Sean Ward: Artist, poet, professional web designer, and a silly silly man

Walking

I walk the path alone in a familiar way
each morning, each evening, cold or hot,
dry or wet, with a determined rhythm and
aching knees. If I walk far enough, I can
sleep without her ghost spooned against me
in the sheets. At daybreak the sun is warm
and there's a breeze. At dusk the shadows
put the sun out for the night, and I swear
I hear it whimper through the trees.

Whitman Sampler

at dusk I listen for it, faint harmony
as shadows lengthen into darkness
and horizon splits pale fire, I listen for it
at Wind 'N Sea, La Jolla, among the constant breeze
and itinerant waves working their way
along the shore, I listen for it

among throngs of Japanese in Narita, in the roar
and rumble of jet engines that carry me to clouds,
from the top of Chitzen Itza where machetes echo
through roots to ruins, I listen for it

in Brahms' Piano Concerto No. 2, in the Allegro non
troppo, in the Allegro appassionato, in the Andante,
in the Allegretto grazioso, I listen for it

and in the punishing silence
and soft threads of your voice, somewhere distant,
I hear the delightful song of myself

Chaos Theory

Saturday morning the dewdrops go unseen from my bedroom window, proving the connectedness of M, as I trace my fingers along cheeks, spine, neck. Then there's coffee and chatter on a patio. Talk of politics.

Alone during the week, I water the grass with a hose, go for long walks, think too much, purposely lift heavy objects, and doubt sets in. Why did I think there was love for me here? Have I fooled

myself once again or am I blind to sincere affection? Both could be true, and Paul says love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not...

a lot of things. It certainly isn't candy hearts and Hallmark cards or sentimental poems. Maybe it's the friend who stays when my real heart seizes, when those I hope the most from give the least, and when my daughter

discovers hell is a black place with tubes and needles. At some point I want to say to my friend, "I see what you are doing and I am grateful," but instead Mandelbrot dances in the raindrops and I am a fool.

Movement

The neighbor's dog lifts paw to ear, scratches at the jeweled movement of the day, as summer weeds bend slightly, then stand at ease, and leaves rustle like golden sleeves of wild Burmese silk.

A lone birdsong, slow, melodic, metronomic, carries with it the story of us, the inner workings of our place in this time, our crescendo, decrescendo, the rise, the fall, each breath, distinct and forgotten.

You move me, in ways I am not prepared to move, in ways I am afraid to go, yet I grow the way an oak grows, and shed skin like leaves to welcome your feathered touch among my boughs.

Fireflies

You come in the cool
evening on currents
of air, glowing, I
reach for your warmth, find
your cheek against my palm,
lips against my lips, your
curious tongue, the effect
you have on me, the way the
moon causes tides, the push and
pull, found in the gravity
of waves that swell, break
upon the shore, each a memorable
caress, and long after we've
walked away, and the fine sand
between our toes has washed away,
our time, the us the sky full of pinholes
once draped over, like so many white capped waves,
like so many youthful summer evenings
gone, lost to the chase, to
empty mason jars and the smell of grass, we,
couldn't we find our way in that warmth
if only the glow didn't subside?
If only we were to show
in our most intimate place,
our most intimate places.

But that's the thing about fireflies.
Even if we were those silly bugs, asses
brighter than the moon, it takes more
than a quick grab or two to fill
a lantern. Without our faithful dreams,
we're left with tired wings and
the rising sun.