Song of the Wolf Drum

This poem is published in the spirit of sacred verse and oral storytelling traditions.

This poem is published in the spirit of sacred verse and oral storytelling traditions.

Song of the Wolf Drum

by Tee M. (Ceremonial Version)

In the heart of the wild, where the tall pines sway
Shooka-beat-boom.
Where the wind hums soft at the end of day
Jinglin-a-beat-boom.
Stands the wolf with eyes like a sinking sun
Oh-ye-ha-ya-hey.
Silent and still, the watching one
Shooka-beat-boom-boom.

He moves like wind, like shadow and flame,
Carved from thunder, without a name.
Each step a story, each breath a sign,
A path through time, a sacred line.

Boom-sha… boom-sha… hear the ground,
Boom-sha… boom-sha… drum-heart sound.

He leads with knowing, fierce and true,
With courage deep as midnight blue.
His paws find trails where no trail lies,
Under the stare of starlit skies.

Shooka-beat-boom, Jinglin-a-beat-boom.

Through darkened woods, through silver mist,
He moves with a growl held in his chest.
Not to conquer, not to fight,
But to guard the flame through day and night.

Boom… boom… drum in the bone
He walks with fire, never alone.

He knows the hush where danger sleeps,
Where secrets run and silence weeps.
He speaks in scents, in tracks, in stone,
The forest whispers he is known.

Oh-ye-ha-ya-hey… Oh-ye-ha-ya-hey…

His soul, the rhythm of ancient skin,
A howl on the wind, his voice within.
With every stride, the earth divine,
The pack behind in sacred time.

Boom-sha… boom-sha… rise and run!
Boom-sha… boom-sha… shadowed sun!

To see him roam where spirits dream
Is to walk between the veils unseen.
A symbol etched in bone and dust,
In loyalty, in love, in trust.

So gather close by the fire-lit ring
Shooka-beat-boom.
Along with the drum let your spirit sing
Call-a-beat-boom.
Feel the pulse of the wolf draw near
Oh-ye-ha-ya-hey.
Breathe in the wild, the night is here.
Shooka… beat… boom…
Boom… HEY!


The authors note:
How “Song of the Wolf Drum” Lives in Me

This poem is published in the spirit of sacred verse and oral storytelling traditions.

When I speak about Song of the Wolf Drum, I’m not talking about something I simply wrote. I’m talking about something I felt, something I heard, something that rose up inside me like a drum from another time. This poem did not arrive as lines on a page — it came as rhythm first. As breath. As firelight flickering across memory.

In my heart, this poem is a fire dance.
I feel it in the soles of my feet before I ever hear it in my ears.
It lives in me the way a drumbeat lives in a circle of dancers — steady, rising, ancestral.

When I began shaping the words, I could almost smell pine needles warming under a sunset sky. I could hear that low hum the wind makes when night is close. That is where the poem begins for me — in that soft, sacred hush between day and dark. And the moment those chant syllables came, Shooka-beat-boom… Jinglin-a-beat-boom… Oh-ye-ha-ya-hey… I knew this was not a poem meant to be read silently.

This was meant to be spoken, chanted, moved with.
A living thing.

The wolf in this poem is not a character. He is presence. He is instinct, shadow, breath, and memory. I don’t imagine him doing anything human — I imagine myself listening to him. Learning from him. Feeling the earth shift when he passes. His strength is the kind that doesn’t need to prove itself. His leadership is not about power but about protecting what is sacred.

That is the heartbeat of the poem for me — a reminder that true strength is quiet, devoted, and deeply spiritual.

As I wrote, the rhythm kept building, like dancers circling closer to the fire. The refrains came more often, faster, warmer. I felt that familiar rise — the call, the answer, the echo — the way old stories sound when they’re told aloud under a night sky.

And when the poem reached its end, I didn’t want a flourish. I wanted a final drum strike. A last breath. A single, resonant Boom — like the moment when the dance stops and everyone feels the silence settle through their bones.

To me, Song of the Wolf Drum is not just a poem.
It is a ceremony.
A remembering.
A way of honoring the wild without trying to tame it.

It is the voice of spirit moving through verse.
It is the rhythm of footsteps around a sacred fire.
It is the kind of story that belongs in the circle — sung, danced, and carried forward.

That is how it lives inside me.

Kind wishes,
Tee