Two Poems by J.D. River

 

The Words of The Wendigo

 
 
I come with quiet footsteps, 
not to take, but to remind— 
I am the space inside your wanting 
where the hunger is enshrined. 
I am the hush before the want; 
the still before the reach. 
I am the frost behind your longing; 
the hush behind your speech. 
 
I do not ask, I only offer. 
I do not steal, I only trade. 
I give you need and give you means— 
I hide a sharp and measured blade. 
 
You may not see my shape or face 
but you've known me all your days. 
I only feed on what you wish— 
I only walk the ways 
you clear with want, with aching hands, 
with eyes too full to rest. 
I only take what you would give 
in hope of getting best. 
 
I taught the river how to run— 
not wild, but wisely bound. 
I showed the stars their proper price, 
and sold the sky and ground. 
I marked the fruit, I named the tree, 
I fenced the forest's song. 
And those who paid were pleased to find 
the taste more rich, more strong. 
 
I do not hoard. I do not steal. 
I let all things be sought. 
What worth is love unless it’s earned? 
What use is joy unbought? 
I taught your hands their worth in time—   
each hour a tidy sum.   
The rhythm of your beating heart   
beat to my endless drum. 
 
The world was wasteful, raw, and slow, 
till I arrived to bless 
each thing with value, name, and weight— 
and nothing now is less: 
a child’s laugh, a quiet stream— 
they fade if left unpriced, 
but carve them clean and mark their place, 
and both may be enticed. 
 
A gift is soon forgotten. 
A wage is long recalled. 
The free are lost in chaos, 
but buyers are enthralled. 
 
You want the best? Then bid your worth. 
Be bold, and make your claim! 
The slow will starve, the fast will feast— 
this is the fairest game. 
I weigh each bid with even hand—   
but some weigh more, it’s true.   
The ones who pay me best and first   
I pay in favors too. 
 
The ones who ran from want and price 
still found their hunger grew. 
They tried to plant in untamed ground— 
but nothing there would do. 
The song they sang was soft and kind, 
but silence swallowed all. 
A gift ungiven soon is gone, 
and sharing builds the wall. 
 
They feared the hunger, feared the cost—   
and so they tried to flee.   
But in their fear, they fed me more,   
and made more room for me. 
 
For what is yours, if all is ours? 
And who will guard your peace, 
if every hand may take at will, 
and every claim must cease? 
The warmth you feel when something's mine— 
that quiet, golden glow?— 
will fade to ash in lawless dark, 
unless you help it grow. 
 
I am not here to conquer you. 
I do not bear a sword. 
I only give you what you seek, 
and count what you’ve ignored. 
I do not knock. I do not shout. 
I breathe behind your door. 
I do not enter—unless asked. 
I leave you wanting more. 
 
You are not wrong to want. You’re right— 
it’s wanting makes you true. 
A being made of emptiness 
is always something new,  
and every spark that says “not yet” 
is mine to help you find 
that Hunger is a Holy thing— 
a blessing, not a bind. 
 
So come—kneel clean at contract’s gate 
and let the record show: 
you bartered well, you paid the price, 
you fed the need to grow. 
For Want is god, and Debt is grace, 
and Hunger lights the way; 
I bless the hand that spends, that takes— 
the wage, the debt, the pay.

 

 

Wendigo's Creed

 
 
A hunger born of frost and bone 
once stalked the woods, alone, alone,  
but now it walks in market-halls 
where gold is stacked and shadow falls. 
Once bound to cold, to bone and pine,   
now dressed in ledgers, suits, and signs. 
 
It does not feed on flesh alone, 
but drains the fields; it cracks the stone. 
It fattens thrones with others’ pain, 
and cooks its feast with stolen grain. 
It eats the calf before it’s grown. 
It cracks the egg. It chews the bone. 
It takes the seed, it drinks the rain, 
and leaves behind a barren plain. 
 
It fed on kings, it feeds on men; 
it feeds, and feeds, and feeds again. 
No age escapes. No empire stands— 
its hunger howls across the lands. 
The rivers dry and forests fall, 
the sun grows dim and worms grow tall. 
Hunger grins, its ribs thrown wide; 
no feast is full, no mouth denied. 
 
O mortals, hear this hunger’s song: 
What eats the world will eat you long. 
The greedy heart, the endless need, 
will scorch the root and sear the seed. 
Yet hunger dies when mouths deny,   
when hands take back what hands supply.   
Starve the creed and let it fall—   
or feed it and it eats us all.

J.D. River writes poems for dreamers and doubters alike. Their work ranges from linguistic spells and dark nursery rhymes (_Hop A Peal_, thirty years in the making) to verse narratives like _Breaking Ground_ and the pamphlet _Banquet & Ashes_. River’s current obsession is _Treasure Island: A Rhythmic Voyage_, where trauma and loyalty meet in rolling meter. Jordan believes poems are shaped signals—half-breath, half-incantation—and hope someone is always listening.