Thom Ward is sole proprietor of Thom Ward's Poetry Editing Services.
The author of six poetry collections, his most recent book is Etcetera's Mistress was published by Accents Publishing in the fall of 2011. He lives in western New York.
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And Many Lose Themselves in the Elegance of the Martini Glass
We have breaking news from a not-so-very senior
official at the White House: wars aren’t children.
The two older ones will not take care of the new.
Rivers leave their signatures in the sediment, and ex-
tinction is partner to evolution; however, you don’t look
a day over amazing. Each zoo features a cage of endangered
books. Snaking through the septic pipes of their vacation
homes, the effluent of the affluent. During teenage Bible
study I spent time in the basement of the Lord. She says,
Cats only give you the love when they want the grub.
Forget chip, he has a woodpile on his shoulder. More
breaking news: the NRA now considers itself a public
service. In America we all camp out with either
Lieutenant Listless or Captain Chaos. Take your pick.
And Objects in the Mirror Are Galaxies Away
Scary what happens when campaign promises are exposed
to oxygen. After Easter we celebrate Wester. He says,
You keep singing like that and you’ll be able to afford
the rest of your suit. My accountant and shrink share
the same office building. Can I deduct my depression?
She says, Everyone sees right through his transparency.
A little heat and spring flowers pop like a nail gun
meeting new shingles. Hope isn’t the best strategy
for birth control or unilateral military engagement.
On the plain of love beware both hunters and grazers.
The first churning chords of Bach’s Mass in B Minor
anticipate quakes that have split the earth. Behind glass,
the felon tells his wife, I’ve got to die three times
before I get out of here. See you on the other side. Maybe.
And Even Androids Need Memories
Let’s attempt to be dancers of joy on the floor
of pain. In the cellar of our minds we have a box
labeled Items of No Particular Significance. Peaceful
madmen deliver us the future. Think Van Gogh, Blake,
although Europe always prospers when attacking
itself. Life. Death. It’s the transition that bothers.
At least we’ve learned this—better to be local
than right, how mellifluous to dream in Mozart.
The wise know the greatest treasures can never
be buried. So it continues, Congress the lowest form
of comedy. See how the leaves open their green mouths
because they can’t rest without asking, Who will shade us?
Can a robot become like Christ? If so, what to do
with the nails in the flesh, the cross, the faith?