Will you
make love to me
on this cold
and rainy day,
play with
my heart
tear me apart
take my breath
it’s one of
those times
when I’m
hungry for you
more often
than not
much overdue,
I’ve tried other
sung other songs
but somehow
I know this
is where I belong,
maybe it’s all
because you
are here,
so close
and so natural
as if to appear
as a pony in flight
hot and so ready
firing into the night
hang tough and steady,
we talk about
nothing, we have
no regrets,
so personally, Baby
that’s the best
thing yet,
no strings or rings
no ties that bind
nothing to fear
or left behind,
just a spark of
sticking to thee
come here and
love me,
and let us be free. 

©J.W.WINSLOW 12/1/12

As always,
it is the surprise
the uncertain
that knocks me
off my feet,
and so the grand
reveal of a new
book, the brilliant
cover art,
the pristine pages
the words appearing
as if by magic
when I know
exactly what
is coming next,
a birth without
but with pages
of a tale
wrapped in love
and fantasy,
the wiles of
the world and
sadness of time,
danger and
death, it’s
all there,
the picture
of a fantasy
come true
shining from
the presses,
still wet,
like a newborn
not quite
ready to handle,
but admire
all you wish,
for soon enough
you will be
out into the world
and we all know
after that, it’s
anyone’s guess,
the sweet smell
of success lies in
the first page
dedicated to


©J.W.WINSLOW 11/1/12

Sweet sweet
Girl, you are
In the depths
of despair
the lines
of black crows
surround the
airborne stain
it is the past
coming back
to bite your
tender behind,
over and
over, the same
pain, no gain
the ravages
of early days
the power plays
only by moments
of détente,
the infant voice
becomes a mother
calling out
to come home
be good,
don’t be like me
do what I say
not what I do,
how much is
that worth
to you,
find a path
out of the
maze, it’s
choking your
so cut
the losses
there is still
time to make
your mark,
leave the world
with the joy
that evades
your face,
erase the anger
and replace it
with a
wince, since
that is all you
can provide,
trust me
the place to
hide is in the
no living there
but here
we are, waiting
for an embrace,
the beautiful
face that
once graced us,
think and
come home,
be born again
at fifty,
better than one,
any time!


©J.W.WINSLOW 10/1/12

You wonder
as you observe
The Platinum
about who
owns those
vehicles, the
shiny fine
old Delahaye
smooth and sleek
as the guests
peek behind
the curtains
of the folks
who live in
this famous
place, where
the race to
be rich is
hardly evident,
not necessary
nor contrary
we have our
own entertainment
perhaps a Ferrari
or two
included in the
zoo, along with
a fine Dusenberg
several wild boar
heads and some
lynx and tiger skins,
do you imagine
that we are eating
the brains of young
calves, and drinking
the water of the kings
while we watch
the springs of a
Testarossa bounce
the pot holes
of great golf
courses, where
are the horses,
but secretly
(and if you
look quickly)
there will be
a slip of a face,
over the fence,
gardening gloves
raucus tunes
local goons
who happen to
have landed
in the realm
of dreams,
converged upon
by ladies in
long white gowns
and wallets full
of cash,
we know it
won’t last,
and soon the
fog will envelope
us for another
smiling that
others might
envy the
Forest, the best
part of this
place is the
Wild Road
on a Monday
naked of
any four
wheeled vehicles
and maybe one
or two falcons,


©J.W.WINSLOW 9/1/12

In the space
of your desire
I find a most
fabulous feeling,
an awakening
long buried,
way down
under there,
gone for
so long,
afraid, yes
I was
now I can
admit to that
there is no
other way
to say it,
I put myself
out to pasture
cut off those
which would
make me
feel anything
to your loving,
and now you
have faced
me down
with your
style and
sexy moves,
tender holding
in the night,
no words can
describe the
seed you have
it is more like
the pounding of
blood, a thirst
for remembering
how good it
is to be cherished,
I will relent
with these
words and
when it happens
you know,
and I know
we connect
in that place
where miracles
it is not
too late
to feel or
reach out
and touch
read your lips,
engulf us
in the waves
of dawn,
come along…


©J.W.WINSLOW 8/1/12

It was a ruse
in his
blatant way,
we had business
to do
(or so he would say)
and I have
how clever he
is at finding
his first
intention is
to roll fast
and hard,
find those
places like
an old graveyard
seamy dank
buildings and
pastures of green
anything goes
sight unseen,
for today was
the abstract
the country
the true facts
the writing on
the wall,
we cruised his
home town
and I almost
in disbelief:
where was the
the horses
the wheat,
instead we
buzzed buildings
high as the sky
giant fortresses
my oh my,
I was dumbstruck
by all that
has morphed in
the race, where
the Cowboy
is gone
and in his place
is a giant Mall
from outer space,
street after street
door after door
sign after sign
do you want more
or is it a lesson,
this trip that we
took, the short
snappy drive
for a break and
a look,
he revels in
showing how
far it has gone,
nothing is left
of where he
belongs, maybe
one trestle
one bridge
one old tower,
buried under
the glittery
shower: they
all look the same
these places
we saw, cut out
from magical
if you don’t
believe me
look for yourself
but be prepared
to safeguard your
health, the
newest, biggest
thing you might
see is the recent
lack of
our history!


©J.W.WINSLOW 7/1/12

It is a wild and
lonely heart
that hands off
the pages,
wrapped neatly
and placed in
an expensive bag,
the priceless work
has many hours
of sweat embedded,
toil and anguish,
laughter and
ritual of recall,
all of it there
between the lines
of a story that
has taken on
such a life
of its own,
you query me
over and over,
from where
did this come,
and after a year
of digging through
the remains of
my history,
my mother
my father
I must say
that the seed
of any tale
must begin
here, inside
given like
a gene,
the memories
taken from
birth, what
are they worth
but to pass
on in romantic
the secrets from
long ago have
been revealed
by chance
and I sift
through the
rubble of
my existence,
the marshmallows
and the lemons, so
to speak,
and while I weep
at times,
for the most
part it is
a fabulous
the burst of
a tender shoot
meant to grow,
And in so doing,
scales the wall
of the outer world
where you all
I forgive…


©J.W.WINSLOW 6/1/12

I dreamed today
of a famous song
and a place that
shares that piece,
and I was up
there singing
with flavor
and release,
while down
in front were
all my friends
and enemies
as well,
never sure
just who they
are, it’s always
hard to tell,
and sitting
there beside me
the guitar
was the master
of my fate,
coming from
afar, he held
the neck and
slid his long
fingers down
the strings, very
much in tune
with me
and the song
I chose to sing,
So there we
were in harmony,
to embrace
the sounds
of Four and Twenty
with sensual
sweet grace,
I soared into
the heavens
just above
the Song,
and he
was soaring
with me,
right where
we belong:
hand in hand
heart to heart
joined together
with our art!


©J.W.WINSLOW 5/1/12

It comes together
like a dream,
the words on the page
are filled with
streams of descriptive
passages written
by someone else,
how could this story
have come
from myself,
it seems to describe
an Alien nation
a thriller in time,
a wild sensation
with sensual
passion and cool
edgy Fashion and
men making
movies, this world
is so groovy…
I wish I was there,
riding the waves
without a care,
page after page
the highs and lows
discovering my mind
many moons ago,
the pace of life
Unravels with
such sleek Device,
you can’t think twice
or look afraid
in agony for the
mistakes you’ve made,
when the lines
are printed
within the book
the world halts
when you take
a look,
(while you consider
suicide, or perhaps
withdrawing the
Wild Ride)
but that
with me,
it’s a vital part
of the mystery!


©J.W.WINSLOW 3/1/12

We have a new
story from the
old glory, reciting
scenes from
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
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
is to remind
us how far
we have come,
without strangling
those smarty
who love to
prance in
while the
rest of us
slide in the
other direction!


©J.W.WINSLOW 2/1/12