Stan Winarski

CONTACT:
Email: stanley.winarski@gmail.com

BIO:
Ex-Finance Director Stan Winarski of Germantown, WI, finally escaped the world of Excel formulas and cash flow projections in 2022, trading them for the deepening joy of writing poetry. Poems, sequestered for decades in his lower right-hand desk drawer, now seek release, mirroring his own emergence from the corporate labyrinth. Encouraged by trusted confidantes to share them, he embraces his role as a poet of contemplative paradox—exploring life's contradictions through verse.

Stan’s internal compass points Northwest to the Blue Hills of Rusk and Sawyer Counties where he has spent decades hiking, observing, and listening to the wisdom of the woods. Since retirement, he has been published in The Solitary Plover, The WFOP Calendar, Bramble with a forthcoming reading by Catherine Young, Landward, on WDRT radio and a forthcoming chapbook The Woods Trails and Tangents from Finishing Line Press.  He writes a weekly Substack titled Wrestling with Prayer; Prayers Between Faith and Frailty (wrestlingwithprayer.substack.com).

In addition to nature, his greatest sources of inspiration are night worrying and simple acts of living. When not reading or writing, Stan and his wife Mary Kay enjoy traveling, camping, hiking, and biking.  They live in Germantown, Wisconsin and have two adult children.

PUBLICATIONS:
The Woods Tangents (Finishing Line Press, 2025). Coming soon.

Poetry

Firefly

Late last night I sat in the dim solitude
Thumbs studying the contour of their mates
Eyes shifting from upper right to upper left and back
Seeking truth caught in a cobweb.

So often I believed that I had captured it
As a child catches a firefly
Holding its magic in my hand then placing it in a jar
Only to have it expire while I slept.

It is not esteem that I seek, or profit
But affirmation that my truth is true,
And as it twinkles in the dark
It will glow, still, in the morning.

The Smitten Scoundrel

You like your wine too sweet.
I like my wine too much.
I tremble when we meet.
You shiver at my touch.

Were I to sail the seas
You’d likely stay at home.
While steeping jasmine tea
And craft a lovely poem.

I often go out late,
And stagger in at dawn.
You’re always up by eight
With plans so neatly drawn.

A striking pair we’d make
So splendidly diverse.
The better path I’d take
But I might leave you worse.