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Studio of Edwin & Marcia Ward

Friday, March 7, 2014

21 POEMS - Edwin Forrest Ward










21 POEMS - Edwin Forrest Ward







NIGHTS WITHOUT LOVE

nights without love

I looted unlocked
cars, drunk
stumbled I upon

lookin’ for
a bride tossed garter
I’d lost long ago or a
bow for my broken arrow

in my ransacking ways
I was an indian angel
among the trinkets
of glove box and floor

here a condom, there some gum
aglow on the dashboard
saint someone protects
the plunder from me

I take little, just read signs
recycle debris
these nights without love
make a barbarian of me


COUNTERMEASURES

aside water pools and water
falls, stone beneath four feet
in places such as this
we pile rocks
scribe names
to make tomorrow weep

carved intaglio, ancient pine
will fall in time upon
assembled spelling stones
eras leave no bone unturned
mountains tremble
chasms yawn
years from now
arrives too soon

love like ours
nights like this
the only countermeasures


A SERIOUS ADVENTURE

longing
risk
the undress of a waitress
in morning
coffee black and cigarettes
the silkiest lounging attire



TIME IS A PLACE

it ain’t easy
to quiet the world
it ain’t easy
to set the stage right

it’s a tease to look me in the eyes
it’s a tease
to stand in such light

a bureau of cosmetics
a nightstand of books
the lamp off now
the window outside
a dawn bed of flowers

time is a place
a bouquet of earthly locations



HEADSTONE

death is the dilemma
an epitaph cures

write yours now



THEY BURY IN PAIRS WHERE I COME FROM

it is always morning
flesh against flesh upon
lush carpet in a poem to promises kept
Away Forever Swept



SIMPLY SAID

simply said
sun enlightens earth

even the moon needs
sunlight to ride
white across the night

is this not apparent to all?
I wonder
 in these days of art
when upon the face of it
they paint a woman’s flirt
as if the sun were flower

come on! I know
the anatomy of
orchid and fire

who brings light
who is flower



POEM FOR PASSION

all right, kid
put this in your pocket
with the house keys

she will always be younger
than you
with your ability
to woo
even in the city
where quantity obscures

you’ll find her
smooth face, bright
shiver of light, cupped
flesh in your hands

another key:
what to do with it
her youth and willingness


TRUST

trust
it wasn’t easy
to give up the many
for monogamy’s one.

I’d slide my eyes along the lie
of every passing female thigh
every woman met, undressed
for what attire conceals
the toss of eye
the hair reveals.

some say the face. some say
the verb of bending. must
needs be unending, the
tangle of reasons for love.


PUPPET POEM

you need no ESP
to sense the strings
we’ve tangled

the physics of the world
strings the astronomical
the small

puppet to puppet
with no puppeteer
we, the lovers, dance.

I am rising
you are rising
too


THE DISTANCE TO HER ALWAYS

quicker. love
puts lead in the foot
the accelerator to the floor

it’s always a
hurry-home
to love


A CONSPIRACY FOR TWO IN EROTICALLY MAJOR

we do everything together.
sleep, cook, eat, shower, water, weed and flower
play, empower, mistake, parent, work, procreate
inspire, desire, conspire
we do everything together.

now she primps as I write.
the perfect lay of dungaree denim
announces her intention
attracts my attention.

my lover has new lucky jeans.
look how well they fit, she says
I’m dressing for sex at the office today.

lucky for me we work together.
lucky for me we do everything together.


CROWN OF LIGHTS

upon my knees I look up to see
a diadem of galaxies
vortex the cortex of my love

incredulous she asks
how do we make the sun go up and down?

with our love, as always, with our love


A STRUCTURE IN 13 LINES / A WEDDING SONG

this woman
like a poem needs
another’s hands
to make it tight
the love around the braided hair

for this man
what’s to do?
but tie the knot
or lift the hair
to kiss the face
that love would wear
to see the white light
shining there

EVEN THE MOST KINDRED SOULS
HAVE SEPARATE BODIES

love is couscous cake
with lemon curd, the
affections of an afternoon’s kiss
giving up lust for Lent.

love bends an ear to hear
a fantasy to sharpen its
delights against and asks
questions of fidelity
and the trust of just
one name between us.

ah, drive time with my Valentine.
in the back seat, the kids asleep,
and a picnic keeps, as mountain towns
a century golden old ghost by.

the curves along the creek
host an infinity of light
sliced by jagged peaks
as we fly in the face
of a suitcase of facts against us
- we legatees of outlaw mountain lore.

recognize, we do,
the effect the music has on us
as the road follows water through the canyon
while centrifugation creates
our lean of bodies
‘round snakes at fifty-five
and switchbacks at twenty.

we babble our way unto the next
descent and reminisce,
taste the sweat of a hot springs rendezvous
with you, your Pinto winding west
across a valley so high
‘twas lit by stars that moonless night.

one hand upon the wheel I
keep one upon your thigh.
even the most kindred souls
have separate bodies.

even the most kindred souls
have separate bodies.


THE POT QUEEN

a ranch relic lust, who but you
o creatrix, could sativa trust?
who but you, shape shaper of silver night?
who but you insights with light?

in a small garden, in a small place
…no, that will never do…
in a valley vast the mother of the harvest fires up
another fecund moment, a full moon swoon
creeping through the groin of earth itself.

children gather ‘round her, their eyes, like
adoring spacecraft.
the moment is the happiness of handing him, the
partner, man
a flower bigger than his dick, bigger than a bird,
bigger than his appetite.

the Pot Queen loves the measure of his delight at
his first sight of it
anticipates the pleasures of the making love he’s
promised her for later.
the Pot Queen attends well, charms again, this
creature she has captured.

her radiance, the pleasure of happy
I am to see you.
her world, one of interested beings
still interested in being.
her taste, the velvet throat of imagination.
her face, the verb to luster.


NOW THAT STEVE IS BACK
(for Steve Wilson)

now that steve is back
the plainer poems
dressed like bookman
scouting lawn sales
the ass pocket a jingle
with miniatures of vodka
one shot per slug
rambling a bit to insure
the territory’s covered
before opening the bag
that carries home the pumpkin pie


IF EVERYONE BELIEVED IN GHOSTS

if everyone believed in ghosts
there’d be no lies
fortune tellers would
be out of business
or in charge of the future
we could nothing to connive
what with all the family watching
we would just have flower gardens
and throw parties
sculpting beautiful statues
of our selves
for our children

if everyone believed in ghosts
there’d be no bad deals
no short weight
and very little conversation
in the government
the pain would slacken
no stiff necks
and love
would be the subject
of our experiments


THE MAGICIAN

nobody knows
what he does
inside the trick
ever

always
he hides the strings
she moves his hands


IT’S NOT EASY

it’s not easy
to throw away
old clothes

the buttons alone!


BILLY B – (for William S. Burroughs Jr.)

billy b
he be dead
at thirty-three
(like a cypress tree cut down
to clear the air around
a stop sign
- the idiots!

something cute about
 a pirate and a poet
funning themselves
on colorado boulevard

with me on the lark to luck love
and the baby you divined
and you
casually on your way to early death
(aye
and sainthood in a cutthroat heaven)

yes
we were outriggish as you said
the clothes the hearts the hair
and you
on the hospital morphine fly
so high
you’d pass out on a toke of good weed
and I’d take you home to your chair
where you’d smoke your cigarettes
drink your beer - schlitz malt liquor please -
and stare
at alice liddell
doc holliday
or joe frazier
maybe get your strength back in a while
and throw a knife into the wall
or bayonet the couch

I’d water your philodendron
a tropical rarity you claimed
for a year I was gonna get
a new pot for it, billy

and remember lili, billy
an angel come to see you
            I’d hoped there’d be a meeting of the hearts            
and remember the day
you ernie and ray
dressed in wedding bests
out the door at 9 am
catching a ride
to the finest celebration of the summer, your last

tattooed children
actors and painters
cool jazz on the balcony
beautiful dresses across the floor
with booze on the tables even
and mushrooms in the bag

tony scibella was throwing hats
off the edge
and you warned about knives
and revenge in relation to your hat
and that hillside

child-mad you were
defending your hat

and on the way back that night
you wanted to stop at mcdonald’s
but I didn’t have the hour
it would take you to eat

I dropped you off hungry
in front of your pad
and pointed at
the jack in the box across the street









2 comments:

  1. A lot there Ed ... I think it will take awhile for me to absorb it. I like the images.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Thanks for reading and where would poetry be without images?

    ReplyDelete