Category Archives: Poetry

A.H. Scott: How Much For a Spank?


Illustration by Alexandra Rouvet Duvernoy for Tony Ward Studio, Copyright 2017



Poetry by A. H. Scott, Copyright 2017


Illustration by Alexandra Rouvet Duvernoy, Copyright 2017




How much for a spank?

Don’t matter if you can’t answer, ‘cuz I can afford any price

How much for a spank?

Tethered and silent you shall be for me

How much for a spank?

Power is mine and I don’t give a damn about critique

How much for a spank?

Makes me laugh to hear about those masses of asses yearning to breathe free

How much for a spank?

The whip comes down on dissent

How much for a spank?

Stripping your decency is just the tip of my spear

Honey, you’re gonna take it in the rear

How much for a spank?

Tossin’ a few bucks here and there, as I demolish the safety net of social propriety without a care

How much for a spank?

I am lion in leather and studs

How much for a spank?

With iron fist & snicker in my voice, I say to Lady Liberty, “You ain’t got no choice”

How much for a spank?

Being master of the Oval Office is the ultimate wank

As I bust a nut, it’s you that I thank

How much for a spank?

Here’s another thousand from DJT

When ‘them history book writers come ‘round to see ‘ya, tell them a good friend of Vladimir was proud to grind your spirit down 



About The Author: A.H. Scott is a poet based in New York City and frequent contributor to Tony Ward Studio. To read additional articles by A. H. Scott, go here:



Also posted in Art, Blog, Current Events, Erotica, Friends of TWS, Men, Politics, Popular Culture

A.H. Scott: Fairy Tales & Four Years





Poetry by A. H. Scott, Copyright 2017


Portrait of Trump: Christopher Suciu, Copyright 2017




Mumble, Fumble, Grumble, Stumble, Gamble and Ramble

Grimm soul is putting us all in a shamble

Eyes so cold, belies a sorrow untold

Takin’ a boy from the borough of Queens and lettin’ him play in the towers of glass and metal has a score to settle

Fee-fi-fo-fum! Look at how far Son of a Drumpf has come!

Overcompensation and exaggeration can’t be held back from his forked tongues’ pout

It’s his world now, ya’ better watch out

More dangerous than a hydrogen bomb, is what comes out of his mouth

Only thing he’s spinning is a yarn of lies

Encased in tacky gold is his puny heart

Turn on the castle lights and them beady eyes shift into diamonds

Son of a Drumpf thinks when he awakens in the morn the revolving planet around him starts

Not so fast, false fool of obliviousness

There are still a few of us out here who calls ’em as we see’s ’em

He peddles it well, he shovels it deep

Cult of the Cotton Candy hair is in a trance-like sleep

Decorum be damned, as he thumps his chest and puts fear in the marrow of anyone in his wake

False Prophet of Populist rage snarls as he stomps across the world stage

The game he knows well, as the media tries to keep up

But, the liar of golden fluff is a cold-blooded prick who gets off on being tough

Grumble, grumble, mumble, and fumble

This ain’t no fairy tale, kiddies

Lady Conway and Count Barron stroke the throne

Egomaniac with a stranglehold on false facts has taken truth out back for 400 whacks

Nauseating nightmare is what we all are living

Just remember it’s only the beginning

Ain’t even been two months

Survive the day, survive the night

Batten down the hatches, cuz’ this is gonna’ be one hell of a fight

1,460 days might be too far in sight

Four years? Four years?

Am I losing my mind?

Oh, no Alice…only down the rabbit hole this nation has gone

Positioned pieces upon Destiny’s chessboard, we are now the pawn


About The Author: A.H. Scott is a poet based in New York City and frequent contributor to Tony Ward Studio. To read additional articles by A. H. Scott, go here:


Also posted in Art, Blog, Current Events, History, News, Politics, Popular Culture, Portraiture

A.H. Scott: Childhood Memories




By A.H. Scott, Copyright 2017


Tony –

When I read your diary memory about your father, it made me think back to my own father. 

Some of the best times I can remember from childhood were when I went fishing with my Mom and Dad. Since it was always just the three of us, those Saturday mornings were truly special.

Getting up at 4:30 on a Saturday morning, my Mom and I would boil eggs and pack them in a bag for us all to eat, while my Dad would get his fishing poles and bait together. We’d be out the house around 5:45 to make the journey towards the river. I was 6 or 7 the first time we went fishing together.

Living in the Polo Grounds, where I still live to this day; we used to take a long walk up north on 155th Street. We’d make a trek past the old location where the Museum of the American Indian was on Broadway and over to the Hudson River.

By the time we reached the river’s edge near some benches and about twenty feet from the rocks; my Dad would set up the fishing poles with bait and hooks, while Mom and I would start to crack the hard boiled eggs.

Oh, I can remember that scent of the water and the sounds of little waves smacking against those rocks. My Dad had a long fishing pole for himself and smaller one that he showed me how to use. One time I actually caught a tiny fish. But, most of the time, my Dad would be the one catching eels and some other kinds of fish from the river. My first time seeing an eel wiggling on the ground once he reeled it in from the river made me think it was a snake. Green and so slimy looking, I jumped a few steps back from where it was moving around to where my Mom was. Wow, back in the day, we were living on the edge by taking that seafood out of the Hudson and eating it when we got home.

Looking back on those days brings a smile to my heart and face when I think of my Dad. When he died in 1989, it was then just me and Mom. Then last year in 2016, ironically on the last day of April, my Mom passed away. Now, it’s just me. But, I have my memories of their love, laughter and all those good times we shared together.

Tony, even as parent departs from this mortal world, we shall always remain their child. For myself, no matter how old I was, my Mom always used to say I would always be her baby. Even at my age when I remember her words in my mind, I feel an everlasting love and hug from my Mom.

Being a sentimental soul, after all these years, I still have some old fishing poles, 35mm slides, and a few of my Dad’s cameras.

Memories of the past are like branches of a tree; present are the leaves which expand in the breeze, while future is what is about to flourish and bloom with faith.


About The Author: A.H. Scott is a poet based in New York City and frequent contributor to Tony Ward Studio. To read additional articles by A. H. Scott, go here:


To access the Tony Ward diary entry that inspired this article, go here:




Also posted in Blog, Documentary, Friends of TWS, Photography, Portraiture, Women

A.H. Scott: Funeral in White Lace


Photo: Tony Ward, Copyright 2016



Poetry by A.H. Scott




A million guns

A million tears

Can a bullet mollify our basest fears?

Beefs, slights and cutting eyes abound

Damnit! Did you hear that sound?

Sound of the bullet whizzing past your ear

Or, was it the wail of a mother standing over a fallen loved one

Did you hear about the grieving mother’s son?

He was shot by a friend over something so trite

Probably over a girl they fought about last night 

Could have been over those sneakers that were ever so fly?

But, then again…does anybody really ask why?

Urban and suburban, the bullets shatter lives in split seconds

Damnit! Did you hear that sound?

Gabby Giffords and several others spread on the ground

Defense says he’s beyond sane

A bullet was lodged in her brain 

Damnit! Did you hear that sound?

Latest Batman flick, let’s go and see it quick

Joker filled the night with pain and sorrow

Hair dyed and demented gaze on his face was what the world saw

Damnit! Did you hear that sound?

Tiny chairs empty from the massacre of quintessence in Newtown 

Killer took those who hadn’t lived life yet and did so without regret

Damnit! Did you hear that sound?

Let’s go dancing and have a drink

Pretty simple way to relax, you think

Club filled with pulse of life was destroyed in a hateful strife

Seems that some who are filled with such despair don’t appreciate the beauty of life

Love and decency ever so common have been smashed by hearts filled with poison

Hammer of hate is the gun in their hand of frenzied fate

Damnit, that sound is heard again and again!!

Guns don’t kill people we are told with a straight face

Tell that to the mother of the departed at the funeral in white lace

Constitution is a parchment of liberty which has to keep up with today’s pace

Shotgun on the back porch was what existed when the Constitution was written

But, now a weapon that fires multiple rounds is taken as a given 

Oh no, don’t get me wrong, I believe in the Second Amendment, too

But, how many guns does one person need?

Seems like the question can’t even be asked without hearing blowback

Dens of reflection where laws are debated are not the streets where core passions are stated

Second Amendment is howled with parrot precision every time a newsflash of tragedy comes across the screen 

Beneath the domes of hollow compassion sits those whose careers are bolstered up by cashing in

No poor boy, no poor girl

Two-fisted shakedown in a lobbyist swirl

Parchment of liberty breathes a sigh

After all it is the Constitution, but we do wonder why 

Apathetic public hasn’t a clue

No one would believe that we don’t know what to do

Yet, the blood splatters the streets of America from projectiles of death daily

More bullets!

More guns!

More death!

More funerals! 

More murals of memory!

More mothers wail, more fathers weep 

But, we’ve got a person who wants to build a wall ever so steep 

Build that wall!

Build that wall!

High enough on your petard you shall fall

Gotta be tough as nails with brass balls and cold as ice 

Kissing the NRA’s ring should suffice 

North, South, East, West, when will the pain end tragedy’s quest

Under gunfire attack in the streets of Dallas and Baton Rouge came without warning 

America is in mourning 

Even after all the tragedy, an irony is laid bare

In the state where the wall builder shall appear, there is a law for open carry 

Funeral in white lace and blind allegiance to the Second Amendment shall now walk hand in hand down an aisle of melancholia and marry 

Tears flow from sea to shining sea 

Funeral in white lace is a place you pray no more souls shall ever be 



About The Author: A.H. Scott is a poet based in New York City and frequent contributor to Tony Ward Studio. To read additional poetry by A. H. Scott, go here:


Photography by Tony Ward, Copyright 2016



Also posted in Blog, Current Events, Friends of TWS, Politics, Popular Culture, Women

A.H. Scott: Threaded by Choice



Photography by Tony Ward, Copyright 2016


Poetry by A. H. Scott




If a world be a stage, then a stage be a world 

Enough room for all, no need to crowd

Together we are with common bonds unbowed

Theatrics of fashion

Baby, take a bow

We’re all fibers in this play called life right now

Headliner, eyeliner

Spotlight, coiffed 

Casual and sophisticated, like a flower anticipating bloom

Theatrics of fashion

For all, there is room 

Rose petals from this bouquet flourish with shades so divine

Ladies nine, oh so fine

Soloist and chorus prepare their performance

Hemlines and fitted fabric may not look similar

But, all which is couture caresses their perimeter

Satin, silk, cotton, gabardine and chiffon

Threading that needle of equality we know we can’t go wrong

Flash of fashion’s sway with style that’s soaring

Without the combination of colors life would be boring 

A single fiber from each has a hell of a lot to teach

Threaded by choice is a decision made

Strength of unity only can persuade

Woven threads together make for fabrics that pop with exuberance and swoon

Colors delight beneath sun and moon 

Life’s beauty is the flair of a spectacular rainbow 

Miracle it is, for that variety is what we make it so 

Threaded by choice

Love is the swatch that overrules hate

Threaded by choice is one we all must make 

Theatrics of fashion, we all have our place

Our hues may be different, but we all are of one human race


About The Author: A.H. Scott is a poet based in New York City and frequent contributor to Tony Ward Studio. To read additional poetry by A. H. Scott, go here:


Photography by Tony Ward, Copyright 2016

Also posted in Art, Blog, Current Events, Fashion, Friends of TWS, Glamour, Jewelry, Models, Photography, Politics, Popular Culture, Portraiture, Women