Wintersmith Books

On this page I want to share with you some of my favorite poems.  I hope to update it often. I have two poetry books completed and am working on more. My style keeps changing, surprising myself. I hope you will take a look and enjoy! I will also include some of my photography related to the poems. Scroll down to see them all. All work copyrighted.

                     Turtle in the Dewy Grass

   Turtle in the Dewy Grass

One sunny early summer day

A box turtle wandered through my yard

As if upon an age old path

He knew with deep primordial knowing.

 He poked up his head to see if all was safe

Through grass quite dewy, green and high,

Then bumped along with his heavy load

Seeming quite sure of where he was going.

 To a swamp or stream somewhere nearby

I assume, where he might find a mate,

Just as his ancestors long before him,

Keeping the clan of turtles growing.

 Of course I had to interfere,

With this magnificent Eastern Box,

Lifting him up and taking some pictures,

Of Egyptian-like patterns on his underside showing,

 I soon set him down and wished him safe journey,

Through space and time in the world of turtles,

And watched till he headed far into the woods,

For soon this lawn would need a mowing.



                Sand

What happens to the heart

In bleeding shreds,

When all that once made sense

No longer stands?

 What happens to the heart

Sharp cut by unwise trust

Fibrillating

In abandonment?

 When security is found to be delusion,

And love a fleeting moment -

Built on sand.

 When nowhere can be found

A thread of gossamer to grasp,

Or drop of glue to hold you fast,

 No sacred cow to clear your path,

No mother’s breast,

No father’s scaffold,

No master guru’s wisdom,

 Yet,

 In one existential moment

When conformity and freedom vie for primacy,

One tiny seed of hope

May tip the balance

Toward the life force,

 And then the shattered heart will learn

To love free-falling;

To float in air, to walk on water,

          And to stand,

Strong, Alone,

On sand.

Apocalypse

Oil trains recklessly rush toward

faulty switches sending cars crashing

into towns built by the barons

on the backs of wage slaves

exploding into scorching infernos

with collateral damage in class warfare.

Planes soar screaming into the zone of eagles

carrying humans to revel in tropic isles

or bombs to destroy deemed  enemies.

Who can stop the apocalypse

when media serves opiate soma to zombie masses

blinding their eyes to what is too horrible to see?

If we are only right with God, we think--

perform our sacraments and obey the laws of ten

the final catastrophe will leave us among the elect

to remain in our well-deserved eternity of Eden.

Pity the pathetic souls imprisoned in poverty

struggling to sustain a simple life

of lunch pails, fruit loops and organic legumes,

while costs rise faster than Mississippi waters

and greedy demons in suits and ties

build fortified underground bunkers

locking up and hoarding the cures that belongs to all.

Those who have are so terrified to share

What was never theirs, so afraid of slipping

into the abyss of the have-nots, that

they climb ever skyward on the heads of babies,

the suffering of animals and the dying of trees;

and if any rowdy riff-raff begin to rise

they will be swiftly whack-a-moled

while sweet poisons of sugar, fats and arsenic

lace the bowls of so-called sustenance,

like elaborately disguised soylent green.

Radiation from Fukushima flows into the Pacific

While glaciers melt and poisoned oceans rise

high above the dying coral reefs, beaching yachts.

As mammon-worshipping CEO’s lobby for fracking

of our solid earth for oil to increase their piles of gold,

dolphins die in pods from unknown cause

and gulf shrimp mutate into giant alien-like arthropods.

Homo sapiens learn nothing from history

To keep us from speeding toward our own demise

faster than any crashing comet or natural ice age.

Nothing have we learned from the crusades,

the burning and torturing of witches,

the genocides, the holocaust,  and world wars;

Nothing  learned from Three-mile Island,

Chernobyl, or Fukushima. Nothing from agent orange.

The sinking poor pawn grandma’s bracelets,

trade food stamps and pills for cash and

sell their bodies for others’ ephemeral pleasures

just to keep breathing, condemned for their desperation.

Middle class robots, believing they are in the safe zone

mindlessly collect tiny teddy bears, baseball cards

and seek a full set of happy, dancing glass ballerinas,

as if to have the full set will create desired success.

Wealthy Big Apple women in million dollar jewels

dine on expensive wine and prime - steps away

from the subterranean homeless beneath their feet,

who sometimes crawl out, stinking of  rot and disease,

standing outside the restaurant begging for an ort.

But prime-rib and lobster, costing more than an average month’s groceries, are tossed in triple-locked garbage cans.

Try to claim your right to life—a piece of the pie,

and you will be locked away in prisons, bound to die

in bloody gang fights, or pushed away to the edge of the track

where subway trains recklessly rush toward nowhere.



   Lady’s Thumb

She crawls throughout the lily and iris beds,

Spreading sweet pink accents among the flower heads.

 Her clusters of tiny pink teardrop flowers.

Are awesome blossoms with subtle powers.

 Some call this delicate plant a “smart weed”,

Which, observing her skills, seems an apt name indeed.

 She is really quite clever invading the garden,

And most wise gardeners will not grant her pardon.

 But who am I to call this endearing plant a weed,

Tear it out and cause this lady’s thumb to bleed?

 The thumbprints on her slender leaves so fair,

Are tokens to remind us the lady was there.

 She’s a wonderful accent for the flower bouquet,

And I don’t have the heart to just toss her away.

                                                               -sws

 

              The Empty Barn

The Stanleys' barn is empty now.

The last hay rake was sold in May.

The Stanleys' daughter had an auction.

Everything got taken away.

So, no one's here and I can enter,

My shoes raise echoes from the floor,

And a few clouds of grain-filled dust,

Cold as the horseshoe above the door

The big old work horse, Nancy (that's her stall there)

Somewhere out of state was sent to stay

I hope there is some young country girl there

To feed her sugar…to hear her neigh

We used to love to climb into the hay loft

We'd go right up this ladder here

And hunt for Mrs. Stanley’s kittens

Then she'd give us ginger beer

I bet that frayed old rope swing still is hanging

I'd sure love to climb the ladder

The cows are gone; the people too

So I'm sure it wouldn't matter

The window of the second story

Looks out on the river.

Old barn, I pray you'll always stand,

But how your beams do shiver.

                       -sws

Gaia’s Tears

Gaia, with eyes that dripped with

tears of blood at the sight

of her beaten daughters

tired of Uranus, Pontus and Tartarus

tired of the Green Man

and the frivolous Pan

sought the company of Ares

to bring from her swollen belly

the golden Messiah

in hopes of bringing order to

evil maniacal chaos

through power and strength

with love and abundance

but centuries after the

raping scourge of the Huns

and uppity women were burned as witches

in the new world as in the old

for their threatening creativity

third world women are

mutilated, stoned and buried alive

children are sold as slaves

the oceans are warming

the air fills with poisons

the rainforests diminish

and the self-righteous plutocrats

self-proclaimed keepers of values

still wage war for gold and fire

condemning others for the laws they

privilege themselves to break

as patriarchy overshadows still

the feminine principle

and Gaia shakes and weeps



Weeding the garden

Early early

before the sun beats

mercilessly down

with its heat

I weed the veggie garden

in hopes of healthy organic food

on my plate at a later date.

The humidity is high and

mosquitos buzz in my ears

and bite my thigh.

I remember to thin the

little plants, so others can grow

though I hate to let any go.

Some are sacrificed for others

the green man knows.

That’s how it goes in time

and now already the cicadas sing

in their celebratory summer fling

and it’s time to retreat

from the brutal rays

of summer mid days.