Category Archives: writer

Article on A.F. Winter

In the Summerville Journal Scene, my local paper.

It also may be the reason why I should never give interviews!

Please click on the link below.

Article


dead words 02/2020

dead words on a page

 

i liked them so much better

when they were in my mind.

they danced, they jumped

they changed

as i tried to get them right.

 

They begged me to write them down,

But when I did,

They were empty, ugly, and dead,

Frozen in time and space,

In an effort to be validated.

 


afraid

 

I’m not afraid of dying

Because there’s no one in my life

I’m afraid of losing.

 

 

 


or since you

there were moments of pure happiness

that I experienced with you

that I experienced with no other

before you

or since you

 

but you made me angry

and you made me sad

and I felt loneliness

even while holding your hand

and I never felt that way

before you

or since you

 

now there is emptiness

a hole in my whole

and whatever I do

it’s never complete

because you are missing from my life

 

people talk of soul mates

I don’t know if they exist

but I never thought

that life was so precious

before you

or since you

 

 

 


Love is like Christmas 11/16/16

Love is like Christmas

The smell of freshly

Baked ginger cookies

From grandma’s kitchen

The brightly lit homes

Filled with welcomes welcome

The beautifully decorated tree

Holding gently

Memories of a lifetime,

Ornaments passed from

Generation to generation,

From friend to friend.

 

I walk down the quiet street,

Listening to the holiday parties

The laughter,

The stories

Of good times past

And memories of good friends passed.

Their lives continue

In the retelling of traditions

And of recipes recreated.

 

I walk down the happy street

Where tomorrow morning

Children will rise,

Jumping on their parent’s bed

Gleefully yelling,

Santa was here, Santa was here!

The living room will soon be filled with

Mountains of discarded wrapping paper and

The laughter of children

As they investigate the warranties of their gifts.

 

I stop outside my home.

The darkened rooms.

There is no smell of cookies.

No tree with brightly

Wrapped presents beneath.

 

Love is like Christmas for me.

Never had it, never will.

And the expectation every year,

Of what Santa will bring,

Of what love will bring,

Makes my home a prison,

Sentenced to my gloomy rooms,

Waiting for release.

I walk away from my prison cell

To a darker corner of my town.

 

Mrs. Wilson’s husband passed.

It is the first Christmas without him.

Their only son died in Vietnam

So very long ago.

She sits alone with a scrapbook,

And smiles with tears in her eyes.

 

Mr. Paneer’s wife left him,

Along with the kids.

She always trimmed the tree.

He didn’t buy one this year.

He wouldn’t, he couldn’t.

He drinks another round while

Looking into the empty corner.

 

Mr. Murry died last fall.

His house is dark.

A For Sale sign sits out front.

And that is all that is left of Mr. Murry.

 

I stopped.

A light snow falling down,

Seemed to glisten in the streetlight’s glow.

Dancing, dancing,

Slowly falling.

I held my hand out.

A snowflake landed in my palm

A moment before melting.

Love is like Christmas,

Like Christmas indeed.

 

From Sleeping With Macbeth By A.F. Winter


the old man

He sat by the side of the road.

“Come in old man where it is safe!”

“I’ll stay right here,” he said.

“No matter which side wins,

I will soon be forgotten.”

 

Remember when the old lived long enough to become a burden?

Lived long enough to outlive their usefulness to society?

 


Words part 2

I used to know what love is.

But now I count my steps

And watch my calories.

God only gives us,

what we can handle.