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Jun 2016 · 478
Ode to Rapture
Sean Winslow Jun 2016
You are the bastion of mercy;
my armor I adorn
I shall know you as serenity
As silence in the storm.
Jun 2016 · 620
A Story of Two Words
Sean Winslow Jun 2016
Naves Relictis
The ships were leaving.
Feb 2016 · 541
Time/Forged
Sean Winslow Feb 2016
Love, as it happens,
Is not not declared by a thunders strike
But suggested on a whisper

Nor is it bound in its possession
but through those thimbled sips
And parting glances
as you head toward the door
Jun 2015 · 488
The grain of Faith
Sean Winslow Jun 2015
Salt. Salt dosed with a hint of peach and hickory
or a cool wind just after Twilight.

A woman lost, spoke from the side street: "What of faith
(even those tagged on the walls of alleys or along abandoned houses)
when the hold of softened hands
are drawn apart as they inevitably are?“

Respond:
But what of the guarded lust of parted lovers
Or the peace of a Sunday waking?
the whispers of things as they tremble by
are the quintessential sip
that faith could only envy.
Still drafting but constructive criticism encouraged.
Sean Winslow May 2015
Be there life after death
I shall look for you there
If not, then there too
Quoted from James Corey's Calinbans War
May 2015 · 455
Haiku #6
Sean Winslow May 2015
An autumn whisper
is the sleepy cicada
of a season lost
Jul 2014 · 645
Yield and Forget (25 W)
Sean Winslow Jul 2014
Our histories words all but lost
like tender garden yield to frost
so fallow, feign your fettered fear
that surer stalks can pierce the air.
Stand and present
Sean Winslow Jul 2014
Princess of the Tiny Snails
breaks bread with the Lotus and the Shrub.
It is said by some
that she entered the world as a Tigerlilly
and was, by force of will alone, made flesh;
others say she plucks diamonds from raindrops
and places them like dew to leaf at sunrise
such that the earth itself shimmers at her passing.

Princess of the Tigerlilly skin
breathes the thunder from nimbus
her whisper a rolling blur
and shouts are as nova
like the old Gods defied
Draft: to be edited
Copyright ©2010-2014 Sean Winslow All Rights Reserved

This best characterized in the silencing of a crickets song
or the ripples of the despot cosmic

Princess of the Silenced Song
.....
Apr 2014 · 1.0k
Phobos
Sean Winslow Apr 2014
There must be respite in the ebon quake
lids like nightling moths,
fluttered above the littered fields
barren but for the ebb and tide of moonlight
thick as milk.
Feeble grip shakes loose
tossed down below a carbon root
took hold,
a heart in repose
as it would to the sounds
of thunder.
try not to panic
Copyright ©2010-2014 Sean Winslow All Rights Reserved
Feb 2014 · 1.0k
The Casting Drift
Sean Winslow Feb 2014
On some northern, coastal bay
there is fallen dock
it does not have a name
or appear on any map
save for one
sitting in a bygone gas station
collapsed along a stretch of route 6
This dock, without name,
is often seen
as bundled driftwood
favored neither by the 'gulls nor crane
It is even lazily avoided by fish,
swept by in their eternal procession
toward the sea
It seems as though dock's descent
was a gradual but certain thing
like the bathing of stiff, aged limbs,
perhaps drawn down
by calloused barnacles
grown too thick
But would that this nameless drift
could speak,
it may recount the weight of bearing
some life aloft to cast forth
with the knowledge that
it may not return to shore.
Providence found at the passing of parenthood.  
Copyright ©2010-2016 Sean Winslow All Rights Reserved
Dec 2012 · 2.4k
Mono No Aware
Sean Winslow Dec 2012
Forgotten are our pleas
to temper the dawn
So that even as the night lays silent
there are echoes,
a rhythmic thrum of time
Carried forth are the quiet souls of man
from the ebbing shores born of passing moments
toward the twilight of the flickering flame.
And land ye yet to those moors of shadow,
that evanescence of the living breath,
take heart!
For on its banks grow the roots of the Bodhi
whose branches bore the seeds for the Garden,
and its leaves are as shelter for the Spark.
Thus we bear the gaze of the boatman,
the cloak'd Moirai who guides the clocks,
as it is best to take the lilting petals
upon the tongue
and savor.
Constructive criticism encouraged.
Copyright ©2010-2016 Sean Winslow All Rights Reserved
Aug 2012 · 1.2k
Concilium Quietem Mensibus
Sean Winslow Aug 2012
I remember you my ageless,
unyielding friend...

You come in the night
all dead leaves and limbo
resting between my chest-plate
and spine.
You are the quiet messiah
who turns blood into sap
and frees humanity from reason
by preaching the solemn sermons from the Lowly Book
I know you precede the Rust
of the limbs and of the trunk
as certain as entropy

So, then, I should also know of your leaving,
where I imagine cupped and ***** hands
will part my teeth
pluck and plant them between my ribs
to sprout ivory tangles that capture the starlight,
etched with the names and faces of those that I have loved
rooting me to the earth
in a place without time
in a world without you
Copyright ©2010-2013 Sean Winslow All Rights Reserved
Sean Winslow May 2010
I am in wonder
of the softness in the rise and fall of your cry
growing melodic through fever
then firestorm symphony
Crescendo!
An unstoppable force
Taking everything
just as certainly as you are
Becoming everything.

In receding  rhythms
our echoing atoms do not so much fade
than shimmer, a resounding hum
until settled shapes in its aftermath
Are we.
Copyright ©2010-2013 Sean Winslow All Rights Reserved
May 2010 · 5.7k
Sunrise
Sean Winslow May 2010
In our bed she lay
Tangled, sprawled, and filled with grace
Talking in her sleep
“Wind chimes sang
for your waking breath”
She whispers,
“soft and warm like fresh picked innocence
It gets so quiet these days”
The bedside photos said nothing
But they listened and remembered
a time when the sunrise seemed weightless
Now, though, in a room left deserted
she struggles
under the growing gravity
Of Dawn.
Copyright ©2010-2013 Sean Winslow All Rights Reserved
May 2010 · 612
Haiku #1
Sean Winslow May 2010
With measured grace
the dusk burns through blue atmosphere
to cool as lucent ash
Copyright ©2010-2013 Sean Winslow All Rights Reserved
May 2010 · 575
Haiku #3
Sean Winslow May 2010
Sleep claimed eyes
a tapestry of one thousand
small adventures
A haiku within a hairs breath
Copyright ©2010-2013 Sean Winslow All Rights Reserved
Sean Winslow May 2010
I thought to those hands that draw my strings
why do ghosts only haunt the living?
Fear slithers down from the stains on my ceiling
coiling thickly around my throat
dripping fetid sweat
from the tips of its' fangs

“To Spur You To Run”

so down the darkened hallways and
out to the *****
downtown streets I flew
skittering fitfully between the alleys
for risk of being seen
before slipping into that same empty bar
great bartend, ferry me from the whispering docks
ducking onto that same crooked confessional
oh holy bartend save us, your sons, we fallen fiends
where I am promptly handed
my glass of Sorrow
deliver us from evil
atop a napkin wrote with print

“All The Better To Drown You With”

it seems I have forgotten
if this sip or the last
was bitter or sweet
but it burns my eyes
cracks my ribs
thickens the air
and in the moment I see that face
out beyond the foamy waves
that shore upon the dregs
oh hallowed face of Judgement,  
it seems blackened ivy has taken root
around your eyes

"Redemption's Pyre is Fueled by the Slow-Burn of Midnight Oil"

every block that I stumble by
drips pooling
orange streetlight onto the sidewalk
which wetted feet find liquor slick
and thus put nose to grindstone, idiom or no
I hear the quiet Fury
when you fall down far enough
when your ears are planted to the earth
addressing me curtly
burning up through the asphalt
stretching and ripping beneath my fingers
she lifts me screaming from the gutters

"To Hell With Forgiveness"

I find none other than Passion
standing under a spotlight
on the next street corner
always dreamed of becoming a star 
 you burned out far below the heavens of the hollywood highrise
she beckons me over with knowing gestures
and still wound up center stage

“I Am Cheap and Love is Dead
Buried With All The Other Fairy Tales”
to which I respond
“We Must Make Due.”

she came and left swiftly,
departing with the last of the warmth
in this empty room
her candles doused in gasoline
burn half as long but twice as bright
after which I rose and went to my window
and listened to the chirps of Melancholy
singing of sin.
New and Improved
Copyright ©2010-2013 Sean Winslow All Rights Reserved
May 2010 · 1.0k
Worm
Sean Winslow May 2010
We feel it.
The low tenor and shimmering soprano
it fills us with a teasing rhythm

Unbearable

Amidst the warmth of a shallow breeze
we dance
Kindled by a glimmer of fading fire
we writhe

With intent we make our way
from our warm bed in the grass
to climb together to alpine heights
nestled where we can best reach
The edge, the rim through which gods create
that dark abyss which sustains us

With an abrupt rush, we are lifted and consumed
There, the briefest glimmer of sparkling white
and we fall,
pushed by muscular cadence
Plunge. Float...
And finally pulled
Here we move,
Rostellum pierce the pitch
Then feverishly,
Happily
We rook our God
I intend this piece to be open to interpretation. This initially grew from an attempt to go beyond my comfort zone. I was provided key words that must be used to get credit for the assignment. From this I imagined that the reader would take the perspective of (one or many) tapeworm grub on their (its) journey (one I had imagined to be more a sacred pilgrimage) to a host in the hopes of being consumed.

Copyright ©2010-2013 Sean Winslow All Rights Reserved
Sean Winslow May 2010
The warm vapor of saturated streets
rise and give chase
While she
(a fading glow of plastic cups
and shady basements)
whispers street names
and grins...breathes
“peddle faster”

Gliding on the thickening wisps
of crushed coffee beans and damp asphalt
We rush to fill this empty house
with the fumbled hush of
clothes and carpet,
Showering the floor in lightning strikes
Until we
(a searing flash of static burst
and fireworks.)
no longer whisper
Crying out through open windows
Our dictum of passions
which run thick through the cracks in the sidewalk
and fast through the arms of the trees
to stroke the highest of their leafy tips
and flee.

And in that careful, breathless morning
there is nothing but the moments before and after
to stand as proof
that the brush of ridges and valleys
on our finger tips
Are not the illusion of dream
but tangible, feathered things
Tracing the seams of those quiet places,
both unspoken and unseen.
First attempt at a spoken word piece.


Copyright ©2010-2013 Sean Winslow All Rights Reserved

— The End —