Don Winslow

The ripple swells, a wave is building.
I wait, standing in the warm ocean.
I feel the energy nearing me— growing, bulging
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With every Biopsy, a part of me dies,
A part of my body, a part of my spirit,
Like a rock beaten down by the constant drip-drip of water,
Slowly, surely, wearing, gnawing.
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Last year’s garden was bleak,
A few annuals were all she could do,
Mammograms and Mastectomies, Radiation and Reconstruction,
They took up most of her time.
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He sat at the head of the Thanksgiving Day table,
Head down, staring at-nothing.
Words of conversation slipping and sliding past him,
He heard not the sounds, he heeded not the words.
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Shells, broken shells- everywhere,
On boardwalks, parking lots, crunching, crackling underfoot!
Poor Mercenaria Mercenaria, what happened to you?
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I stand on a barren, ravaged, plain of pain
Isolated on this tortured mesa of malignancy.
Here, far from the world of normalcy
I search for a place of solace, a place of consolation.
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One is shiny, the other is dull.
One is streamlined and smooth, the other is blunt and chunky.
Their names tell all—Silversides and Mummichog, aristocrat and commoner.
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Why was I writing my 1961 thesis on the Antoine Equation when I could have been writing poetry like my 2005, “What is Love”?
Because I didn’t know that this Caterpillar could fly.

Why was I writing a 1975 Patent Application on “Novel Copolymers” when I could have been writing poetry like my 2006, “Why is the Rhyme so Sublime”?
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In my soul there is a room, a poetry room,
And in that room there is a crystal goblet.
The goblet listens to every word of yours that I read,
And it waits, and it waits, and it waits.
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I count, I love to count, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop counting.

In 1982 I counted 3,594 clams our family dug out of Barnegat Bay from July to September.
In 1998 I counted 7 Flounder,60 Herring,170 Striped Bass,11 Weakfish,20 Shad,49 Croakers, and 19 Bluefish I caught off the Route 50 Bridge.
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I found my inner peace in St. Margaret’s Church,
Repeating the names of Saints, ending with “Pray for us”.
My mind quiets and contemplates.
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Why am I here?
Is there some purpose to this life I lead?
It may not change anything, but it would be nice to know.
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I hugged someone today, and I thought of you.
It’s been 19 years, but I still thought of you.
Men don’t hug men, but we did, we always did.
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Do Doctors take Compassion 101?
Are they taught how to treat us with kindness?
Can Considerate Cancer Care be instilled from without?
Compassion must come from somewhere, but where?
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No goals, no expectations.
Whatever is, is.
For now- just Be.
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Six of us sat in a circle
Talking about David, with David.

Too much radiation, more and more chemo,
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1950, New Years Day
The doorbell rings, a policeman at the door-
Your father is dead
My Mother is screaming, crying.
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