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,
larger than
expected, but
very fine
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
TICKLE, after all.


©J.W.WINSLOW 1/1/11

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

Eve of a new
century, in
a sober state
of mind,
not what you
think, this
is good
not sad and
but a day
to look back
upon twenty
five years
of struggle,
the uphill
battle that
has finally
evened out
to a continuous
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
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,


©J.W.WINSLOW 11/1/10

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
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,


©J.W.WINSLOW 10/1/10

Somethin’ strange
goin’ on here:
been dragged
over the coals
and revived,
slapped up
and written down
till I’m barely Alive,
the sun and
moon are just
soaring in
the Heavens
as I hightail
it home,
scurrying away
from the
strangest days,
people mad
at me
and then not,
never really
sure about
the plot,
weaving in
and out of
a silly game
it’s all the
same old
same old,
Truth be
told, seeing
my brother’s
best Friends
was a hoot,
photos of me
as a tiny little
Bee, was I ever
that shy,
surrounded by
the big boys
of High School,
at my own party
they sit and
listen to me
read my book
and speak my
lines, smiling
at the proper
and correct moment,
the time warp
has made a full
circle, kindness
returns, in a rerun
the boss man is
nice after all,
now it’s my call!


©J.W.WINSLOW 9/1/10

Ya wonder where they
Came from,
Got their groove:
Listen up, hot
July day
EXILE smiling
From my mailbox
Jumping onto
The turntable
Sliding out
Of years ago
When they
Were so hot
And so young
Not afraid to
Try anything
Sure they
Could do it,
And the result
Is this nasty
Fabulous beat
Recorded in a
French basement,
Truly exiled
From Mother Brit,
They dig into
The blues, a very
Expensive garage
Band on the Riviera
High on life
And drugs
And local thugs
Who bring the
Color to the devil,
If you ever wondered
Why they are
Still around,
Listen up, kids:
Here are the seeds
Of great rock
And roll,
Smiling at you
From a new disc
And an ancient
Time steeped
In tight skinny
Pants and
Quick romance,
It was the way
Of the world,
They got it
Right, with a
Touch of sorrow
Plaintive in between
The beat, horns
Wailing, musty
Old walls reflect
The sounds of
The Stones,
Wishing they
Were home…

©J.W.WINSLOW 8/1/10

She wonders
why she is
still here,
climbing into bed
after a long
dinner with
her kids,
full of rancor
and silly puns,
scolding and
yarns about
the past, that
only we know
and understand,
while I tuck
her into bed,
she bemoans the
length of her stay
on this planet,
and why she has
endured so long,
while I smile
and tell her in
a very loud whisper
(she cannot hear
without her aids)
that she must
accept her life
these days,
given as a gift
because I have
no idea of the
answer: SHE IS
only God knows
when that
will end,
so until then,
watch the sunrise
and the moon,
breathe deeply
the flowers
of the garden
lush with summer,
eat with relish
and drink with
joy, and feel
your children
love you,
she nods and
closes her eyes:
She is ninety six!

©J.W.WINSLOW 7/1/10

Standing at
the curb
beside my bag
packed up and
ready for the
Big Apple shag,
planning to
Knock ‘em Dead,
but Instead:
they screwed me
rolling the wheels
this big fancy
no flight
to be had
no seats saved,
it was kind of sad
they lost me in
the shuffle,
a last minute
blow off
in quite a tussle,
the only option
was to fly another day,
or more to the point,
whatever that
it’s pretty lonely
in a taxi at Dawn,
returning to the
house where I belong
secured at any cost,
wondering exactly
what I’ve lost,
but my my
it’s good to be Home,
with the sun blazing
over the hills,
while a bird sits inside
on the window sill,
he arrived when
I opened the door
ready to swoop
around and explore,
so I sat and watched
this brand new day
come to bloom
in a wonderful
way, and thought
to myself
this is what
I’d have missed,
suffering through
the airport Tryst,
grinding, running,
squeezing into a seat,
trying my best To find
something to eat,
watching the miserable
traveling souls
waiting for something
beyond their control,
So guess what I
did with my
newly found play…
I took it to mean
I was meant to stay
And plant the new bulbs
my mother sent
and walk the Wild Road,
(My magnificent
And splendid
best friend)
you just never
Know how
these things
will end.

©J.W.WINSLOW 6/1/10

She came at me
from nowhere
slip sliding
easing into
the shore,
ramping up
from behind,
I was mistaken
when I thought
it was a game
and then the
second shot,
the one that
rushes from
under the first
loaded with
kelp and
hurling into
shore at
I was lost
in the glee
of the moment
it would be
OK to wait
stand still
let her swirl
around me,
But suddenly
I was down
covered by
cold white
foam and
launched into
the rocks of
the devil
pounding from
It was almost
over before
it began,
I cannot describe
the pain
the amazement
the sheer hell
of gasping
for breath,
the tide pulled
out and my
visitor with it,
leaving me
strangled in
seaweed, soaking
shocked that
it could happen
to me, the little
the walker
the lover of
the sea,
She had come
after me
with a vengeance
that betrayed
the tales
we have
heard forever:
Never underestimate





©J.W.WINSLOW 5/1/10

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