and the quiet power of doing things your own way, you're in the right place. https://www.youtube.com/@Linneaandakela

Courage is Reborn in Hearts Forlorn

Desert Bloom

I had the privilege to have a few brief encounters over the years with the great poet, educator and activist Nikki Giovanni. She passed away last December. If interested there are many videos on YouTube about her. 

“Mothers” passage sung by Joliz going into the break, Copyright © 1972 by Nikki Giovanni.

I saw Nikki Giovanni outside the A train
She was reading a book by Baldwin and whispering the quotes
She had that Harlem quiet
The kind that makes you feel loud, even if you haven’t said a word all day
She looked up at me once
Like she already knew the next ten things I would say
And of course none of that mattered

She wrote poems like switchblades
And carved song verses on subway tiles
With truth tucked in the chorus
Love poems for the revolution and letters to the dead
All written in lipstick and ink
Some folks talk about hope
She talked about survival
Anyone knows there's a difference

“I see the moon
The moon sees me
God bless the moon
And god bless me”

I asked her once, I said Nikki, do you still believe in change
She half smiled and said, “Man, I believe in kids, I believe in rage,
I believe in writing it down so they don’t forget our names.”
“You either speak up or get buried under someone else's story.”
Then she walked into that bookstore on 125th like it was a church 
In a way I guess it was a church

I ran into her much later at a reading downtown
Tiny room, bad mic, nobody listening but the ghosts
She read a line about her grandmother’s hands
The room went quiet like it finally remembered what hands are for
The words, not angry, not loud, but like a bullet that only hits the guilty
Truth is a loaded pistol

But Nikki
She’s in the cracks
She’s in the ink smudge
The subway echo
The line you wake up hearing but don’t remember writing
Nikki
She’s still walking this city
Just quiet enough to make the truth sound loud

Nikki (with Joliz)

My Father's, my Mothers Hands

These are my father's, MY MOTHERS hands,
Woven by time, etched by fate,
A canvas of stories untold,
Silent narratives of liVES so bold.

Hands that till the earth so wide,
Where seeds of love and hope reside,
Calloused from holding tight the plow,
Guiding us through life's tough plough.

In every furrowed line and scar,
Lies a tale of joy and strife so far,
They've cradled me through every fear,
And dried the tears that I would shed so clear.

The hands that built our humble home,
Where laughter echoes, where hearts roam,
Each nail a whispered promise made,
A shelter crafted, a future laid.

The same hands that held me high,
As I looked up into the sky,
Teaching me to reach for stars,
To chase dreams that seemed so far.

In those strong, yet gentle palms,
I felt the warmth of  THEIR alms,
As THEYD lift me to my feet,
Whenever fate would play its tricks, so fleet.

These hands that knew no rest,
Tended fires, broke the crust,
Fed the hunger in the night,
Bathed in moon's soft, silver light.

They've wielded tools of every kind,
From the hammer's solid strike to the pencil's gentle line,
Each stroke a lesson, each line a bond,
Of a love that's never ceased to respond.

These are the hands that held EACH OTHER tight,
Through the storms that clouded their wedlock's night,
Guiding THEM through the darkest maze,
Where love alone would be their graceful blaze.

The hands that worked until the dawn,
To provide for seeds that hadn't been sown,
A silent promise to keep us fed,
While we slept in our cozy bed.

These hands have felt the world's rough skin,
And bore the marks of battles unseen within,
Yet, they never lost their tender touch,
Soothing hearts with every clutch.

Whenever I am lost in doubt,
I find my way without a shout,
By tracing lines that speak so loud,
Of the quiet strength my PARENTS proud.

In every crevice, every fold,
Is a story of valor bold,
Of PEOPLE whose love is vast,
Whose spirit is never old.

So, let these hands be my compass true,
Guiding me through life anew,
For in their grip, I find my place,
In the grand tapestry of time and space.

My father's, MY MOTHERS hands, a legacy,
A testament to THIRE gallantry,
They're the map that leads me home,
Wherever in this world I roam.

In every touch, a silent cheer,
A silent force that whispers clear,
"You can conquer, you can grow,
For in your veins, my strength you'll show."

And as the years continue to unfold,
These hands, now wrinkled, never old,
Will pass the torch to mine so young,
The legacy of love they've sung.

For in the echoes of his toil,
In every scar and every boil,
I see a love so vast and grand,
The story of MY PARENTS steadfast handS.

These are my father's, MY MOTHERS hands,
The foundation of our land,
The emblem of a life so well-spent,
A treasure chest of moments lent.

Let the world behold the grace,
Of hands that never knew a base,
But only gave, and loved, and grew,
The epilogue to a tale so true.

My Father's My Mother's Hands

The Soul of 'Man' under Conservatism

I reflect on the geometry of patience,
the lessons filtered through the iron light
of twenty-seven vanishing years. - of twenty seven visiting angels who would sing in dissonance, long into the night


I learned that a wall, if stared at long enough,
will eventually dissolve, not into dust, but into
a stack of compressed silence.
And inside that silence, I saw hunger—
not for bread, but for the impossible alchemy
of transforming rage into a useful key.


They showed me the mechanism of that lock.
It was not built from concrete, but from the fibers
of my own anticipated bitterness.
I held the sharp, beautiful weight of vengeance,
a collapsed star, cold and dense, waiting to anchor me
to the past's dark gravitational pull.


But the lesson glowed:
Hatred is the heaviest cloak.
To forgive is not to erase the shadow,
but to step out of its shape entirely,
to let the wound remain—a translucent scar
through which the future must be viewed.


I understood that freedom
is not the sound of a gate clanging open,
but the internal architecture shifting.
The long walk was never about distance.
It was about walking backward into the fire
of reconciliation, extending the hand
that should, by all logic, be clenching a fist.


Now, I carry the weight of that inheritance.
I feel the fractal shattering of the past,
where every shard of pain, if held correctly,
becomes a lens showing a different colour of the shared sky.
We build the future upon a spectral bridge, I realize,
where the foundations are constructed
not from victory, but from profound, deliberate grace.

A Translucent Scar Through Which the Future Must be Viewed

My Tribute to Sir Derek Alton Walcott, KCSL, OBE, OCC (23 January 1930 – 17 March 2017) was a Saint Lucian poet and playwright. He received the 1992 Nobel Prize for Literature

The time will come 
when, with elation 
you will greet yourself arriving 
at your own door, in your own mirror 
and each will smile at the other's welcome, 

and say, sit here. Eat. 
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart 
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you 

all your life, whom you ignored 
for another, who knows you by heart. 
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, 

the photographs, the desperate notes, 
peel your own image from the mirror. 
Sit. Feast on your life. 
Derek Walcott

Recorded  & All Instrumentation by 2TEC at ARNTEL Studios UK 
Mastered by The Technician (DUB) at the Lab2 Studio Australia

Derek Walcott - Tribute -  Love To Love,  Recorded/Mastered by 2TEC

Songwriter under Artist development : James Sanger. Represented by Anara Publishing +44 (0) 116 253 0203 (ext. 4)

A Translucent Scar Through Which the Future Must be Viewed

Gabriel Brox