IN THE BOTTOM OF MY BAG

The wind blows cold
and whips the frosted breath
across my frozen cheeks.
I stand abreast my steel railed chariot

beneath the Northern Lights,
I listen to the sound of the
antlered behemoths pounding
a rhythm that drives my determination.

Midnight.
My trek begins,
rising to heights that until now were
unreachable. Unfathomable.

The wind no longer burns my face.
It soothes and comforts and fills my heart
with this love I have known my entire life.
With each bound I leave the desire

of all below. Rapid as night
my chore is ventured.
From village to town to city.
Each stop is a step closer

to my final destination.
For deep in the bottom of my bag
is a wisp of a frozen sigh.
It bears the name of you.

I slide down with my treasure in hand,
tip-toeing across the floor
to the side of your bed.
I warm the wisp with

the hotness of my breath.
I place it on your forehead.
The warmth of a breath,
a wisp of a sigh.

A kiss from a love so true
brought to you on this Christmas.
I am filled with the joy of the season.
My bag is empty, my journey is done. I am Santa Claus.

CHRISTMAS LIGHTS

Blinking, twinkling.
Red, yellow, blue.
Green and white,
all night, bright.
Beacons of light
in a mid-December
snowfall. Offering
a brilliance not seen
since early fall.
Silently accenting
vignettes of serenity.
A Christmas amenity
strung and hung,
eclectic and electric.
Blinking, twinkling.
Red, yellow, blue.
Green and white,
all night, bright.
Christmas lights.

DON'T YOU REMEMBER?

It snowed that day don't you remember?
It was a Monday in December.
I picked you up a half past three,
you were waiting by that maple tree.
The wind was blowing rather strong,
and I had you waiting far too long.
You thought you should have stayed in bed,
but came out in that cold instead.
We had some dinner, we saw a show,
and we made some angels in the snow.
I drove you home to get some rest
and offered to rub Vicks on your chest.
We finally got there after nine,
you said you had a real good time.
We chatted briefly while it snowed
and listened to the radio.
The announcer broke in with some news,
And a shroud of sadness covered you.
Don't you remember how you cried
that night we heard John Lennon died?

REMEMBERING LENNON

Remembering thirty years ago when a legend was silenced:

MEAN MR. MUSTARD

I ruled the world, you see,
and then the world ruled me.

A singing jester, a bloody fool;
one of those lads from Liverpool.

We came to America, land of the free,
our music grew, but it stifled me.

My choice of partners made a stir,
and the world had come to ravage her.

But we made a home and found our place,
without all that screaming in our face,

to settle into a life of seclusion,
and perpetrated this fantastic illusion.

So a glad house husband I became
while Yoko worked to make a name.

And I, a Beatle, husband, dad,
was happy in the life I had.

But music, still my love and passion,
had lured me in a rhythmic fashion,

to feed this "Double Fantasy"
and brought the world right back to me.

But, a yellow bastard made his name
by stealing someone else's fame.

Mark my words David, he was a mean chap man,
crouching there with a steady hand,

I sang that, "Happiness Is a Warm Gun"
"Mr. Lennon?" bang-bang, shoot, shoot. I was bloody done.

YOU WOULD THINK I'D LEARN

I keep coming back.
In spite of myself at times
penning my rhymes in the night
right up until the early hours,
hopping in for a shower
and heading off to work.
Sometimes berserk; a jerk
of outrageous fortune,
torturing my muse to
respond with something new.
Evey day in April,
every day in November.
And every day in between,
I have developed a keen
poetic sense, relieving
tension, and not to mention
expressing, in a non-oppressive way.
You would think I'd have learned.

TELL ME WHY YOU BELIEVE

                                                                                                       I
                                                                                                   have
                                                                                               done this
                                                                                         for many years.
                                                                               Tell me why I’ve never
                                                                             noticed before. Why is it
                                                                    even the naughty ones get nice
             at                                                this time of year? I don’t mind, since
           it                                             means they want to get on my good side.
        Tell                            me why that is? I understand that every child, woman
     and                             man, don’t always believe in me, but I can see the good-
    ness in                      every person. I really do know. It’s a talent passed down
       from                       generations of Clauses. A telepathy maybe, or a knack. A
         crick in my back, or a tingle in my fingers. It lingers throughout the year
            and I hear a voice in my head that fills me instead with a compassion.
              I fasten my belt and get down to business. And my business has al-
               ways been Christmas. On the Eve of my big day, the elves load all
   of                                     the                                 gifts
  in                                       to                                   this
 sl                                         ei                                    gh.
  Then it’s up, up and away. Tell me why you still believe? I am Santa!!!!!

STEPPING OUT

Out of the darkness

where you’ve hidden your muse

in the shadowy thicket, bringing

it into the bright daylight.

No matter how you fight

to keep your ideas fresh and new,

your view had been used; your vantage point

has been abused. So, you slant

your rant in a slightly twisted way,

bringing forth a new version of the things you say.

Breathing a sigh of relieved contentment,

you discard resentment and go through the paces,

filling the empty spaces with bits of your wit

and finally getting “it”. One foot after the other,

Brother. You’re back in business.

You’re stepping out. Welcome home,

you’ve emerged a better man for it.

APPROACHING WINDS (A Sestinal Cascade)

The winds of change blow; they come and go,
everything in its wake is subject to an upheaval.
The retrieval of all usurped is best left for when the winds die;
unsuccessful tries will be your score until the winds are no more.
Ride out the storm, keep yourself warm, with visions of better times ahead,
there’s nothing with which to concern yourself.

Your one charge is you. Yourself.
From the day you were born, you were always on the go.
Not sure where you were headed, but it was full steam ahead,
causing your ruckus; an unspoken upheaval
that gave you a hunger for even more.
The retrieval of all usurped is best left for when the winds die.

On the day you will have died,
will people speak as highly of you, as you refused to do of yourself?
Or, will they shake their heads and lament your potential to do more?
Take your acclaim as you go,
and continue your poetic pyrotechnics despite the expected upheaval.
Ride out the storm, keep yourself warm, with visions of better times ahead.

Express yourself with more aplomb; show you are more than a heart and a head.
Carry through with worded wisdom, whether you stand and fight, or quietly die.
No one will blame you for the casualties of your upheaval,
for in the end, your passion will make them better poets, in spite of yourself.
Leave them to embrace you, or to scratch their heads as they go.
Unsuccessful tries will be your score until the winds are no more.

And if you just happen to leave them wanting more,
then get out of bed, because once again, it is full steam ahead.
The direction we all choose determines how we will go,
for life is to be savored, despite its labor, until we die.
Don’t live in delusion, you’ll find you need them as much as you deny yourself.
Everything in its wake is subject to an upheaval.

So, take up your armor daily, determined to up heave all
that tries to force your hand. Take a stand. Give them more!
You’ll find the confidence that has eluded. Treat yourself
to the accolades of which you are most deserving, and ahead
of all else, ride out the storm until the day you die.
The winds of change blow; they come and go.

As the prevailing winds go, the only obstacle to their upheaval
dies in the face of a strong will and words of a more direct nature.
Forget the nomenclature. Forge ahead. There’s nothing with which to concern yourself.

UNTIL MY HEART BEATS

Until my heart beats again, I will wait,
and remain the victim of my fate.
Without a sense of hopelessness, I find
enough reasons to keep you on my mind,
thoughts of you to which I can relate.

A distant love to languish at the gate
between despair and life we celebrate,
compassion of a good and gentle kind
until my heart beats.

The chasm, although wide, is not so great
to leave me standing near the ledge of hate,
for feelings so destructive will unwind
the love of life it took so long to find.
I will remain this victim of my fate
until my heart beats.

BEFORE THE STORM

How strangely still
the water is today.
Calm and tranquil, strangely still.

Clouds upon the horizon,
harbingers of things to come;
clouds obliterate the sun.

The air is cold; it chills,
winds stirring through the clearing.
Winds of change do not thrill.

How strangely still
the water is today.
Peaceful thoughts; I get my fill.

And then the clouds converge,
driven by gusts of icy breath;
a nasty dose of a late season surge.

Before the storm, it seemed quite warm.
How strangely still
the water was today. Such a rapid decay!


** Inspired by "Sea Calm", by Langston Hughes

MIST IN THE SHADOW OF NIGHT

A howl of wind calls,
beckoning all the ghoulish apparitions
from their anguished slumber.
The stumbling lumber of death reborn.

These mystic silhouettes;
shadows of a past long forgotten,
rise like a fog that masquerades as thoughts.
Legend and folklore are dismissed as folly.

Lunar illumination; moon beams
shrouded in mystery. Their sordid history
brings a chill, as fright displaces your resolve.
Blood marks the place where death resides.
 
Your hunger burns and you crave
the nectar of a once beating heart.
But, as life departs, the pangs stab
bringing you one step closer to the soil.
 

LEFT IN SILENCE

I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.
But, my mat remains
pristine and untried.
I strain to hear any noise
that I might construe as a voice.
Such familiarity would soothe
a soul time worn and exasperated,
but those I seek have left
only a residue silence that
assures to smother my thoughts.
I ought to shake the cobwebs
from the rafters of this mired mind.
Yet, I find that memory is nothing
but a smoldering ember
languishing to rekindle into a pyre
of poetic preponderance;
a reminiscence that placates
the love that lingers still.
A finger pressed to lips
that long for passion's kiss,
secures the void on which
my thoughts have relied.
The silence inside deafens.

**Without straying anywhere near Middle Earth, “I Sit and Think” by JRR Tolkien, sparks my muse this day.

MY SUSTAINING MUSE

O'muse forgive me.
You were always there,
like light, like air.

When thoughts reveal

all that I feel, you provide

a voice for the words I choose.

Never failing, sending these

words kites sailing; soaring

into the atmosphere for all to hear.

I take you for granted here, o'muse

sometimes, and at times I abandon

my sensibilities when you give me

the ability to paint life onto a blank page

as if some sage had possessed me.

But, I owe all I am to what drives me.

A pursuit of poetic perfection,

a direction that joins us; a marriage.

Like melody and lyric, this empiric

connection is God-sent, meant

to express all that you suggest.

So muse, forgive me.
For all you share,
my light, my air. 

**Inspired by "Farewell and Thanksgiving" by Mark van Doren

THE SHAWL

A shawl; a shroud.

Crocheted in hues

of black and crimson yarns,

the winsome tatter across her shoulders.

A gift perhaps,

or a remnant left at her disposal.

No offer or proposal, just a spinster maybe,

or a not-so-gay divorcee. She wouldn’t say.

Her silence is her voice; her stare, vacant and dead.

Around her head, a babushka cinched tightly

beneath her chin, a lofty noose without a victim.

The window opens the world to her disinterest,

at best, she has random flashes of its existence.

She clutches the cozy covering closer to her,

a sanctuary of sort. A harbored port

in this station of her life. Once someone’s wife

she remembers. Or she doesn’t. It matters not.

People did not find their comfort in her company.

Hers was offered in chastisement and vitriol.

This decrepit soul lost in the warmth of her frigidity.

It’s a pity. She does not remember that she was evil.
But, she knows that she feels cold.

**A nod to my heritage, from Polish poet Anna Swirszczynska’s “She Does Not Remember”.

MY HEART SLEEPS

May your whispers be softer
than a leaf of grass,
and nestle effortlessly
into my tired ear. No fear
graces this night,
and gentle ruminations
from your breathed sighs
calm my emotions.
You have nursed and nurtured,
faint murmurs of your tenderness
find me as I seek a safe
and wanted nesting place;
my ear pressed to your chest,
connected to your pulse and rhythm.
Comfort presented at your breast,
a sanctuary that my heart defends.
And in the end, your shared peace
gives my heart rest. A most blessed slumber.

**In celebration of the Chilean Miner Miracle, today I have chosen Chilean poet,

Gabriela Mistral from her work, “The Sad Mother”.

LYRIC WATER REJOICES AT SEASIDE

The happy dead are in its voice.

Majestic Poet! Might I be as full of song.
Melodies of seafarers past

haunt each true and measured step.

Lilting, ever-lifting; a gift

from the weary mariner to Neptune’s ear.

Accompanied in breath and beat,

symphonic sound of a lunar baton.

Maestro of the night, unwavering.

Building to crescendo, euphonic.

Tympani, cacophonous crash;

an introduction to the score

so written. And hidden within

languishes its familiar song,

lyrical expressions of heart and soul,

left to wash away traces of the moment.

Never ending refrain, sing again!

**Derived from “On Seeing A Train Start For the Seaside” by English poet, Norman Rowland Gale

AT THE ZOO

Cramped quarters, and crowded to overflow,

you never know how these things are planned.

As it would stand, the animals had little say.

It was sad and upsetting in a way,

that the keepers made the choices and

those without voices had little to say.

The variety of the species was intriguing,

in a league all their own, over-blown

in scope, and that left little to say.

Everyday, the wild ones were forced into domesticity,

a simplicity to those cracking the whip. The zookeeper

fond of rum indeed, due to breeding and nothing constructive to say.

Four young lions, strong in spirit and vision,

but always in division over their birth right

and wrong as it sounded, they had little to say.

Gazelles, graceful and girlish, flanked the habitat,

concerned with this and that, did strive to survive the onslaught,

but, they ought to have been allowed more to say.

When it was feeding time “at the zoo”, the milieu

benefited the fittest, as we crowded around the dinner table.

You could label us as you wish, but each dish had something to say.

Life in “the zoo” offered sanctuary, with nary a worry,

for family gave you more than we “beasts” expected.

We were well protected, and that said it all.

KNOW, THEY DO!

At the turn to the straight
where the favourites fail
the steeds, brave and strong,
run at a length and a tail.
The competition drives them,
roan and pitch hued behemoths alike
stretching and straining,
at the far turn as dust is strewn,
none the worse for their training.
Eyes wide and full in stride,
the gallop sounds of tympani,
and jockeys slight and wiry,
abreast the beast in harmony;
a oneness in their trek.
Crowded grandstands cheer,
while the purists fear their wagers
will offer no return but despair.
And in the paddock, comrades
stir them onward, whinny and neigh,
well on the way to a victory for one.
Off and running at the sound of a gun,
only to cross the line; photo finish.
A nose gets the win, and an equine grin.


**Inspired by “Do They Know?” by Australian poet, Banjo Paterson

NINE MINUTES

You come and stay for hours,
amidst the psychedelic flowers
and impossible scenarios.
Running past streets and barrios
with Joses and Marios, looking
for solace in a nightful of frightful
turns and plot twists. You've wished you
can finish a complete thought,
but your REM cycle keeps running out of gas.
In the foggy distance, a wail.
It never fails just when you get
to the good part you have to depart,
trying to restart every nine minutes
until your snooze alarm comes back to call.

STEPPING OUT OF PLEASANTVILLE

Beyond the bland, you venture.
Your adventure follows no norm,
trying to stay warm, but black and white
leaves you cold. It makes you feel old,
a vintage version of the you you know.
But, life is full of flavor, not meant
to be lacking the living it gives.
Lives are to be livid; vivid in scope
and spectrum. Color permeates you.
For flesh and blood looks better
the redder we are. Our palettes bloom.

LIFTING THE VEIL

Clouds converge, a conglomeration

of confusion and doubt. Out of reasons

for all that deceives and perplexes;

vexing me with the hazy illusion of life.

Rife with the desire to think in complete

thoughts; it ought to be easy for one

who chooses to use his muse to express.
And yes, the persistence of my mind

gives me the urge to shed this shroud

and shout out loud to all that will listen.

Thankfully, when you lift the veil, you find clarity.

It is a rarity that you seldom see. A vision

meant to stimulate you and allows you to emulate

nature's narcissistic nudge, inspired and confident.

The view obscured by the muted curtain is brighter for certain,

and your thoughts drape gracefully like a technicolor tapestry.

**Writer's Island - Prompt #24 "Envision"

THE EMERGENT SEA

A lone sailor; stargazer
and navigator, set adrift
in a calm and tranquil waterway.
The day is overcast,
and above the mast his banner flies.
Gentle ripples coaxed by
the lake's nautical breath.
The call of the gulls is garish,
nearly nightmarish in their persistence.
An insistence that they be taken
seriously. Deliriously, he tacks,
feeling the wind, aroused and rancorous,
a cantankerous caterwaul at the fall of day.
Waves awash; a wild wake churning,
a yearning to manipulate the canvas
that spurs his vessel on. He is tossed,
a lost soul in a sea of doubt. Shouts
for assistance go unheard; not a word.
He signals a frantic S.O.S.; a message
for salvation. For the duration of the torrent,
the Ol' Salt is battered and splattered against
the ebony night. Despite the norm,
this perfect storm is destructive,
counter-productive to the life
of a cast-away stargazer; navigator.
A lone sailor, gone.

FROST WARNING

Signs of the season
an early arrival
girding your loins
for the winter survival
calls for a dip
a thermal inversion
wrapped up for comfort
from this autumnal perversion
gray murky skies
winds whip and whir
rainy disruptions
the foliage stirs
pull in your pumpkin
keep it warm at all cost
the weather guy calls
for a thick killing frost

A CHILLED WIND

Morning breaks,

moistened by the evening coolness.

Misty fingers meander

across the grassy knoll, touching

every blade of grass in tender caress. 

A slumbering sun lumbers over the horizon,

rising to prominence by degrees.

The wind wafts over the spreading green,

a scene witnessed time and again.

Summer breathes its last gasping breath,

a cough and a wheeze in a cold autumn breeze,

and an expiration expected, but sadly endured.

Autumn falls.

 

CHAMPION ANGLER (MASTER BAITER)

He walks by night
flashlight at the ready,
he holds it steady
to keep his prey at bay.
Creepily, he slinks; fisher by day,
and by the way, he’s good at his craft.
You’d have to be daft
to walk in the shadows
of the dark moist night,

they’re right under foot
as night owls hoot, and they scoot.
Creepily, they slink, earthbound
and round, for now off the hook.
But as the day breaks
he’s got what it takes,
and anglers, they wait;
they always take the bait.
Just the earthworms he’s chosen.
Two bucks for a dozen.

THE FISHERMAN

Afloat.

On life’s lake languid,

lost in contemplative moments

of nature’s whispers and the ripple

stirred by each minuscule motion.

No nibble besets his anticipation,

but visions of a soul dancing freely

upon every sun glinted wave,

show the change inherent in each

breath of a restless and longing heart.

Nothing else matters. A bad day fishing

Is the best good day life offers.

The line stretches taut as

serenity soars. A fisherman,

lost in the moment.

Afloat.

IN THE SPOTLIGHT

All the heat of a million suns
baking; no mistaking your influence.
For in the confluence of words,
the only thing heard is the sound
of a heart beating, greeting the stares
and glares with a clear head
and a passionate fire. It has been your desire,
to progress in talent and scope,
a sincere hope that success comes
with all the trimmings. Skimming your heart,
stepping out of your comfort zone, alone.
Taking your place on stage finally,
tempering your sanity and fighting
off your critics not ready to release you.
It pleases you that they hold you tightly,
but rightly, you have more stages to grace
in search of your rightful place.
Taking the world by storm and being warm.
In the spotlight, never let them see you sweat.

BASEBALL DREAMS

‎                                                  

"The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It's been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. ...this game, is a part of our past. It reminds us of all that once was good, and it could be again. Ohhhhhhhh, people will come, Ray. People will most definitely come." 

~Terrence Mann (James Earl Jones) from "Field of Dreams"

Just a game.

A thread in the fabric

of Americana; ranks with

Mom's apple pie,

Dad's Chevrolet.

But we'd play for hours.

Breaking windows,

crushing flowers.

On youth's field,

yielding the promise

of a future bright.

In the light of Doubleday,

we'd play. No visions 

of Cooperstown or

World Series heroics,

just a stoic jaunt through

a dirt infield. Days past,

and present futures strong,

I long for the days to play.

We built our dreams on

that field. If you build it,

dreams will come.
And they did.

                                                                                                                     Photo by Walt Wojtanik

WOODLAWN BEACH

On Erie's shore
just south of Buffalo;
in the shadow of Bethlehem Steel,
Woodlawn Beach languishes.
Sand strewn with drift wood,
seaweed interwoven between
seashells and toes; rocky layers
stubbing and protruding, eluding
them was a battle.
Passing years brought stench,
abandoned Steel Plant stands,
an ominous reminder of the decay.
Dead fish and gulls where children played,
now they stay off shore. No more
escaping or scraping memories out of
her unkempt shell. Just as well.
Woodlawn Beach is closed again.
This Year. Every year.

GIVING LIFE MEANING

It's how they raised me;
my background; genetics.
A frenetic romp through
those formative years,
a shyness relegating me
to a tool lacking function,
but with a passion to learn.
Lessons of knowledge,
lessons of compassion,
lessons of ability.
Honing the skills that
took me years to realize I had.
A way with music; a way with words,
saying what I mean; meaning what I say.
Far and away the sole purpose
of my art is to start expressing
all my heart had been silent to speak.
In each golden moment, a new reason,
a change of season to carry the year,
and it is here that I belong.
Poetic poser full of song, a head
full of ideas and pleas to the Power
that is, that what I feel is real,
and every life I touch is accepting.
A cleansing of all misdeeds,
and a need to make a difference.
Having been given the gift of life,
it is up to us to give it meaning. 

IN MY FATHER'S HANDS

Life.

Held in the balance,
held in high regard,
held in my Father's hands.

Held within my heart,
held in respect,
held in my Father's hands.

Held in loving embrace,
held with reverence,
held in my Father's hands.

Held for a lifetime,
held in fervent memory,
my Father, the hands that held.

Life.



Walt

JUST A JOKE!

May 12th Prompt from Flashy Fiction:

Donal was not amused. Once again, someone in the Guest Care office (Mrs. Cooks!) thought it would be funny to photoshop his head onto a drawing. Of Donald Duck. Because that never got old.

Once again, someone in the Guest Care office (Mrs. Cooks!) thought it would be funny to Photoshop his head onto a drawing of Donald Duck, because frankly, that never got old. Donal was not amused.

He sat patiently, hands still lightly gripping his steering wheel. "Twelve and two", he smirked inwardly as he waited. Three squad cars and the S.W.A.T. team flashed their semaphore behind him. The show of force afforded Donal some importance.

"They should see this, then they'd know not to laugh", he thought, his hands clearly visible.

An officer approached on either side of his vehicle, pistols drawn as Donal's breathing remained slow and rhythmic. He pressed the button on his power window, as it lowered fully open. Donal smiled.

"Problem officers?" he cracked, but the patrolman was far from playful.

"Get out of the car, Scumbag, and keep your hands where I can see them!" the cop shouted at Donal as the officer's partner rounded the front of the car, revolver still trained on Donal's chest.

He slowly pushed his door opened and stepped out into the crisp morning air, closing the door behind him. Officer Creedy and Patrolman Habib rushed the calm assailant, harshly pressing his face against the dust encrusted glass of his passenger window. Habib gave his handcuffs an extra twist as he slapped them around Donal's wrists.

The two took turns shoving Donal toward their squad car. But at one point, Donal hardened his stance, glancing back at his car. Through the rear window she stared, her designer sunglasses covering her eyes. A grotesque smile was fashioned across the stiffening lips of Mrs Cooks decapitated head, which Donal had "pasted" on the rear shelf above his back seat.

He knew he would always remember that smile as he entered the police car harshly. In his mind, it would never get old.

MAY RAIN

Clouds, dark and ominous,
a predominance of wind and chill,
not enough to kill the plants
but enough to make them dance
in the whip up of weather.
A silence falls; precursor
to a storm approaching,
encroaching on a good day
with the threat so offered.
A mist begins, begetting a shower;
a sudden downpour ensues
while you rush to the car
with keys in hand and a hope to reach
the power windows before
giving the seats a good soaking.
Tough luck. It's a shame
you don't move as quickly
as you used to. Rain - 1, seats - zip.

HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL

It is said, where there's hope, there is life.
And life carries the promise of every new dawning.
In promise, the offer of the gift of life
is glowing with love  of a Good and Gentle nature.
Nature, like the awakening of a new spring.
And in the Ever-lasting Spring of our new life,
we will take solace in knowing that hope springs eternal.

HOPE AND CHANGE

Making a change for change sake,
is akin to shouting into the wind.
Intentions, mask the futility
of where your fire is directed.
In retrospect, nothing really
does transform. It is manipulated.
It is cajoled; a good front is placed
in front of the vile vision still seething.
Thoughts become controlling; left to
simmer and boil over again in time.
Turning a jaundiced eye to the truth.
You hope for better, but don't hold your breath!

SIBLING REVELRY

More than five times have I been blessed,
from my vantage point, the middle man.

Two sisters and four brothers
all offspring of the same mother,

all with their quirks and styles,
(everyone with Dad's smile) and

a completely separate branch on the family tree,
foliage gone, but the rings around the trunk

assure a longevity; a brevity in the span
of this vast universe so created, and elated

that we have come to reconnect at a time
where the incredible shrinking surname

wanes towards obscurity. A factual surety
that frames this portrait with love and understanding

no longer demanding and pompous, an enormous relief
in the belief that in assuming the mantle left behind

we will find our footing and map out new ground,
profound in the knowledge of our origin and happy

we were afforded the opportunity to flex our wile,
while never straying far from our connection.

Joseph, your history is our mystery. Not around long enough
to make a blemish, although leaving your mark on our fabric.

Cynthia, queen mother so assumed, groomed for the position
of matriarch with enough of a spark to be yourself.

Paul, sure and independent, most reticent to belong,'
too strong for your own good, a marvel with wood.

Tim, wild and free, determined to take life by the throat
and squeeze every ounce out of its living.

Ken, backbone in question, but heart always in place,
a face only a mother could love, (and she could have been jiving!)

Laurie, a singular soul, her only attachments are her siblings
and her felines, straddling the fine line of "Crazy Cat Lady".

Where does that leave me? The word guy, know-it-all, writing the script that skirts dysfunction for the joy our bond provides.

You got that right, Brother!

OCD

You touch the light switch,
you touch it again.
One more time for good measure.
A treasure to be sure,
but battling a compulsion
and repulsion that threatens your
sanity. There is no vanity
in your foible. A matter of mind over
repetitive matter. Rest assured.
The light is out. The door is locked.
Your slippers rest at the edge of the bed,
facing south, and crossed the way your
feet hit the floor every morning.
And despite your malady, the reality
is that I wouldn't change a thing about you.
I'll just remain here to see you through.
We can do this, together.

MORE THAN FIVE TIMES

A lost connection:
a faulty wireless router,
giving and taking away.

A frayed cord on the telephone
cracking and crackling and
inaudible incoherency.

A heart string that was
forever pulled taut but
was never allowed to break.

A sibling rivalry that threatened
the familial bond beyond compare,
brought to bare by the passing of Pa.

A failed divorce, a phoenix rising,
in the imminent demise we all face,
dealt with in grace and dignity

for our sake as well as the kids.

JUST LUNCH

My Father.
An hour out of my work day.
Every Tuesday, every noontime.
He, the master carpenter.
He, the drummer.
Me, the wide eyed boy again.
In awe of all the demons
he has battled and defeated.
A warrior in the fight for his life.
Our old kitchen; my old man.
“How you doing, Pops?”
“Sonny, I’m dying.”
With three words
I died a bit myself.
Just lunch. Much to digest.

THE OPERATING TABLE

Skinned knees and elbows,
and a face sliding along a graveled
street, bounding up the curb
and rattling a few molars to the core.
Cuts and burns and bloody noses,
all treated here; without insurance cards,
or appointments. Emergency room
always open, with Tender Loving Care
and a bottle of Mercurochrome.
A gentle hand pulling pieces of stone
from the face her “handsome” boy,
wincing with me and holding back her own tears.
Always at no charge and with the healing powers
of a tender kiss on the repaired injury,
in time to get dinner on the table
when her work had finished.
Doctor Mom was always in.

LEAVING LENNON MARKS

Once behind a milk maid bleary,
I beard a Liddypoolian surly,
sing-song pop/rocks, yeah, yeah, yup,
with good dog Nigel, me soiled pup.
Richie-ringy, drum, drum, drum,
whilst Petey lands upon his bum,
Paulie doodles wally all day,
as Georgie puts pied pudding away.
Meanstyle, Yokie loudly bang she slaved,
a New Yorkshire in me final daze,
avant garded must too grately
amongst the scruffy beat alls lately.
Banded four we combed to stagED,
we was all the bloody rage, Ed.
Maniacal, the screamies faint
as were the mused sick; badly tainted.
Writey, writey, Bob all righty,
pose'em, storied; all humoured slighty.
From me pen me wordies stumble,
in me own write does muzak crumble.
Go salve the Queen!



*** Secured a copy of Lennon's "In His Own Write" and drew me storied inspiring from without me.

SAVE THE DAYLIGHT

Spring ahead
the time has come
to reset the times
around your home.

All the clocks
to synchronize,
that's the daylight
savings prize.

Analog or
digital,
don't forget
to set them all.

Work your fingers
to the bone,
the time you save
may be your own.

PASSING THROUGH

You lived down the street,

the brown house with the privet hedge.

The grass, manicured and perfect,

marigolds planted along the drive.

I used to cut through your yard.

Your father would yell for me
to stay off of the grass.
But I would chance a pass
to get to the next street.
In the upstairs window, a face

always appeared when your father

released his gentle tirade. You.

Dark eyes and a generous smile.

Dark flowing tresses and

happy sun dresses were your appeal.

And every time you would steal

a glance out your window, our eyes met.

Your smile drew mine out of the

shadowy thicket of inexperience,

and I welcomed your "intrusion"

into the realm of my consciousness.
A day came when I entered your yard,
clean jeans and hair combed,
sweaty palms rubbing against
the coarse denim of my youth.

"Excuse me, Sir" I called.

"Would it be alright if I

went through your yard?"

And your father looked up

from tending his garden, hoe in hand.

In that moment, I knew from where

your smile had come. Waving a gloved hand,

he relented. "Go right ahead"

I saw him glance upward and

again his smile beamed. I turned to look.

You. Dark eyes and a generous smile.
Dark flowing hair and a flair
for always appearing when I would
pass through. I searched your father's eyes
for permission of a sort, and he simply nodded.

When I looked back to your window,

you were gone. You had come to stand

on the back porch of your nervousness.

"Good Morning" you demurely cooed.

"Hello" my voice cracked, as I turned

in my sudden shyness. "Hey!" you recovered,

"Can I walk with you?" Again to your father;

a broad smile and a wave of a gloved hand.

"Go right ahead" his smile beamed.

Many times I crossed through under the guise of

getting to the next street, but I knew your
smile would always be waiting, Cheshire Cat
at the ready; touched by your grace.
We've met many times in our imaginations.
I've known your smile in the beauty of your words.

Friends in the sharing of distance and

our known anonymity. And the wave of a gloved hand.

LOVE IN INSOLENT TONES

Hearts split abruptly,
a degradation of emotion;
a commotion of fact and fantasy,
brought to bear, wrought with the fear
of a lonely life, or an amazing facsimile
of the same. Lost in the game
of who did what to whom,
finding out none too soon that the reasons
for your union were wrong
in the first place, finding yourself
in the worst place you can imagine,
bereft of passion and a mindless muse.
You have to choose between
what you really need, and what
your heart requires. A smoldering pyre
of indifference, spoken in a demeaning nature,
and her nomenclature tells you
that love’s labor was not lost,
it was blown to smithereens

A JOINT VENTURE - ACROSS THE LAKE, EERILY

I have joined forces with Marie Elena Good in a planned poetry compilation. Ensconced on opposite ends of Lake Erie, the scope of our separate perspectives will be the foundation of our poetry. We have established a joint blog to co-ordinate our thoughts and works. Visit the site at: http://aleerily.blogspot.com/

INVENTING A NEW POETIC FORM

As a challenge to my micronites over at micro poetry,
I have set a challenge to invent a poetic form.In the
spirit of this epiphany, I submit my form.

It is called: GENESIS - Taking the name of the form from
the musical group, it follows an “ABACAB” rhyme scheme.
Created for micro poetry, it is intended as a ten line poem
(ABACABACAB) repeating the sequence. But, it can go as long
as you’d like following that repetition. I thought I'd share
my example here.

CLARITY

A clearness of mind,
with a sense of objective,
thoughts quite refined,
without trepidation or fear.
Synapses unwind
giving you some perspective.
leaving doubt far behind,
to find your purpose here.
Memories of pasts seem kind,
and your viewpoint is less subjective.

TILTING WINDMILLS

The banner unfurled,
a white knight on his steed,
rapier wit held aloft,
a scimitar of colloquialism
puncturing his page with each
pare and thrust of
his time honored rhyme.
Don Quixote, stirring up his windmills
and setting his muse loose
in their subsequent churning,
a lone rider into the
forest of thought
emerges on the other side,
weary and anxious, but
charged with an army,
voluntary, not conscripted,
to wage this war of words.
No prisoners taken,
a band of poetic compatriots
at the ready, awaiting
for the next raid Into
rhythmic and lyrical verse,
none the worse for wear.
Blindly, they join him,
trusting his lead, not knowing,
not caring, but sure
the journey will end
in a secure sanctuary,
drawing out the best
they can offer. Showing
that no one follows.
Everyone leads,
Sancho Panza smiles
at the ready;
with windmills
of their own to tilt.

A PRISONER OF MY MEMORY

In the silence of the night,
the darkness envelops me with a longing,
an emptiness wrought by the absence of light
and you, a mystic melody fills my ears,
our song sung in our hearts and minds;
stirring a slow dance of eternity’s making.

My steps are calculated and my awkwardness is making
me stumble; I have nothing this night
but these desperate thoughts inside my mind,
and they trigger a sense of longing,
for the sound that has vacated my ears
will still not appear with the coming of morning’s light.

An illumination of thought sends a signal: a beacon; a light
of knowledge that has flavored my being, making
me who I am, and driving the ambition that rings in my ears
like an alarm, purging my sleepless nights
where dreams are not welcome, lost visions are longing
to find a place where love resides in my vacuous mind.

I would lie if I said I really don’t mind
being a victim of this broken heart, in light
of all that has transpired, and erasing this longing
your departure has dictated, making
more sense to let your spirit rest through your eternal night,
and hold your loving words in my hungered ears.

I find myself sequestered in my private jail, with my ear
pressed to the cold stone that bears your name. I am of a mind
to send your memory from my perception, but this night
is empty and this time I have keeps you close at heart, lightening
my spirit for the moment, making
a sorrowful soul continue its longing,

A longing
that places you always here to influence thoughts that enter my ears
within this exile of my own making,
and the essence of your beauty lacing my mind
with the forbearance that your light
shines upon the blackness of my night.

In this night, my prison is my longing.
A distant light that brightens my path, and whispers in my ears,
all that my mind can see, serving a sentence of my own making.

DAMN THE TORPEDOES

(Full Steam Ahead)

egg shell walkers
and quiet talkers,
folks too demure and genteel.

passive people
who cram the steeple,
trying to keep thing real.

we've built a nation
of no confrontation,
afraid to step on some toes,

hands raised in submission
assume the position
and why, only God truly knows.

but, the sky is the limit
if we would get with it,
you have to let loose and advance,

don’t shy from the challenge,
this life’s avalanche,
stand firm and give it a chance.

steel your resolve
there’s problems to solve
and you can’t do it with head in the sand,

step up to the plate,
it isn’t too late,
to find your scruples and take a stand.

there’s no honor in hiding,
these things are providing
the tools to complete every chore,

gird your loins, strap it in,
now’s the time to begin,
opportunity knocks at your door.

so, damn the torpedoes,
it’s full steam ahead,
the target is clearly defined,

set your sights, take your aim
in this survival game,
your success will be easy to find.

give it your best,
wear it proud on your chest,
and be all that you see in your heart,

for tomorrow’s a dream
and as strange as it seems,
today is a good day to start.

WALT'S NEW ALTERNATE BLOG SITE

I've been concentrating on the poetry aspect of my writing, but have expanded my efforts in Flash Fiction and Short Stories. So I've started a new Blog page to highlight those. Visit my other site, "WALLEGORY AND OTHER STORIES" at http://wallegorystories.blogspot.com Hopefully I can keep my work organized if I keep them separate. Please let me know how it suits you.