Category Archives: author

I Could

When I think of all the time

I spent alone

Because of you,

I can kick myself.

 

Time I spent thinking

You would come back to me.

You would see the error of your ways.

You would trust me

And forgive yourself.

 

But you didn’t.

And never will.

You have moved on

Not dealing with the pain

Of the past

But moving on to

A different metaphorical future

In a different literal location.

 

When I think of all the time

I have wasted in vain hope,

Thinking that something about me

Was worth the effort,

I could scream.

 

This one is all on me.

I couldn’t let go of

Your head resting on my shoulder,

A whisper telling me to go but begging me to stay,

The forever question in a darkened room.

 

I couldn’t let go

Long after it was gone

Couldn’t, can’t, won’t

Long after we were done

When I think of all the time

I have wasted,

I could laugh

If only, I could laugh.

 

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The red wheelbarrow

With apologies to W.C.W.

Sitting in a corner,

Long neglected

And rarely visited.

The metal wheel

Rusted red

The color of the cold hard clay

It rests upon.

Fire truck red slats

Now faded and peeling

In the summer’s sun.

Weeds grow tall around it

And embrace the barrow

Like the mother and child.

 

Once the gardener had hope

For this place,

And this wheelbarrow

Was her instrument of change.

Dreaming of moving

Her flower creations

To match her whimsy

Painting masterworks

With sprouting petals.

 

What happened to your dreams?

Your pretty plans?

They belong to another time

When hope sprang in this wild place

Like dew covered blossoms

Rejoicing in the morning’s sun.

Now she sits inside,

And drinks her wine,

Dreaming of another time.

 


Slipping 04/13/19

She slipped away

With the dying of the day

Facing east

Sun in the west

Darkness rising

From the ocean

Before her.

 

She felt peace and comfort.

Strange

Because all she ever wanted

Was excitement.

A tormented soul

No longer tormented

By demons of her own

Creation

And others who found

An empty shell

Where happiness

Once resided.

 

She was happy once

Way back before the

Needles,

And alcohol,

And depression.

 

So far away

And long ago.

Barely remembered

Until the slipping started.

Sitting under the

Japanese Maple

Listening to the birds

Feeling love

And safety

In that house

On Laurel Lane.

 

 


Let It Go

There’s nothing to say.

What could you say?

So why say it?

Let it go.

 

A note from long ago.

Unanswered.

The writer waiting

For a response.

 

It’s all just words,

Just bluster.

Words, words, words

Written on the wind

Washed away with the rain.

Swirling down the drain.

Let it           go.

 

Breathe.

Let silence

Wash over you.

Through you.

Beyond you.

Let it

Go.


Sliver Moon 011019

I was walking my dog

Late last night.

It was cold and clear.

I was in a hurry being

Tired and wanting

The comfort of my bed.

 

It was then I saw her.

Old Mrs. Mulvaney.

Standing on her porch,

Holding on to the bannister,

To steady herself in the frigid air,

Looking at the moon.

 

It was just a sliver of a moon.

A thin smile

Cheshire cat like

With secrets to tell,

If you would share some of your own.

 

Mrs. Mulvaney had shared,

With the moon and the man she loved

For over fifty years.

He had left her long ago,

To make a place for her in heaven.

And now he waited for her,

Quietly, patiently.

She was not ready to go

But she missed him.

 

So she looked to the moon

Like she did with her husband

And thought of the happy times,

Small moments of joy

Which filled her heart,

So full, that there was no room

For sadness.

 

My dog stopped to look at her

For a moment

And so I stopped as well

For a moment.

And I thought

As I continued on my way,

If only someone, someday

Would look at the moon,

And think of me.

 


Sleeping With Macbeth

Just out, my latest book of poetry, Sleeping With Macbeth.

Ernest Hemingway once said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” There is a lot of blood in this book. There is blood from where we are as a society. There is blood from the courage we all need to get out of bed every morning. and the compromises we must make. And there is blood that has leaked out from our broken hearts.

I was never the kind of writer to cover up the pain with pretty phrases. I hope there is some eloquence here, but not at the expense of honesty. Subjects explored in Sleeping With Macbeth are life, love, writing, Ireland, holidays, and people. This book documents my struggle during a very dark period and the desire to begin again, not with another love, but with life.

Available at my website, http://www.afwinter.com, or on Amazon,

https://www.amazon.com/Sleeping-Macbeth-F-Winter/dp/1974316831/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1545597129&sr=1-2&keywords=sleeping+with+macbeth

 


Life Continues

Life continues after the music ceases.

You stand unsure

Of which direction to turn

All paths seem sadly familiar

A solitary violinist

Playing something

Vaguely recognizable

On a busy city’s street.

 

And life continues, after the music ceases.

The actor sits alone facing

The dressing room mirror

After the final curtain

The actors have left

The audience has left

But he remains

Unwilling or unable

To let go

Of the joy he felt

Under brightly beaming stagelights.

 

And life continues, after the music ceases.

With or without you

The moments pass

No longer intriguing

A crumpled smile

In silence.