tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55012998072407174062012-02-24T03:20:33.316-05:00Prose and Poetry by Ward McBurney.Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.comBlogger161100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5501299807240717406.post-59039979801273766822012-02-24T03:20:00.001-05:002012-02-24T03:20:33.872-05:00

.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; } And yet, originally uploaded by Ward108. Ah, to be as I am. That’s a poser. The horrors of my disease, and of its treatment, will never be fully catalogued, let alone felt, in the real world, which really is, somewhere out

Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5501299807240717406.post-51630734141803798632012-02-24T02:19:00.004-05:002012-02-24T02:49:56.863-05:00

.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; } Falling Skyward, originally uploaded by Ward108. Oh, my Two things strike me about every aspect of what I have known and lived: that, at the time I knew and lived them, these things, encounters, places, shapes that became

Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5501299807240717406.post-74871407082915367152012-02-21T18:32:00.003-05:002012-02-21T18:36:18.126-05:00

.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; } He comes, originally uploaded by Ward108. You, my constant reader, who, beside me long and long before I’d heard of exile or defeated Babylon; who walked beside the rivers, you who watered half the sky – the other half, that

Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5501299807240717406.post-77836264739750126932012-02-19T20:12:00.007-05:002012-02-24T01:01:01.477-05:00

.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; } Display, originally uploaded by Ward108. I sometimes wonder, not wouldn’t it be better,but just more efficient if wecollectively admitted (and, no, I don’t know who I mean by, we) there is no such thing as love – not if it

Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5501299807240717406.post-32091128146092388212012-02-12T00:03:00.007-05:002012-02-12T12:57:31.936-05:00

.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; } Holding on, originally uploaded by Ward108. grace/time My brother, Blair, called me up the other day and left a message on my answering machine. He said he was thinking of getting a card to express our thanks to the staff of

Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5501299807240717406.post-71913707792277838762012-02-11T00:33:00.034-05:002012-02-11T07:02:16.305-05:00

.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; } Permit discovery, originally uploaded by Ward108. She doesn’t speak like silence. She is silent when speaking. Remember, these distinctions matter. They are not the whole, nor do you wholly miss her, as the master said, once,

Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5501299807240717406.post-87942994601701764182012-02-07T13:35:00.009-05:002012-02-07T14:28:11.306-05:00

.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; } Thalassa, thalassa!, originally uploaded by Ward108. tomorrow is my first of several consults with the neurosurgical team @ the toronto western hospital in preparation for possible deep brain surgery (dbs) to remedy early

Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5501299807240717406.post-65830794787529192502012-02-05T15:36:00.002-05:002012-02-05T15:38:13.196-05:00

.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; } Come this far to create, originally uploaded by Ward108. Two stones, two brown stones the colour of bread; a gateway none can force though nothing bars the way; the desert, where the shadows cast by the flat rocks appear to be

Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5501299807240717406.post-26549855514835976082012-02-04T03:51:00.002-05:002012-02-04T03:53:53.309-05:00

.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; } Crossing, originally uploaded by Ward108. I’m so sick of using her for target practice, he said, and clipped another magazine, focused his cross-hairs, and pulled her into pieces. It can be mother earth to man, or Magdalene

Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5501299807240717406.post-71411736039453468752012-02-03T12:22:00.003-05:002012-02-03T12:24:07.938-05:00

.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; } Timmis (9), originally uploaded by Ward108. It’s kind of like dying all the time, being alive. Alive to, they used to say, alive to you. Or some subject matter, like, say, phosphates. Or turkey batter. Time is a sea of death;

Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5501299807240717406.post-10510033032950368702012-02-03T02:50:00.002-05:002012-02-03T02:52:30.847-05:00

.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; } Brickward, originally uploaded by Ward108. On me, made their middle march, down the valley of my spine, hedged the bayonet through my solar plexus; they lingered by my temples, over my eyes, behind my neck and near my groin,

Ward Brent McBurneynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5501299807240717406.post-55275365541955273792012-02-02T03:19:00.005-05:002012-02-07T20:23:24.367-05:00

.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 her gone-breast like satin – the white flesh buckled with scar tissue. And brand new pots and pans she could

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-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