Whose Dad

Warm breezes
And the late
Afternoon sun
Dry out my bones
Wailing old
Dylan and
BBQ, back in
The hood where
Many memories
Linger, can’t
Exactly put
My finger on
It, but something
Is different,
Perhaps this
Old cowboy town
Has become a
Friend after all,
Holding open
Arms as I fall
Into the stream
Of the future,
It is all happening
So fast, people
Going, people coming
The drummer
Continues
And never has it
Seemed more like
Déjà vu
Than this cool
Easy time,
No worries
Says my brother,
He of the other ilk,
Who is my polar
Opposite, and yet
Not, I have gotten
Into his groove
Far too easily,
Kind of scary,
Where is this
All going, is it
Called Surrender,
I wonder…

 

©J.W.WINSLOW 7/1/11

Radio Lady

She lives alone
at the top of
the stairs
on that famous
street of one
thousand stares
and lounging
unaware
you may never
know she is
there, seducing
the senses of
the visiting princes
the madcap poet
the doctor, the man
from India,
anyone with a sin
to convey, or maybe
just a tale will
emerge in between
the cozy walls,
lights low and soft
or bright,
she is home day
or night to so many
ideas, midnight rambles
earthly shambles
love stories, morning
glories, all of it
hidden behind the
façade of history
she remains a mystery
even to those of us
who worship at the
gate, we bring our
words and quirks
our sounds of mercy
and laughter
pangs of remorse when
we are foolish, and
often the dead faces
of ghoulish souls
long gone from
in front of the
microphone,
then, all alone
comes the day
when she is
unable to give
that gift, remove
the sorrows for
an hour,
say it isn’t so,
there must be
somewhere to go,
don’t leave us NOW,
we were just
beginning to be
good at this,
grand lady of
the row, we beg
you to stay,
a crowd of lost
mentality,
the reality has
set in: Can’t we just
begin again…
sounds in the
night take flight
dawn appears,
you are loud
and clear!

 

©J.W.WINSLOW 6/1/11

Tom Dylan!

He blew into
the studio
breaking all
the rules
smiling /shining
behind his shades
playing us for fools,
but just for fun
(the Show begun
with a hug
the size of Kansas,
demanding nothing
less than Love, always
take your chances)
in his hand was
a toy guitar
which he began
to tune, laughing
humming, picking
notes, coming into
bloom: he used
his tools
so out of school
he knocked about
and tapped,
and rattled chairs
and necklaces
making quite
a splash: the
audience was
now entranced
he played us
into the flow
nothing you
might recognize
what a way
to go, for soon it
was some Dylan
stuff, and then
a cool review
he did a show
of cover songs
in a high redux
of Master Bob’s
material, a very
high esteem
his performance
was applied
to something
like a dream,
we talked about
the art of him
and the art of me
and how we joined
it all together
in perfect symmetry,
and when we listened
to my audio book
he gave the mic
a second look, and
took some serious note:
the evidence of words
and music blended
into smoke, the charm
and soul and sexy scenes
were evidence of his skill
and beautiful serious
mind, something that he
hides from us, keeping up
that pride that goes
with steely drive
and years of fight
to stay alive, it’s not
an easy game, but he
has conquered life itself
with passion, skill
and fame, so when the
final signal had come
and we were closing in
on done, it seemed
to pass in moments,
we smiled and knew
to play the cue
and gently say
goodbye, laughing
out on the busy
street, under the
Cannery sky!

 

©J.W.WINSLOW 5/1/11

Copper Cross

Thinking this could
possibly be the worst
day before birthday
or just worst day
period, I must
find a way to
release the super moon
vibes, diatribes
nasty sides
scoring up the
town with me
on their back,
I lost my talisman
and found myself
so near to tears
I could not consider
all the years
we spent together,
a plain little copper
cross, the guardian
of my heart, the keeper
of my soul,
the gift of those long
gone who taught me
about love
and friendship,
of talent and
perseverance,
observance of the
moral clause:
a pause to reflect
upon the simplicity
of life, to be calm
in the storm, and
humble in the face
of glory,
and now such a
terrible end to
my story, escaping
from my ear this
morning, on a
pilgrimage of
another sadness,
rising out of the
dawn in a wet
rage, driving
across miles to
enslave my
poetic thoughts
be a perfect girl
love my family
and dote on my
friends, it never
ends
but this is a
blow, nothing
to reach up and
touch, dangling
there, supporting
my flights of
fancy, how could
I fail with my
copper cross,
now I am lost
without it: I
want to shout
never doubt
your dreams,
but words remain
my silent scheme,
I have only you
to share
my despair…

 

©J.W.WINSLOW 4/1/11

Genious

The spark of genius
is contagious:
submerge yourself
in deep music and
visual stories of
courage, watch
a sunset unexpected
and you are
connected to all,
the painter who
lives the true
gypsy life,
eschewing comforts
and fame
for the last
ray of light
that scene
which will
never come again,
the voices that
bleed out of
times on the road
it is a heavy load
to carry, always
wondering why
nobody notices,
but is that really
the point,
you are born with
the drive, the yen
to speak, begin anew
light up the sky
with music beyond
belief, so like a
thief in the night,
stealthily creating
despite what
they say, the
reward is sacred,
all yours to savor,
Rock on, angel
and hear the words
given across the wires…
INSPIRE.

 

©J.W.WINSLOW 3/1/11

Kirby

How did you know
that the dawn
would bring a
sunrise so bright
while I was
racing out of
the night,
why did you
pick just
the perfect
music for
the new discs
and select
some fabulous
glass spheres
for my art,
how did you
find such a
mix of tunes
to make me
cry and dance
around the
room, throwing
off the gloom
to soaring states,
how did you
know that I
needed your
company to
soothe my soul
prop me up while
I watch the sight
we both dread,
a beloved person
fade away…
oh so slowly,
how can you
possibly see now
how much
you mean to me,
chicken spaghetti
and Hubs, even
a chilly house
is better than none,
but I sailed all
the way home
on your smile,
a big hug to wish
safe trip,
maybe when you
read this, it
will say it all…
doubtful.

 

©J.W.WINSLOW 2/1/11

Tickle

What I had
in mind
was this
beautiful gift:
a fabulous
joyful pillow,
artsy and clever
bunched roses
in fabric made
of a silvery
soft cloth,
something fey
and perfect
for a designer
like my Mom,
so it arrived
as promised,
although
larger than
expected, but
very fine
nevertheless,
and I assembled
the cover and
pillow to make
her gift just right,
couldn’t wait
to see the sight
of that smiling
face, Christmas Eve
and all, but when
she opened it, (last
and most anticipated
present under the tree)
she showed another
kind of glee: something
tickled her fancy,
made her laugh, not
once or twice (that
would have been nice)
but instead an
eruption of howls
came forth, silly
giggling, laughing
chortling, until
we all were in tears
and she the most,
it was a toast to
a misplaced humor,
for a few minutes
she forgot about
everything except
how funny that
pillow is, so although
this was not the
concept I intended
it ended in the
SWEETEST CALL:
TICKLE
TICKLE, after all.

 

©J.W.WINSLOW 1/1/11

Radio Party

So picture this:
the tall stalks
of Pampas grass
swaying, fluffy
heads spraying a
bit of puff in the
breeze, while one
guest after another
ties a ribbon on this
field of bright soldiers,
it is a ritual learned
from travels to exotic
lands, where they
announce arrival by
adding their talisman,
all the guests at this
party are unknown
to each other, it is
the natural way to
introduce people,
the perfect gathering
something to talk
about, beautiful
conversations and
controversial art,
each contributing
something to eat
or drink, or think,
shining on a sunny
day with the autumn
leaves at bay,
the baby rock band
all grown up,
playing Hendrix
knocking their sox
off, and at last the
Actress arrives, an
appropriate entrance
with flash and smiles,
she makes me laugh
after they are all
gone, staring at the
blisters on my toes
from those fancy boots,
who gives a hoot…
the house is full of
good energy, the remnants
of love and brotherhood,
controversy, music and
one last beautiful wedge
Of brie…
for me

 

©J.W.WINSLOW 12/1/10

Divine

Eve of a new
quarter
century, in
a sober state
of mind,
not what you
think, this
is good
STRAIGHT ARROW
not sad and
morose,
but a day
to look back
upon twenty
five years
of struggle,
the uphill
battle that
has finally
evened out
to a continuous
effort,
a joyful celebration
of abstinence
from things
that held me back
no more, I have
reached a lovely
place, a landmark
But beware
they say, never
take it for granted
this clear head
the anxiety of
never knowing
and no crutches
but fresh air
and prayer
yoga instead
of smoke
walking the
Wild road
alone and
unfettered,
leaving it
all up to the
winds of change,
I must trust
not an easy
thing, but
what choice
is left, the
path is taken
the light
beckons down
the line,
DIVINE

 

©J.W.WINSLOW 11/1/10

Fall Girl

The last hours
and minutes
linger before
some magic begins:
a full moon
in Aries,
the end of Summer
the advent
of Fall…
that’s all,
just a steamy pile
of circumstances
converging as
the months of
strange weather
and weird events
pull up short
and gasp a last
breath,
releasing me
to the future,
what should
occur and what
will, maybe overkill
to wonder at this
point, the path
is taken
the direction
forsaken in skewed
points of light
with truth or
dare as the daily
fare, and people
dropping like flies,
jumping ship
moving to Vegas,
disappearing just
when I need them,
so as my mother says
it is meant to be,
(figuring it all out
on your own)
always alone
but maybe not,
THE PLOT THICKENS…

 

©J.W.WINSLOW 10/1/10