Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
DREAM POEM I see you in my dreams you are wearing a silk scarf your smile hovers over me like a hummingbird you are standing at a public square in Mexico the women are selling pottery the men drinking wine Continue reading Dream Poem by A.D. Winans
POEM FOR THOSE WHO DANCE ON THE GRAVES OF THE DEAD Hey Jack The Poetry Flash Finally gave you Some space Even if you had To die for it They used your name In the same sentence as genius Funny Continue reading Poem for those who dance on the graves of the dead by A.D. Winans
BLOOD MOON BLUES Strange this trip back in time Not with flesh and blood But in disguise of words The muscles the cells changing Dying and yet somehow surviving Traveling through a warped time tunnel Through an origin you cannot Continue reading Blood Moon Blues by A.D. Winans
Poem For An Unknown Soldier Now just a fading memory on a blood drenched beach in Normandy flies buzz around you a sand crab feasts on an open wound Eighteen to young to drink but old enough to die faded Continue reading Poem For An Unknown Soldier by A.D. Winans
UNDER THE LIGHT OF A FULL MOON born at home premature under the light of a full moon I walked the jungles of Panama fed off Beat Mania in the streets of North Beach Shaman poets sang in my ears Continue reading Under The Light Of A Full Moon by A.D. Winans
Terry Clarke | Photo by Kate Clarke listen to Terry Clarke | Folsom Prison Poem | lyrics by A.D. Winans I was introduced to the work of A.D Winans by our mutual friend, the New York based, Russian poet Aleksey Continue reading a.d. winans | terry clarke | for aleksey dayen
Cowboy Poet, Kell Robertson, Outside Vesuvio’s Bar, North Beach, San Francisco, 2001, Copyright: A.D. Winans I’m listening to Kell Robertson sing When You Come Down Off The Mountain. His voice sounds like his throat has been sandblasted raw, gravel over Continue reading todd moore | pure blood primal: the poetry of kell robertson