Best Winslow Poems
John Winslow Homer
Was known to be a roamer
After painting The Fox Hunt
He put down his brush
And moved to Oklahoma
Oh hearken the struggle, life's gossamer threads,
The delicate sway of hope ...
Framed by churning white of Lord Neptune's might,
Faith dangles a slender rope.
Wan maiden, her savior, and a scarlet shawl,
Battered by surf and gale ...
Yet our faceless hero and his capable arms,
As sure as the damsel, frail.
Mostly monochromatic, all its tones of gray,
Save for the kerchief, red ...
While turbulent struggles around them rage on,
We center that shawl instead.
We see not the others who attend the line,
But imagine them nonetheless ...
The artist connects them with the lanyard, strong,
And so intimates their distress.
The distinctive edges and leaf-like waves
Are peculiar to Winslow's style ...
As are the rare stories his paintings tell,
That enamor us, and beguile.
While he traveled afar and painted it all,
And was a celebrated roamer ...
He loved my home state of Maine the best,
And so truly was a HOMER.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Celebration of Art Poetry Contest", Kim Rodrigues, Judge & Sponsor.
3-10-2012 Wind blows outside of Winslow
I was gone alright ,The sun was down,the moon was full,
I was kinda blue just walking down the road,
The tiredness completely took my soul,
That is how it is every time I walk through Winslow,
The valleys deep and the hilltops high,
With each step I feel at home,sitting down-sleep won’t be long,
Tomorrow I’ll be thinking a different song,with any luck I’ll be long gone,
But every year I find myself walking along,on the outside if Winslow .
Two men walk down a dusty street
in Winslow, Arizona.
One places small white crosses
at the curb and recites names
while the other bears witness:
"Juan Fernando Lopez”
“Presente!”
“Maria Anna Ramos”
“Presente!”
“Jose Angel Fernandez”
“Presente!”
“Restos mortales” (Mortal remains)
“Presente!”
This continues until
that day’s accounting
of bodies found in the desert
is complete.
The Witch of Winslow Street
In West Saint John, no fortune sprang.
But greatness graced the Blue Rock Gang.
As Carleton rascals, David Goss
And Bobby Alexander launched
A secret goal that made them itch,
To see which woman was a witch.
So, mischief was their middle name,
And witches were their call to fame.
There was a place they used to play,
An old abandoned Chevrolet.
From trunk to back seat, they would steal
And plop behind the steering wheel.
Then, they’d pretend to leave the weeds
And squeal the tires at breakneck speeds.
But, always wary for a witch,
Sometimes they’d end up in a ditch.
It was their dream, to try and guess
Which harpy was a sorceress.
It was the toughest job in town,
No cackle, cape, or cone-shaped crown.
But just a weary, worn-out belle
Who squeezed out through the gates of hell,
Attired in a ragged robe,
And sent to their part of the globe.
There was a house on Winslow Street,
A place where witches came to meet,
Where vines grew right up to the stoop,
Amusement for the Blue Rock troupe.
They’d fall back in the bouncy bush
That sprung them back out on their tush.
And from an upstairs windowpane,
A witch was watching her domain.
One night the boys came home from Scouts,
And stopped to check their playground out.
When suddenly they picked up Dave,
Their trait to always misbehave.
They threw him way back in the plant.
Like tentacles, it grabbed his pants.
He couldn’t move! His legs were seized!
The witch was looking very pleased.
An incantation on her lips,
And bony fingers on her hips,
The conjuration barely sent
And David’s legs were like cement!
He tried and tried to free his feet
But vines had tied him up so neat.
His friends, too scared to help him out,
All they would do was point and shout:
“She’s on her way! Get out of there!
She’s coming down the parlour stairs!”
With all his strength, Dave mobilized
Right there before the witch’s eyes.
He ran so fast he passed his chums.
His knees were sore. His feet were numb.
And overhead, beneath the moon,
The witch was riding on her broom.
***