A questionable son
the one
who chose auto repair
and serial monogamy
finds the golden road
to Washington, D.C. respectability

What does his father do?
He buys him a briefcase

And everything followed
and flowed
from that mineral moment

A career
a wife, in time
a briefcase never used
but full of good wishes
murmurs
and marching orders

The road ahead
seemed wide open
stretching west
into a golden glow
and open it was
purged of hindrance
by the workings of time

So here am I
that golden road
now behind me

Life seems a sand castle
on a castle of sand
with the tide pouring in

It is that last ember
glowing as the fire
goes dark

Tomorrow and tomorrow
beckon from a fabled future
they bid me adieu

I can smell the scent
of decay in this
warm summer's wind
kiss the sweetness of it
on my lips

I do not part willingly
hold out my hand
for every shred of
summer's light

But at the end of it
pack my poor bag
and make a crow's march
home
where I belong

Mary Winslow Jul 17

Red window sheets of soft tempest
colored apple harvest

Its stem of spikes sundered from night
thus we know beauty’s flavoring
twines well with spite

What pulleys the earth makes to drag us in
what wrath the rose keeps in its stem
survives the flower in the eunuch years

When its thorn is green all winter
something sweet fortune and its God has not given beauty
this piercing common thread

When hollow of talent in an empty season
will prune you to show itself
forthright witch, bloody stalk wandering
growing vowels on their stems – o a rose! u a rose? – y a rose? –

Growing old under a sheet of hurt
widow, a clamp of shadows
starched heart and needle hearse
shows only the painful part of beauty
endures

©mary winslow 2017
  Jul 17 Mary Winslow
Jeff Stier

I'm an assassin
a man of murder
I will kill your memories
and place them
in the dustbin of time

Sweetness comes with sleep
memory is illusion
murder a thing of gripping hands
and gasping breath
the only thing real
is my hand
holding this pen
a dog's tongue
on my face

Summer has settled sweetly here
we enjoy the hours
take pleasure
in the taverns
and circuses of this life

Our merriment obscures
the steady progress of time
the creeping insecurity
of old age

But I say
let merriment prevail!

In the face of all these
bogus truths
I choose only
truth
a steely resolve
and what might yet prove
to be a vain hope
in eternity

Time tells its tale
and time will tell

I have no idea where this came from. I was talking to my daughter and the first stanza came out of our discussion. Who is this assassin?  No idea. My daughter is very tolerant of her dad.

Mum she is in the beginning,
Armed with a lot of patience,
Rhyming it with an elegant silence,
Yarn of poetry she is threading.

With all her immense patience,
In this wicked world she is happy,
Not worrying about anything,
She keeps her patience unharmed,
Leveraging her happiness on herself,
Of beautiful words she is a lady,
Wish her I do a lot of happiness.

My HP Poem #1619
©Atul Kaushal
Mary Winslow Jul 11

have the salt of stars
in their dreams
such lush screams

rusted wheels
grinding against
the rails
lungs hurl
out the mind’s claws
they fly by
thinning lozenges of protest
melting into the
deep, the best part of rage
beached leavings
seeping below
in sea bluster
Our struggle
of miles
scattered in
prayers
lifted away
by angels
they who know
how faith
falls
roaring
into the fog
those weighted cries
slowly thinning
vanishing
into the black keys
of crow cackles
that’s all that remains
after whistles scraping off the tearful
fall in processional lieder
dropping like pearls
in the distance

©mary winslow 2017 all right reserved. Another bird poem! I hope you enjoy it!!
  Jul 9 Mary Winslow
Liz Balise

(repost)

Perched motionless
Gleaming among the catkins of the oak—
with toy accordions for leaves

And a heron—watching
Neck pleated
Head resting in feathery shoulders
Sharp-eyed, beak brutal

Watching—
where below
that beer can, squashed and stabbed

...And did he see her?
by the naked window
Did he see the lace that bloomed?
No—fell
like spring’s full flakes
to coat the hills in white
for an hour at best in its cool damp?

Did he see?
the way her hair lapped
the spine and blade of back?
Bent the night—so darkly
red from black
as she pulled her blouse above her head?

And did he want!
the flesh of warm yellow lamplight
the smeared press of spit and sweat!

YES!

Squash and damn that beer can!
Sculpt your loneliness!
and stick it through
with any hard implement handy!
Grind your teeth on dumb regret

and damn yourself!

You know you don’t—love her?

Be jealous of her sheets, her springs, her sunsets!  
on their ways to frost and moonlit sleep
turning forsythia of day
to fuzzy falls of glitter-gray
spilling down thick hips
of the river’s dungeon banks
so steeped in heat
to the dizzy roar that follows....

Be jealous of the River!
who always goes to her
when you will not...

And if—you really loved
I mean—loved!
who you saw...
you would have seen
the tired tears—roll than linger—Years
forsake their bones
defy the need for sleep
Defy everything!

Except—
the moon’s cloister...an owl’s call

And if you had loved her
you would have made the distance!
crossed the lawn!
skipped stairs!
Fought the Night of Time!
taken her porch like a champion!
Heart pounding near—the door down!

And if you had really loved
who you had seen

I MEAN—LOVED HER!

You would have—
You would have done—

ANYTHING!

Because I feel like it....
written 1988
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