John Winston

Twenty years after the fact
You lie scattered God-knows-where
And we remember, vaguely,
An initiation of adolescence.

In the days before assuming legend
The simplicity of the message
Harbored no fundamental implications
The instruments sounding only
A paleontological, primal beat;

Celebrity fueled the untapped resources
In a curious reversal of the
Oft-repeated patterns
And we were [yeah] so happy
In that dazzling decade of diamonds and revolvers

Beneath the veneer of the clever cuts
Lay the clownish poet of a
Construed generation
[baffled at the adulation from inspired imaginations who reveled in the sensations of the fruits of an aberration]
The crystallization set in.
The icon lost sight of the man.

Until…but who cares?
Neither you or the others
Should ever have been followed
Till death do us part.
Rather, remain the gist of a daydream –
Fantastic, delusive, a lark.

Dramatis Personae [Thames]

The soothing summer of the river
And the raisin-colored sun-dried leaves
Drown in the sea, await no more, and die.
We lie, we do, and death surrounds
While the botched-up sky pronounces us
Alive, watching the water, we lie.

I think of those who rode
These royal waters to settle
Matters with God and King

{It must not have seemed so}
{Frightening then, or so deep}

And the sky was clear
With the now-gone purity
Of a sun-drenched time

When conscience was will
And belief attained.

We lie (we do) and the birds of generations
Fly, with hardly a care;

M.B., FL.

The skim-milk faces
Passively endure the ravages of sun
[Jolly happy pain; the pub will never be the same]
A child screams an important yell
As a first creation crumbles under
A cacophony of waves

The holy mecca of meandering mensches
Assimilates the foreign element
Intruders on the sacrosanct sands
Of a seclusion peaceful
Whiling away the fortunate hours
On the shores of a savory land

Songs of the current nostalgia
Blaze in the seafood air
[Sky-floating bubble of iron welcomes you]
Skins, hotter than carrots
Droop in the summery indolence
Of the southern vein

Oh M.B., the idle drone of
Sybaritic existence is your life-force
Drawing your strength from that which
Is most barren in tone
Postcards do more than justice;
The glory — it’s all yours, alone.