tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55012998072407174062012-02-02T03:20:07.281-05:00Poetry by Ward McBurney.Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.comBlogger61100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5501299807240717406.post-55275365541955273792012-02-02T03:19:00.002-05:002012-02-02T03:20:07.289-05:00

.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; } Helen Jean, originally uploaded by Ward108. You bought her new clothes to wear as she lay dying – blouses fell past the gone-breast of her like satin – the white flesh buckled with scar tissue. And brand new pots and pans she

Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5501299807240717406.post-80494569847308796892012-02-02T00:16:00.002-05:002012-02-02T00:18:24.474-05:00

.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; } Waiting for the man ..., originally uploaded by Ward108. She’s always been the same one, the never there, always here, original Moosehead from the wall and fallen on your head – and the Germans, just folks, after all. The

Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5501299807240717406.post-27835485225123946162012-02-01T20:37:00.003-05:002012-02-01T20:41:50.814-05:00

.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; } Harsh light, originally uploaded by Ward108. When we think we know what we are talking about, we talk about it. What happens? Don't say live, or love her, or I'll hit you with a stick as fat as the palm of your hand, her

Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5501299807240717406.post-12988532706515656982012-02-01T10:26:00.002-05:002012-02-01T12:31:52.916-05:00

Your name means: it could not be plainer.You could not choose so commonly. A tree, maybe, but nothing will remainto remind you of how you looked, to me.  We’re old. This is no lyric. My liarwas killed, not in the wars, but in the Spanish flu that followed after.Even in that tongue, your name means:

Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5501299807240717406.post-37242349639548663582012-01-30T03:42:00.002-05:002012-01-30T03:45:00.320-05:00

.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; } Scaffold angel (1), originally uploaded by Ward108. Progress is like a small spot of sane, zany'd by ten kilo-tons of momentousness. The bedstead is loaded with dust. The evening weaves its small surprises.

Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5501299807240717406.post-8524962444863239872012-01-27T10:24:00.002-05:002012-01-27T10:25:19.028-05:00

.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; } Tea, originally uploaded by Ward108. There is never enough time to honour every thing as it should be honoured, and we honour only in time. There is never enough presence that can be too much here. And there is never enough

Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.com0