The musician
never knows
the song
or the writer
the words
or the poet
the thought
the dream
that sinks
into the mind
of the listener,
on that cold
rainy night
or day of fear
when things
are brilliant
and love
is near,
in the most
private times
we turn to
the genius
of artists
in a fantasy
world, they
become our
when no one
else is around,
seeping into
the soul
looping in
the brain
the soundtrack
of our lives
words to live by
art to inspire,
they are skilled
ambitious, and
often for hire,
I wonder if
my admiration
is of any
when they
create the
rhythms of
the world,
probably not,
it’s about
the work,
the voice inside
the shining
of connection.


©J.W.WINSLOW 4/1/10

The tiny peanuts
contained in a
small gift bowl
needed a warming
after twenty five
hours in the air,
smashing about
in my suitcase
through the x-rays
and various scrutiny,
but they seemed to
be vital and tasty
after a turn in the
oven, rolling around
on my tongue,
a sandy tasting nut
from Africa,
unusual in size
and shape,
would it make
miniature peanut
butter for little
oh, now you’re being
silly, but yes
the Mindful Life
has been a suggested
title for the new
way of believing,
following each
thought through
to the finish,
slowing down long
enough to breathe
and smile,
and laugh out loud
while listening
to my own words
recorded in digital
fantasia and
accompanied by
the rock god of
all time,
how foolish I
would be to dream
of such a life
and yet I have
rearranged my
fastidious loggia
into a studio
for painting like
a madwoman,
it’s as if there
is not enough time
in the day to
express myself,
and I wander back
to the land of
giraffes and elephants
to find a center,
for they know
no boundaries,
these creatures of
the wild,
and that’s where
I’m headed,
a newly



©J.W.WINSLOW 3/1/10

A sunset trails
between the
trees as we
load up
to ride into
the bush,
the place
which houses
many local
stars of fashion,
some with tusks
and ivory,
some with stripes
and hoofs,
some with tall
necks and big eyes,
some with funny
names like
and then there
are the cheetah
who fly past
us, and the
monkeys that
play with our
heads as they
swing from
the trees,
our guide commands
attention by
shouting loudly
to stay in the
bus, but not us,
we squirm and
pitch back and
forth, cameras
clicking, eyes wide,
no place to hide
not that you would
want to,
it’s just too cool
for words, this camp
we return to,
lit with candles
and a feast for the
eyes and empty
bellies, drink for
the thirsty
laughter for
the hungry souls,
wedding plans
and silly jokes
while native
costumes are
presented to the
white guests,
perhaps we will
not be so very
obvious now,
but they don’t care
they love us anyway,
and what can you
say, but love you back
while the crocodiles
slither past in the
waters of Africa,
kings in the country
of the wild animals,
we watch in awe
singing as we depart,
disappearing into
the night.



©J.W.WINSLOW 2/1/10

Big Sur
lived up to
its reputation
beaming out
from under
a silky mist
that hung over
the coast,
upon the first
whiff of trees
and forest,
the mood
went to sunny
and stayed
perhaps what
they call
Chamber of
weather, but
around here
we call it
for the locals,
one of those
rare times
when nobody
else has the
same idea
of sneaking
away to play,
leaving clear
roads and
light hearts,
snapping snazzy
breathing in
that salty
air, while the
booming white
water blasts
the rocks with
spray so high
as to reach
the sky,
where else
on earth
is such glory
that feeds
the spirit
with mainline
forget about
success and
all that money
this is the real
the last thing
you might want
to do…
at the end.



©J.W.WINSLOW 1/1/10

I have landed
in the world
I wonder how
long I can stay,
it occurs to me
without a word
that this is
the only way
but why is
the path so
hard to find
why can’t I
simply open
my mind
whenever the
to merge
into the light
of fancy flight
that carries
me over the
and sparks
the creative
that started
this mind blowing
wild-ass game,
for today I feel
as if I could
and will
and might
and maybe should
do all those things
that seem unreal
when all it takes
is just the skill
to climb into the
wizard’s ship
and hold
on tight
for the
magical trip,
but you can
have it
either way
it’s really only
the price you pay
to just survive
or celebrate



©J.W.WINSLOW 12/1/09

Seychelle Ann Curry is the end of the line in our family, the only grandchild of my mother, the only child of my brother, and my beautiful loving niece. Given the circumstances of her life, being struck down on her 18th birthday, it is doubtful that she will fulfill the prophesy of her birth, but we will always pray for a miracle to bring her back to us.

Chelle was raised by my brother Chris as a single parent, and you will never find a more proud and loving father. My mother jumped in and vowed to help teach her all the things little girls should know. While Chris worked to support them, Chelle’s grandmother surrounded her with love and care, showing her the myriad of duties that include good manners, shopping, a respect for the beauty of nature and of course, baking cookies. She made my mother’s life complete.

Chelle and Chris visited me in Carmel on their vacations, crowding into my tiny cottage together and walking to the beach every day. Chelle loved the ocean and found a special place we called CHELLE’S COVE, where she built entire cities made of sand and squealed when the tide rolled in and covered her creations.

We taught her to be strong and smart, to respect others and give of herself, and evidence of this was never more clear than those first awful days in the hospital when she was barely alive. The waiting room was jammed with friends and parents and schoolmates, some that we had never even seen, but all were people who knew and loved Chelle. She was generous with herself and her belongings, collecting a group of vagabonds who became dear friends.

I will not say that I miss Chelle, because she is in my heart and soul every day. I look forward to seeing her, regardless of the fact that she cannot speak to me, because I know somewhere inside those big bright eyes, she is there. Her life will not be wasted because it was taken away from her, because we will honor and love her always. We will find a way to teach others about what we have learned, that the spirit lives forever, and you never give up. Never.

She is a fighter, and a winner and wonderful young woman who was taken from our lives in a way we will never forget. We are grateful for justice to be served in this case, and thankful for all those who have helped and guided our family in a time too difficult to describe.

When I think of Chelle, she will always be playing at CHELLE’S COVE, surrounded by the light and roar of the sea. I like to think she is there now.

J.W. Winslow

Glass walls sparkled
against the sun
blazing there
on the corner of
a famous square
in The City
as we entered
the ornate
old building
oozing grandeur
and charm,
the orderly
elegance of
very expensive
things set
the stage for
our destination:
the rounded
respite called
The Rotunda,
a place not to
be believed
a circle of
leather backed
seats and white linens,
waiters silently
filling the chilled
water glasses
sweating with dew,
we ordered something
wonderful, small
and perfect for
a tea room,
but more to soothe
the savage brow,
and settled in to
reminisce about
girls and their
mothers, shopping in
fancy places
like this,
once called
The City of Paris,
when it shone
like a
lighthouse with
the huge Christmas
Tree that graced
towering corner
windows, awesome
amazing and scary
for a young girl,
using those proper
manners and sitting
up straight,
we thought of this
while we ate the
scrumptious morsels
they call lunch,
lost in a world
long gone, watching
the throngs outside
having found
a place to hide
just for a moment
we reveled in the
past, making
new history
into memories.



©J.W.WINSLOW 10/1/09

I was supposed
to be working
but nobody came
I stood there
by tomes
of famous
and not, of
fiction and
slowly looked
the store was
bare and
no one was
there, on
the street
there were
no sounds,
it was as if
I was in a
magical place
filled with books
and more books
in every space
artfully arranged
cookbooks and
help books and
even Ayn Rand
as my eyes
found Steinbeck
and carefully
his terse hot
and mystic
I don’t know
where the
time went
for when I
the poet’s book
I was wildly
upon reading
his every word,
not like me
you say, but
you have not
heard the best
of things to come:
I found myself
simply mystified
my heart and
soul and life
untied and
given up in awe,
I could not really
believe what
I saw, the prose
of a master from
long ago,
written just maybe
a stone’s throw
away from the
door of the shop
where I read,
living and breathing
the rhymes that he
said, and when it was
time to say goodbye
pack up my goods
and wonder why
nobody came to
see me that day,
it seemed to be
the only way
for my seminal
I will never
be the same
and my poetry
has become
the game
of love,
of giving
and praising
the dove,
the flight
of fancy today
I have come
to write
and pray…
©J.W.WINSLOW 9/1/09
It’s famous for
a lot of things
the high rise
towers, the
churchbell rings
but truth be told
this summer day
there’s one big
thing they
NEVER say:
Jaywalkers rule
APPLE, bold
and quick
always snapping
up the slightest
chance to run
across against
the red and
steal a minute
in their stead,
while tourists
wait so patiently
it’s very simple
to perceive the
real Manhattanites:
they quickly
skip out
with flying feet
and suddenly take
flight from curb
to street,
they push between
the cars, and look
askance at the
rest of us
as though we
were from Mars,
so just remember
in your book
the guidelines
of New York:
watch for the
geniuses who
simply pop a
cork while
waiting for
the light to
change, they’re
to exchange a
minute for a
it’s called
the hustle
of getting there
without much
song and dance,
trust me when
I tell you this,
it won’t take long
for you to kiss those
mannerly goodbyes
and hop the train
to Jaywaker’s lane
and finally comply,
now you’ve become
one of them,
over and over
and over again 🙂

©J.W.WINSLOW 8/1/09

How do I say
the kind of joy that only
summer brings:
I cannot help
the wily pang
that sets my
heart to strings
the gentle touch
that wakens me
earlier than
the rising sun
the early run
of geese
who swoop
and soar,
there’s something
about a child
born into
this prime,
they seem
to dream
and play
and scheme
much more
than Christmas
yet with
all the grief
and harm
the world has
given us
that solstice
and we all
in wanton
summer lust,
just believing
roses come to
and every place
you look around
the light has
filled the room,
I await this day
every year
secretly wondering
if I’ll hear
the fabulous
and taste the
from the
seas, and smile
to catch it all,
it’s really just a
gift, a few sweet
a vibrant lift,
before we come
to Fall!

©J.W.WINSLOW 7/1/09