Poetry | JW Winslow

Snooty Ladies

The room was
jammed with
SNOOTY LADIES,
ultra top shelf
SNOOTY LADIES
full of themselves
noses above
the Common Line
so distinct and
very fine,
quite divine, that air,
there was a time
when I would care,
cringe and creep away
what more to say,
empowered by the
thought of money,
it’s all that powder
and wealth, honey,
but soon I noted
not a smile, nor happy
pants , all worthwhile
instead the grim and
snippy stance,
without a cheerful
warming glance,
what to do,
how can
one chew and
spit out such
romance, without
a doubt
a roundabout
was coming due,
and I just knew
the time had come
to leap upon the stairs,

race around the
arty bounds
and hide behind
the chairs,
I could not laugh
for fear they’d hear
and find me
snaking at crosshairs
upon the floor
and out the door,
never come back
never more,
all that past stuff
gone at last
I shall never
be aghast
at poor and mighty
simple folks,
different things
and different strokes,
I am sublime
just like this,
with a hug and
take your riches
take your charms
throw them into
Satan’s arms,
don’t be afraid to own
your deeds,
the time will come
when you
will heed,
the seed is planted,
let it bleed!

JWWinslow:3/1/14

Seychelle Ann Curry

It seems only fitting
that she would
depart
at the strangest
hour, a run of
hot weather
a lack of rain
a perfect bellwether
for a time of pain,
but she was a spark
and knew what she
wanted, as a tiny
young girl,
hungry and
haunted by
life flips and
plane trips and

strange exotic shores,
she knew she belonged
where the hearts
sang her songs
and the love that
was waiting
would never be
wrong,
so began
a story that
ran wild
and free,
to adventures and
friends, and family,
she wanted a ferret
but would have settled
for a flying bright truck

with streaming metal,
she shared her deep
heart with the shy
and obscene,
making a path
for the future,
watching her auntie
and stylin’ with charm
she reigned when her
prance was the
coolest disarm,
beautiful booty and
fabulous clothes
sporting ripped stockings
and black pantyhose,
she soaked up the books
from a loving Father

taking his lead
never to bother
with folks that had
airs, she wouldn’t
have dared to change,
but up close and
personal, within
your range,
she would look
in your eyes and
sweetly exchange
that engaging smile,
with a comical twist
how did that brain
come to exist, and
savor and grow
we might never

know, she took
all her secrets to
heaven, along
with a wardrobe
of fine dainty lace
and perfect smooth
skin on her
beautiful face,
she went out
alone, but don’t we all,
leaving no sad time,
no warning call,
but now there’s a light
that burns in the
room, where she
resides, defacing
the gloom,

knowing the
love that is
like no other,
once and forever
we discover
she will never
cease to exist,
the spirit of
Chelle, aglow
in the mists,
watching and
waiting alone
and debating,
wanting
to welcome
Us home.

©J.W. WINSLOW 2/1/14

Standing Ovation

She stood
at the
podium
with a
pounding heart
ready to
speak, yet
flabbergasted
at the chance
to be there
at all,
it was the
most amazing
night,
dressed in
her little tuxedo
smiling for
the occasion of
a lifetime,
the honors
from her peers
and those above
the highest ranks
in the audience
staring back
as she began
to speak,

reflecting
on the years
that led to
this starry
event, it was
an awesome
experience to
be given such
an award,
the only
WOMAN
in the room,
a long time
coming,
an uphill road
a force to
reckon with
a heavy load,
but all
those fans
in the
audience
were the
sweet
gratification
they stood
up and gave
her a Standing
Ovation!

©J.W. Winslow 1/1/14

Home Invasion

Surely an
invasion
of peculiar
persuasion
they arrived
at the appointed
time, seemingly
friendly enough,
not a hint or
a clue that
things could
get rough,
and I smiled
at myself
for being annoyed
even the slightest bit
after all, this
was my call,
I asked for the
sum of it,
so when they
began the work
to prepare,
I was not
inclined to
be aware,
trying to keep
things normal,
what a jokey/
hokey idea,
they were primed
for blood:
used to the clients
who stick in the
mud,
dig in their toes
when shocked
with a face
peering right through
the window case,
I suppose
they wear
white to assuage
your fears,
knowing that soon
you’ll be up
to your ears
and ready to scream
or escape,

nobody told me
how sure
and boldly
they would slide
their gear
into place,
(and ever so
cleverly take
over my space)
my brain and
my soul
soon out of control:
all of my goods
piled in the center
leaning and greening
while I would
run screaming
away to the beach,
so far out of reach
I could finally
breathe, wondering
how long it would
be till they leave,
trust me with this
there is no greater
bliss than watching
them drive away,
leaving behind
the gleaming sublime
pristine walls
a trumpet call,
you’ve had your
house painted,
and also been sainted:
awake and alive,
you’ve really
survived!

©J.W.WINSLOW 12/1/13

Tentative (Me)

Famous lines from
a Nobel Winner
say a man
leaves the room
as a saint
not a sinner,
without the debris
of the recent past,
while a woman’s
role is always cast
in the female
fashion, she
embraces the story
with agonized
passion, taking
each detail
of the soul along
with her,
suffering the
push and
pull of
Come Hither:
a call to arms,
(regardless of
notions or
firey devotions)
the facts
remain clear,
I admit to
be fond of
having
you near,
while changing
my life with
your charms,
and having
disarmed
the barriers of
history
my life is
a mystery
of fathomless
depth, unknown
and alone
until now,

for a light
has broken
the ceiling
and walls
my barriers
are crumbling
and liable to
fall,
the wonderful
warmth of
the human touch
sways the heart
to burst with love,
impossible
unspeakable
a dangerous glove
that fits despite
your tender
embrace
I close my eyes
and I see your face
no expectations
no harm done,
the promise of
more
has me undone,
is there time,
and another sweet
chance
for tender
forboding
and exotic
romance?

©J.W.WINSLOW 11/1/13

Worse

It would seem
that the stage
is set
for a spectacular
stream of events
but don’t be
fooled,
the golden rule
goes something
like this:
it all comes
in waves, the
good and the bad
depending on
whether you
are righteous
or sad,
the sadder you are
the worse it gets
the sneers are
saved for the
hypocrites,
who slide past
the dreary
and stomp
on the weary,
for they can
be such a bore,
best to hang
with the winners
the ultimate sinners
they are so hard to ignore,
so remember to
smile when that
snapshot appears
even if you are
screwed up to your ears,

nobody likes
what everyone fears:
whining and crying
and crocodile tears,
the winner takes all
the wheel spins
alone, racing
around in the
enemy zone,
you gotta be
fast, you better
be quick,
to beat up
the blues with
a terrible stick,
the light will
remain, the
shadows will clear
and the world
will be better
without any fear,
take up the
flag, please do
not wait,
the angel of sorrow
is close to the gate,
now it’s your
turn to make
him a saint!

©J.W.WINSLOW 10/1/13

Naked Ladies

They waited to
surprise me,
the fabulous
beautiful
NAKED LADIES,
hiding beneath
the ground
for years, I have
never before
seen them in
the old garden,
but this summer
the apple tree
was fragrant
and bountiful,
roses flourished
from beyond the
overgrown bush
and earlier a
Calla Lily popped
up, leaving behind
sad wilted leaves,
so I assumed that
we were done,
and yearning for
the chance to
snatch a few of
those pink lilies
that grow in
abundant wild
here on the coast,
appearing by
chance wherever
they please, the
original pods were
probably loved by
the natives at
feasts of abalone
and fish,

my gift of the
first bloom was
there today,
gently reminding
me of true Nature,
not the fancy
or proposed,
but a secret
smile from beyond
in a moment
most needed,
now I cannot
wait until
tomorrow comes
and I awake
to the scent
of a blush morning,
racing with the
Hummers for the
first breath of
Heaven…

The Mermaid House

He joins me
in a cosmic
accident,
walking by
the sea
the master of
The Mermaid
House,
just him and
me, by surprise
and fate
we are racing
along against
the wind, admiring
his fabulous abode,
the one I would choose
if able,
standing like a
queen on the shores
vines in the
courtyard, a hint
of water sounds
out from a fountain
unseen from the
street, it’s meant
to entice behind
the gate, perhaps
he peeks from a
shuttered window
engaged in some
quirky business,
he doesn’t tell
much, only about the
legacy, the wonderful
Mr. Morse back in 1926,
making rules for the fine
homes of the forest,

my companion knows
all this and more,
he sleeps in the room
facing the ocean
and dines at the table
of waves and mating
seals, banks of fog
rolling in over the
Pacific, he sits and
studies the tales
of the mermaid,
posting flags outside
while I walk by,
intrigued, yearning,
learning,
a heart burning for
the first visit, will
you ever see me
once I pass the doorway?

Milbank Street

She was the apple
of his eye,
the little house
at the end of
the freeway,
tucked into
a neighborhood
with others of
the same bent,
it was 1957 and
My dad was
buying his first
and only dwelling,
a place he would
fall in love with,
having been on
the road most of
his playboy
gypsy life,
and lucky to
find a home
of his own
with a yard
the size of a
football field,
he took a few
more wives
and added a pool,
a suite for his
first daughter,
skylights and
palm trees,(while
saving the plum
and apricots for
wife number five
to make some jam),
the times changed
and his family grew
while he became
quite the movie
guy and other
secret talents,

lining the
fences outside with
Disney Posters,
dice from Vegas set
into the shallow end
of the splash,
thriving on the
one thing he
could call his
own, never before
and never again,
it was his last
passion, leaving
the remains to
a family who has
now divided itself
into parts that
he would not
recognize or approve,
NO MORE FIGHTING
he would say,
You should be here
now, soaking in
the rays with
a frozen daiquiri,
stop arguing, please,
can’t you see the
beauty of life,
it is so dear to me,
remember my smile
and embrace your
time, for it will
all pass too quickly
and soon you will
be joining me,
wishing for one
more swim,
within…

The Media Train Brain

Your Media train
leaves at 4 AM,
bound for the
Left Coast and
pure mayhem,
(the land of
fruits and nuts
and glow,
plus the grand
movie daughter
of Dick Winslow),
the Conductor
Calls every
twenty minutes
with a bucket load
Of questions,
playing from
a cheatsheet
full of factual
impressions:
all those things
people want
to know,
while the sun rises
there are many
surprises, from Fargo
North Dakota
and chilly Minnesota,
Queries in lovely
Southern diction,
wanting details about
fact and fiction,
all the stories
the amazing glory
of being a writer,
way before the
clock ticks six
you gulp some
caffeine , stand
strong in the dream,
chugging along toward
Denver and Kentucky,

This locomotive tracks
fast and lucky,
and a little complex,
with the questioning side
from the opposite sex,
curious about the
Big Sur tricks
the fog in the air
is misty and thick
these would-be world
travelers do their work
from the chair, without
a care for the prurient
soul who paces
the opening hours
of sensual spaces
With much to inspire
with her fabulous list
of ardent admirers,
it’s the world of my
acting father, my
singing mother,
my curious brother,
all bound up in
a live conversation
broadcast before dawn,
flying the airwaves
to the drive-alongs,
commuting,
wondering what
that woman might
be wearing,
is she commanding
and overbearing,
where has she been,
what shape is she in,
what next of kin
will pick up the pieces
after all these
brand new releases?

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