the poetry that matters


f.ward (visual artist, writer, editor, publisher) was born in Manchester, U.K. and emigrated to Canada (Hamilton, Ontario) as a child.  Ward is a multi-media artist who creates 2 & 3 dimensional works via welding, collage, assemblage, printing, painting and photography and is author of three solo collections of poetry; "side effects", "Life & Ledger" and "The writer seems unaware…".  Ward was also founder/editor/publisher of Hammered Out, a literary journal.      www.theward.ca

(author photo by Dan Subonovich)

deconstruction 2 & 3 



there are dead birds

in the water

i shine a flashlight

from up on deck

a pathetic tunnel

into the night 

theres one,

then another

then one after another

white bodies floating

some with long necks


by mica surface

and some with short necks

bloated and beady-eyed


against the metal side

of the large boat


& full of strangers

i am jolted

by a siren

then a bored female voice

like in M*A*S*H

from a distant loud speaker



black cloud coming


black cloud coming


we cover our faces

with whatever we have

try not to breath

below deck must be full

or i would be there

and i wonder

where are the gas masks?

why are we here?

the siren stops

waits for the next round

i open my eyes

to safe square pattern

of bedroom ceiling

and digital display

burning red 3:11 am

i’ve been holding my breath

for too long

outside, an airplane circles

not able to see

whats really going on

deconstruction 5 & 7


collective perspective


i am standing

down by the bay

on the old dock

in the not so

near north

after the fly away

from home to

here and the dear fly

under a great ball of fire

softened by the

early morning playing

misty for me

and i stare down at the

black plastic diamond 

surface upon which

spotted fish nibbled

lily pads float

without wings

trailing yellow string cheese

stems as afterthoughts

connected to the depths 

of the mind’s



windmill memories

and the dream weaver’s
slime undercoat
all rock & roll with
twisted sister
branches and dark roots
while a blue jay flies
across the bay
beyond the reach of pines
arched up to catch
the inevitable home run
marked too soon
on the calendar
the dock shifts suddenly
with the movement
of a pregnant spider
shes so heavy
walking the plank
the little wide load
returning to her nest
or was that me?

deconstruction 4 & 6  


the mystical lust of words


he sat down
under the oak beside her
but it was late december
& a cold white morning
so i assume
he must have
cleared off a bench
or a chair first
to be next to

the woman
his wife
the other
and the impression of
a virtual angel left
in cerebral matter
after the frenzy of
flapping wings
like children in the snow
still laughing
after a morning's travels
on the internet
where he had punched in
certain combinations



in search of surreal

& found

whole new worlds
popping up before him
more worlds than
he could click down
more worlds than
he could minimize
worlds which begat
the mystical lust of
words which begat
the movement of

cyber insects & poetry
inside and all over his body
writhing like in some
X-files episode
and i wondered if he had
dusted the snow off well
before he sat down

or were his pants
soaked through
to frozen stiff

asphalt poetry 3 & 24 




the room

remains still

and the only

way out

is a lid

that opens, releases

c l o u d


                s k y

and corners

sides, floors

stay for standing




or lying

in wait

blind transparency

to the city night

too many windows

staring back

street sounds stab

through the drone

of fans

sucking steamy air

from the pavement


asphalt poetry 14 & 21


processed & packaged


what      i see

in the mirror

is me

as related to      

your image

of me


and who              

i think

you think

i am




you think


i am


i am



and        i am


who thinks they know


about me

asphalt poetry 4 & 35 


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