Sample Poems by Thom Ward
Schadenfreude
There's no delight in standing behind my metal cart, the tedious wait to hand over coupons, a few bills to the cashier. But to browse The Enquirer, learn that the government's Secret Alligator Man demolished the laboratory, mauled a biologist, then scurried to the swamps, perhaps at this moment floats surreptitiously toward a pontoon full of lawyers, their amethyst wives, makes for a perverse, if only brief, satisfaction.
Like the humid summer evening in the park, bullheaded Patty Minx kicked the winning goal into the net for the opposing team; the day Bob Tankenburg, fast to boast about his Porsche, was nabbed doing seventy-six down Main, his license on the bureau by his bed. When the Baptists' proposal for a new church was bounced, Presbyterian elders chuckled to themselves, launched an impromptu membership drive.
Some repudiate schadenfreude, say it doesn't exist, or if it does, only in the grumblings of the cynic, the misanthrope. But we know better, realize how it whirlpools our coffee, stains our tongues--the cold, blunt smile upon learning the obnoxious brat five doors down has been suspended from school; the black, bright tickle we feel, as retrieving the mail from our box we notice the lazy neighbor's mutt has left a pyramid of shit, still steaming, still warm--O praise this eighth wonder of the world, this impeccable, perfect offering--on the meticulous neighbor's lawn.
Unwellness
Sensing a bout of unwellness Pill took a woman. Heels first, of course, with a glass of water as long as the woman's legs. Sometimes for unwellness Pill took two or three middle-aged men, brawny forearms and delts; but the disconcerting side-effects, namely, an icy petulance, made Pill feel rather unpill. The time-release efficacy of adolescents was always a boon, but they came fortified with hormones. Better to suffer unwellness than a rash of zits. Young children? Far too syrupy, and God didn't yet come in a bottle. So Pill took a woman to ward off unwellness, happy with her shoes, unhappy with her hair, between menstruation and menopause, sealed-for-your-protection, extra strength....
Nuclear Family
I was happy as Hemingway's bartender. Probably because I didn't know my old man from a seal. Hounded by megaloidophobia, he sequestered himself in our vegetable garden, a place far from big ideas. That's when my mother jammed her green thumb up his ass, metaphorically speaking, I think. Probably because she could and he wouldn't misconstrue it for general relativity or the quadratic equation. Sis continued to smear carrot mush across her face, the high chair's silver mouth, each of us an open system, the biosphere closed. Meanwhile, I dreamt of having a dog that didn't eat or need a walk. Of course, this was years ago, only my perspective, and sometimes it's difficult to see the barrel for the butt end of the gun.
Totally Rad!
Somewhere west of Zowie! and north of Shazam! the last tribe of Over-Zealous-Exclamation-People wander. Always on the move, for food is scarce, they resemble sticks more than humans. Berries, rodents, an occasional fish plucked from a stream, on such they subsist, camouflaging themselves in groves of pines if big four-leggeds make an untimely appearance. Though keen of sense, they are most tragic of all the punctuation clans, finding it impossible to harness their enthusiasm, believing each encounter Far Out! Way Cool!, never allowing the rhythm of detached perspective to manifest balance. Evicted long ago, the tribe of Over-Zealous-Exclamation-People have learned to out-wander the Vikings, the Lakota, even the Jews. One picks up a stone--Hot Shit! Another twirls a small, tattered leaf--Awesome!, misconstruing the pedestrian moment for a theophany. And so it goes, and so they go, the inflated language amplifying their emptiness. West of Zowie! and north of Shazam! they scavenge and shout, the echoes of their wild, emphatic syllables bouncing off cliffs, plummeting into ravines....