Winfield's Poetry Corner

Animus

2009-01-08T07:09:00.000-05:00

I want to inflict
a pain that
is life
long.

if not for sanity,
the malice I harbor
would allow my death
simply
to spite
the woman
who holds my love

for the way she
leaves me emotionally impotent,
I would make it
so she would never
forget.

my passing would be heroic…
like saving her life,
pushing her
from out of in front of a bus.

or suicide,
to always make her wonder.

My Father's Watch

2008-10-18T20:06:00.001-04:00

I have only seen him wear it once,
The day of Papa's funeral

A dulled gold watch,
Kept atop his chest of drawers
In one of his weathered wooden boxes,
Buried
Under ancient receipts, credit cards
And childhood pictures of his children

We stood,
Me and him,
Silent
In his room

He showed it to me right before he put it on

As he first clasped that weary watch to his wrist,
My hero began to deteriorate

Tears in his eyes,
He looked at his last son
Not even yet a man

Three came before me
And none had received it

None had received my father's watch,
As he had
From Papa

Because none of us cared for him
As he had for his father

Lost Friends

2008-10-14T18:01:00.001-04:00

The elasticity of us
Was unparalleled, we thought.
Holding a bond, strong
Enough to endure the detailed illustrations of
This life.
But the distance
Between us
Serrated our synthetic amity and it bleeds me
Dry, like...
Like...

Like how we came to pretend
Coffee and a hug
Every now and then
Kind of, sort of makes
Us
Into friends

But who, in your world, could I play
In a reoccurring role?
Syringing my faux feelings to make your heart beat or risk
Myself,
My true nature exposed

Who could I
Really
Be...
In relation to your Stimpy?
Put plain,
Are we not broken,
Pleasantries feigned?
Ultimately, ending as ends, estranged,
In a relationship of convenience
A Ren only temporarily, simply.
Yet, we’ve come to pretend
That a phone call every three months
Kind of, sort of
Makes "us"
Into "friends"

And there has been
Far too many to count,
But they know
Who they are.
Ghosts from my past.
Lost friends,
All could be
Blamed for life moving too
Fast

For the taste of realism,
Bitter yet distinct, leaves
Nostalgia of our old habits to ferment,
Fester, stink.
I swear,
We knew each other.
The long chill of once familiarity
Sweeps through like old memories
Of an empty house.
It seems that so many are lost
In the shuffle
Of one’s own doubt

But, here we are,
Spaced by infinity.
Connected by adventure, tedium,
Horrors, to make us cringe.
Childhood secrets left in the chrysalis of adolescence
Forgotten as women and men.
Somehow does that kind of,
Sort of,
Make us,
Into friends?

Summer Sunrise in Williamstown

2008-10-10T15:41:00.000-04:00

The world is quiet.

And darkly dimmed

As 'Prelude to Sunrise' crescendos,

Sheep Hill trembles with life

Early morning's mist beads on the cheek

Of every leaf,

Trailing down the cleavage

To the tips,

Swelling,

Teardrops hanging from every lash,

Weeping at creation's beauty

And like I know this place,

This place knows me with bittersweet fondness.

A chilled warmth,

Like a summer sunrise in Williamstown

First light fuses past the horizon,

Blushing burnt oranges, placid yellows and self-deprecating reds

Over my purple mountains majesty

And with the sun,

My heart also rises, filling to engorgement

Aching in my chest

Shadows trickle into the valleys,

Casting across the clearings,

New light breaking, just before Cold Springs

The Village Beautiful, take a deep breath

Savor your chilled warmth

And shiver in devotion