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,


©J.W.WINSLOW 12/1/11

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

They wanted my
story, so to speak
kind of a sweet
idea, reciting all
the reasons I
landed in the
sands of Monterey,
adventured through
Carmel and salad
days, a lot of
romantic haze
pounding the
pavement of Cannery
Row, you know
that is a very famous
place, Steinbeck
did his job well, no
Grapes of Wrath here
only rusty towers
where sardines once
traversed the street,
I repeated these
juicy tidbits before
the blue screen,
sequestered away
on a Sunday,
in the back of a
museum where
they documented me
For all time,
all the rhythm
and rhyme, the
depth of my love
and fine wine of
emotion reciting
just how I got here
fearless, a chancy
express from the
doldrums of cowboys
and Arco arena,
how could you blame
me, suddenly set free
on the beach at sunset
watching the lights
twinkle on Wharf
Number Two, the
story of a new life
is all mine,
there for you see
along with the other
ninety nine …
DIVINE by degrees !


©J.W.WINSLOW 10/1/11

there are disguises
is that really a cop
or just a secret
security guy
sleuthing around
the early hours
of a big happening,
eyeing the chick
with long legs
and high boots,
is she in cahoots
with the shaved head
who shares his smoke,
we enter without
search, special passes
for the photog, it’s
a long day with a lens
so credit is given
and we are released
into the giant parkland
lined with towering trees
everywhere you can see
the work in progress:
stages with bands,
food guys and sword
swallowers, a woman who
walks the razor ladder
it doesn’t matter where
you turn, there is
a scene for the screen:
babies with painted faces
and men having races
to reach the beer line,
we begin with a schedule
in the middle of this
massive party, attending
those melodic acts who
must be attributed
to the crowds, after all
we are celebrating
the music, isn’t that
what the crush is about
At five PM, not a breath
of space between bare chests
and naked shoulders
snuggled into each other,
raving maniacs watching
the monitors (who can get
close enough otherwise):
I stand above the fray
watching my friend
make her way to the
pits of photography,
she disappears behind
the gate and I wait,
the party behind the
scenes is better theater
than the main whopper,
who knew a private
toilet would be such a
thrill, topping the bill
along with fresh water,
soft seats and some juice
for the press, I wonder
about my legs,
tucked underneath
wishing for the fresh
air of the sea, I admit the
rock scene is not for me,
I want to breathe
and smile,
wave at the folks,
be a human being
in the scheme of things,
for unlike here, lost
in the shuffle of humanity,
there is a place at
home where I am free!


©J.W.WINSLOW 9/1/11

Tell me which
you’re receiving
me on, is it quiet
and sultry, or
fuzzy and gone,
I’m trying my
best to live up
to the test:
long lasting
energy: the core
of the Human race
divided into Particles
that travel
time and space,
(kind of a miracle
when we come
face to face),
so I try to imagine
just how you see me
am I bold and inviting
on color TV,
does the smile that I
send become one
with you, or is it
some kind of
ridiculous blue,
you do understand
that I must take
your word, my life
could translate
as a feathery bird
take wing and resort
to any technique
to reach and delight
you, and hook up
the beat,
we really are one,
all of us who survive,
we must somehow
indicate being alive,
in a blur of synchronicity,
your duplicity
is certain, since
we are about
to open the curtain!


©J.W.WINSLOW 8/1/11

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
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

She lives alone
at the top of
the stairs
on that famous
street of one
thousand stares
and lounging
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
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
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

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

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
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
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

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…


©J.W.WINSLOW 3/1/11