Category Archives: writer

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.

 

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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

 


The Glass Top Stove

I clean the house

When I feel helpless.

If I can just clean that little spot

I would have something.

And being able to do something,

Is meaningful

In a world filled with sorrow.

 

A glass top stove

So scorched and black

From months of neglect

Calls for attention.

I stand above it

wondering how it got so worn.

How my life has

Left me

Scorched and black?

Charred remains,

Remaining ever charred.

 

My hand moves clockwise

As I scrub counter-clockwise.

The end result is insignificant.

The scorchedness remains.

 

I wonder why she left

Without a word.

Her pain too strong,

For niceties,

For reconciliation.

 

The grey speckled

Surface of the stove

Peeks through

The darkness.

How many months will

This take to shine?

How many years did

the sorrow mount?

Quiet avoidance

Of simple connections.

Vigorous denials

Of ever increasing distance,

Obscuring even the smallest

Sign of affection.

 

I work an hour,

Then two.

The darkness remains.

The pain remains.

This will not go away

Like my darling girl,

My darling gentle girl.

 


Equinox 050718

Your sun-drenched smile has thawed my winter walls

Ice, so thick, no one could enter.

The dark cave where I have hid myself

From all others,

No matter their intentions,

No longer cloaks me in my sorrow.

 

You have done

Nothing but bring your warmth

Nothing but smile completely

Melting, melting lonely frost

Like the sun passing its vernal equinox

Calling Inanna from the underworld.

 

I know this spring

Cannot, will not last

But it’s call,

It’s warm winds

Gently lifts my hopes.

And demands emergence

From my winter worries.

 

As I stand exposed

Willing to risk the pain of connecting,

Of connections.

I hope for a fleeting moment,

Bathed in gentle breezes

And soft scented kisses.


K.K.

 

Tired of being alone.

Tired of sleeping alone.

Writing empty words

On cluttered pages.

I didn’t feel this way

A day ago.

But now I do.

Because of you.

 


And then again 041718

I look down the street at night

Forced perspective in grey scale.

Sharp lines slicing my field of vision

Like the pains of broken glass

Clinging to a misremembered past,

Dividing me from happiness.

The shards eager to slice

And the distance remains distant

And my contentment contentious.

 

I look up into the night sky

The stars reflect pale colors of

Rose, blue, and gold

Blackened forms streak above

Destroying the silent beauty

Of the moon’s soft call

The dark spirits eager to

tear my hopes like

tissue paper on empty floors.

Dropped in distraction, abstractions.

 

I think of you

And then again

My shattered world

Is a reflection

Of multitudes

And multitudes

Of reflections

Of my shattered world

And then again

I think of you.

 


Thoughts on Gun Control

Time to stop

 You tell us that it is too soon to talk about it.

That we shouldn’t make this political.

That now is the time for us to pray for the victims and their families.

When is a good time to talk about it?

When will a mother stop mourning for her child?

When will a son stop missing his parent?

When will a friend stop thinking of the life cut short?

I still think of the neighborhood boy who was shot in an accidental shooting.

That was fifty years ago.

I still think of John and Martin and Robert.

I still think of a friend who took his own life on Christmas eve.

That was twenty years ago.

I still think of the Charleston Nine who died at the hands of a white supremacist as they sat in church.

There will never be a better time to talk about it then now.

Let us give the mourners comfort in the fact that this will never happen again.

That might give them some comfort.

It won’t bring their loved one back.

But it will stop others from mourning other loved ones.