The past few days have brought unseasonably mild temperatures to these plains, permitting me to enjoy the out-of-doors. The animal kingdom seems a bit confused by this phenomenon. Though we're on the threshold of winter, Spring—and love—are in the air. Well—for some anyway. A few of Nature's offerings...

A Frigid Frog

A Lewd Goose

A Sexually Frustrated Bull Elk

And Copulating Squirrels

At least someone's having a good time! 

Photographs © 2010 Skye Ward

Tags: Humor, Photography

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since time immemorial,
this woodland, elegant and menacing
in its grey and white plumage,
shifts in and out 
over the generations

the valley mires or bogs,
fallow, roe and red,
move at a snail's pace;
wind-borne seeds, set alight
in controlled burns

out on the open heath,
detritus, duff and the O horizon,
a myriad of mosses, fungi and ferns
fill the forest floor
not static, but forever changing

between the branches,
the forest also teems
with decomposers and predators
gliding over the heather
through litterfall

human interlopers,
transparent and colorless,
remaining in situ
within the perambulation
have scarcely started to rot

their gently decomposing trunks
also wield salient features;
a stout magnum chaffinch
covered with epithelial cilia
already overgrown with moss

even in the winter,
as we pick our way between lichen,
shelled gastropods are served
in cheap snack houses and taverns
these in turn are food for insects

when a tree falls in the forest,
succeeding waves of muscular contractions,
trees will fill the canopy void
some saplings win the silent struggle
of the deadly sin of sloth

elsewhere in the forest, another tree will fall and begin the process anew

2009-10 © Skye Ward

_@/..._@/..._@/..._@/..._@/..._@/..._@/..._@/..._@/..._@/..._@/..._@/..._@/..._@/

Befuddled? Flarf poetry is created by copying excerpts or lines from various sources and pasting them into a format that reads poetic, but in truth is complete nonsense. In this instance, my sources were three different articles about the forest floor. 

For more on flarf poetry, check out this link:  

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flarf_poetry

Tags: Poetry, Writing, Nature, Flarf

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All Images Copyrighted © 2010 Skye Ward 

Tags: Photography

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The scent of rain still lingers in the air and there is no color in the eastern sky this morning—only a soft white haze attempting to penetrate the bleakness. Scattered puddles obscure the sidewalks—their brilliant reflections disputing the gray stratosphere. Lambent droplets cling to crimson baubles adorning the crabapple trees, adding gaiety to an otherwise dreary dawn. 

My daily ritual parallels the public library and on this day in particular, I note its tributaries: Hemingway Drive, Mark Twain Court, Jane Austen Court, Jules Verne Court, Lewis Carroll Court, Charles Dickens Court, and Brett Ashley Place. For a moment, I contemplate my own legacy. What can I offer? How will I be remembered? Will I be remembered?

My canine companion, however, has no regard for introspection. His only concern is an unsuspecting gaggle of geese quietly roosting on the library's lawn. There is an abrupt tug at my right arm and I am forced to maneuver through a mine field of waste and earthworms—dodging and tripping—as my dog walks me.

Finally, our gait decelerates and in the distance I observe four white cranes skirting the pond in an awkward ballet. A mallard hen paddles away indignantly, breaking the silence with her displeasure. As our path takes another direction, I'm suddenly aware of the far off shadowy foothills; but there are no mountains to the west of these plains—only impending showers.

this veiled quiescence
dankness impeding sun's warmth
November mourning

© 2010 Skye Ward

Tags: Poetry, Writing, Haibun

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What good is a voice,

When one is not heard?

A lesson learned,

Early in Life...

At family feasts where

Words from the lips

Of a child

Were mere folly

And younger cousins

Toddled about.

Like Weebles,

They wobbled,

But sometimes

They did fall down.

At least

Their cries

Were heard.

Or on the playground,

Where Becky and Theresa

Would rather twirl

Pigtails and jumpropes—

Giggling, girlish laughter

That didn't include tomboys.

And the boys,

Who would throw rocks

At my shins.

I quelled my tears,

Wanting their approval

And perhaps a playmate,

But the only ones I found

Were the wind,

The water,

And my imagination.

Mr. Clarence—

My babysitter's husband,

A father, firefighter,

Pillar of the community

Taught me

That some secrets

Are not

To be shared.

Don't protest.

Don't tell.

"Now there's a good girl."

During Music class,

Mrs. Springer told me

I didn't have a voice—

Couldn't sing, so

I mouthed the words

To their songs.

Hearing their voices,

More melodic than my own—

I learned to listen,

But not to be heard.

I was heard once,

Unknowingly as I whispered

To the giant oak

And she said to me,

"You should share."

And so I found my words—

Thoughts,

Ideologies,

Inspirations,

Not in voice,

But in the click-clack

Of faded keys.

For a time, others

Seemed to hear me.

To a trusted few,

I bared my soul—

Naked and vulnerable,

As the day it was birthed.

But one-by-one,

They left—

Sometimes unintentionally.

Love and Death

Both speak

More eloquently

Than the whispered pleas

Of Me.

Shouting

Into the wind

Is futile.

No one replies,

Not even my own echo.

And so I listen—

To their words,

Their songs,

And the beat

Of my own lonely heart—

Invisible, abandoned,

And forgotten—

Until the moment when

It too,

Is silenced.

©2010 Skye Ward

Tags: Writing, Poetry

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Preceding the imminent clamor of hydraulic brakes, diesel exhaust, and exuberant youth, I stand at the southeast corner of the classroom, somewhat dazed and yet mesmerized by its brilliance. Most of the trees have long since reached their peak and shed their foliage in preparation for Winter's slumber; but this sugar maple is at the apex of its glory — towering and symmetrical — its amber leaves emulating the morning sun.

Despite the quiescent surroundings, there is a sudden stirring amongst the branches, and gingerly the progenitor releases its charges. One-by-one they float delicately to the earth, coming to rest at the roots that sustained them during their brief but glorious existence. Soon it is raining leaves and I press against the pane — a moist fog forming as the steady rhythm of my exhalations mingles with November's chill. 

Individually, each leaf represents a life — golden, fragile, ephemeral — and I whisper their names in remembrance...

                    Chuckquea 

                                                            Emily

          Jason

                                                                      Brittany

                               David

                                                            Sarah

                    Nick

                                                                      Tyler

                                        Joy

          Jeremy


I adamantly believe that each soul has a purpose and that these children — impaired, fragile, and imprisoned — are angels on earth, sent to teach us patience, tolerance, and compassion. In turn, the Creator rewards them with a very brief season in this place before allowing them to become whole and free once again. 

As silent teardrops fall in unison with Autumn's departed, a tingle of assurance permeates my being and I am comforted...

Tags: Remembrance, Writing, Haibun, Prose/Poetry, Children with Disabilities

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