The Pickle Jar

We have a new
story from the
old glory, reciting
scenes from
The PICKLE JAR,
the place we all
describe as past
adventures in
substances unlikely
to enhance your
health, admittedly
great wealth
has been summoned
to pay the piper
for the debauchery
of such things,
and there is always
one guy who fondly
recalls all
of the drooling
blathering idiots
that make up
long lost nights,
mostly embellished
and recalled with
a flourish, they
portray the poor
subject as a
hopeless fool,(at least
wasted beyond
doubt, always
without a saving
grace, stumbling
tumbling,
so naturally
the point of
the story is always
the OTHER guy,
never the TELLER,
HA HA,you see,
that is the beauty,
the duty of the
TART FART
is to remind
us how far
we have come,
without strangling
those smarty
pants
who love to
prance in
perfection
while the
rest of us
slide in the
other direction!

 

©J.W.WINSLOW 2/1/12

Wondering

She tells me
she wants to
go home,
looking angelic
for a moment
then wickedly
smiling and
drawing me
near, she whispers
“they will never
know our secrets
not in one hundred
years”, she never
fears, for this is
the age of mystic
mind paths
she returns to
her childhood
and speaks for
hours to her
parents, being
scolded often
and crying out,
we listen from
the hallway in
wonder, her
journey is coming
to an end,(at least
this is what they
say), but each
day reforms the
last, the present
mixed in with
the past, a strange
soup of joy and
whimsy, she is
only sorry for what
she has not done,
pleading the 5th
about the mysterious
adventures she will
take to heaven,
holding court
with the angels
and perhaps the
less than perfect,
one moment from
now, or next week,
she will be there
and I will be here,
wondering… 

 

©J.W.WINSLOW 12/1/11

Cynical Cymbidium

My wild wild
cynics, otherwise
known as Cymbidium
in a world of blooming
madness, they rank
amongst the beautiful
and the hardy, the
delicate and tardy,
often gloriously difficult
and strange sticky
targets as perhaps
the most fabulous of all,
this, I say, after being
duped year after year
brought to tears
from a knawing
creepy snail, able
to impale the tiny
tender shoots, hiding
in the roots until sundown
they gobble my prize,
having waited for an
entire season, one year
to snag a stem or two
of brilliant yellow, or
mellow maroon,
the white will delight
with a tinge of pink
smack on the center,
I have miraculously
entered the year of
the hothouse babies,
proof positive that
these creatures are
more than human,
they have proven to
flourish beyond belief
in a dim and warm
room full of sweaters
and furs and swanky
dresses, there in the
safe haven of a
thermostat and
pale light, the
miracle of life
bursts forth from
beaten leaves, victims
of the brutal seaside
winds and rains,
chilly fog and snares
of sunlight (only on
occasion), I have come
upon the true secret
of care: be aware,
catch them in the
act, the birthing
and like a fine
midwife, deliver the
goods inside to the
incubator, strewn with
high heeled shoes
they take a cue and
put forth the finishing
touch for their mama:
original sin in a floral
form, fragrant and mellow
newly born.

 

©J.W.WINSLOW 11/1/11