RC deWinter
RC deWinter’s poetry is anthologized in several collections, notably Uno: A Poetry Anthology (Verian Thomas, 2002), New York City Haiku (NY Times, 2017), Castabout Literature (Dantoin/Hilgart, 6/2019), widely in print, notably 2River, borrowed solace, Genre Urban Arts, In Parentheses, Night Picnic Journal, Southword, and appears in numerous online literary journals and has been nominated for two 2019 Pushcart Prizes.
decoding
no matter the hour
the heart illuminates what lives
between light and shadow
save your hapless words
there is no hiding there
eyes tell more than words
voices more than eyes
but not in words
the truth lives in the tone
the timbre
the tremble
when the depths of pain and joy denial and desire are plumbed
brought to light wriggling naked helpless as a newcomer to life
still smeared with the saltsea’s waxy kiss
i will not remember what you said
but how you said it
what shone from your eyes
how your lips twitched as you felt what you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel
since you ripened
a stalk of wheat in summer’s sun
i do not fear your examination
my life’s an open book
but only if you can read between the lines
with your eyes
with your ears
with your heart
Ablution
The memory of almost-scalding water baptizes me with its melody;
the shower is one of my favorite but little-visited refuges from the noise of nonsense.
I leave my skin unwashed for two days, three, sometimes more.
This gives me an excuse for extended indulgence.
The shower is one of my favorite but little-visited refuges from the noise of nonsense.
I’m waxed with the accretions of many days and nights.
This gives me an excuse for extended indulgence;
I need not defend the time spent there.
I’m waxed with the accretions of many days and nights,
hot passion unspent; the one for whom it’s meant unavailable.
I need not defend the time spent there,
in the bed of imagination, where the impossible becomes my reality.
Hot passion unspent, the one for whom it’s meant unavailable,
I leave my skin unwashed for two days, three, sometimes more.
In the bed of imagination, where the impossible becomes my reality,
the memory of almost-scalding water baptizes me with its melody.
Sheila-Na-Gig online 