Two poems by Ward Abel


Something breathing
rises, falls,
tides pulled by sentience
her lips
parted as if beginning
or receiving touch
a song plays
across the empty fields
breaks like brookings
on the way to fullness
open sea.
And the waters swim me
without knowing me
envelop me with arms
that smell of perfume
and gel
and weather.
I am fine with that.
More than fine.


When it's quiet
and things haven't happened yet,
all I can hear is sunlight
alone in the hum of ringing.
Thoughts of what will be,
failure and choice,
preoccupy my energy and plans
of action,
but inaction solves
all of this,
repose murders the demon.

• Poet, composer of music (Max Able/Abel, Rawls & Hayes) and spoken-word performer (Scapeweavel), L. Ward Abel lives in rural Georgia, USA and has been widely published in the US, Europe and Asia. His chapbook Peach Box and Verge has been  published by Little Poem Press (2003). Twenty of his poems are featured, along with an interview, in a recent print issue of erbacce (UK). His new book of poems Jonesing For Byzantium has recently been published at UK Authors Press (London, 2006).      

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