THROUGH THE EYES OF A POET'S HEART

SAME NAME - NEW LOOK, NEW ATTITUDE

2011-08-05T00:13:00.000-04:00

"THROUGH THE EYES OF A POET'S HEART" will be moving to its new digs starting August 5, 2011.
In conjunction with these pages which will be run simultaneously until Sept 1st.

All the old feature will move there, with added material and media to make for a more entertaining and comprehensive blog. I hope you will join me there.

THROUGH THE EYES OF A POET'S HEART

WIND IN MY SAILS

2011-08-04T15:10:00.000-04:00

Un-billowed and furled
color splashed and swirled
across the nylon stitching
it stretches. This wretched
contraption missed the boat
and sits afloat my shipping table.
Have I a reason to be prone
to such treason as to let this parcel,
a morsel of sailing finery, sit unshipped?
Destination: Down under and his boat
sits asunder. Without the means
to make it go, this damn boat will
go real slow. I’m glad to regale ya,
NOW OFF TO AUSTRALIA! HAIL YEAH!

SECRETS BEST KEPT?

2011-08-02T11:09:00.003-04:00

No one knows.
And the best kept secret remains as such.
How much is it worth to know things
that your heart can confirm,
but you can not communicate,
this declaration of fact lies hidden.
Distance spanned and water
under the bridge between then and now.
How do you live a life with this burden?
She couldn't know; you gave no indications,
your stagnation and debilitating fear
brought you here with nary a lead.
But indeed, you have known.
You will carry it until you'll have grown
feeble and cold, just an infarction from
the chill's permanence; it hides in residence.
Do you declare to the world and hope the rooftops
can handle your exuberance, your happy dance long buried?
This poetic prompt brings you to wonder
that if under this guise you can reprise
what your heart conceals; the real feel of its mystery,
your history until now untold and you let the story unfold.
The question is posed; "Did you have a high school crush?"
Touching secrets with probing fingers, the memory lingers.
You held the best vantage point in the room to see all before you,
a chance at a glance always revealed her lilting smile
and her warm Serbian eyes; your soul cries
at the top of it's lungs, but your unsung song
has kept her anonymity. Though your proximity was close,
you chose to let fear dictate, sealing your fate.
Never a clue did you expose. You chose to fade,
finding comfort in invisibility. Indignantly you proclaim,
"What purpose would this knowledge serve?"
You have held your nerve and your secret this long.
It can't be wrong to release your burden and breathe again.
She couldn't know.
Unseen for thirty-two years, no one knows.
You wonder if your existence evaded her detection then.
You are certain that it does now.
Unseen for thirty-two years, she couldn't know.
You are prompted to think of her and how you felt.
Your memories melt flowing onto this page as you engage your feelings.
A poem gets written of your smitten past, and at last you come clean.
I mean, really, it's not as if this poem will ever be seen.

POET'S NOTE - A response to a poetic nudge five years ago that I saw as ridiculous and unnecessary. But for some reason I relented and presented what lay hidden, fondly. Time and distance can surprise and sometimes re-introduce warm Serbian eyes and lilting smiles. She didn't know. Those memories stay with you. Writers feed on their marrow. Histories come full circle..

RECLAMATION PROJECT

2011-07-31T15:23:00.000-04:00

1.) Phase One – Losing Myself

Rev up the Delorean, I’m going back. We all have that defining moment, pointed and prescient that had set our course. The forces of nature were strong and one wrong turn could have sent me reeling. I have a feeling it did.

My temerity was the social end of me, for as far as I can see, High School defined that moment in time, where I had let the ball drop.Not regret per se, but sadness now for those would have, should have, and could have moments so fleeting. Those errors of omission were well hidden in my condition from which I’ve been extricated. Celebrated now for my abilities to see things, and write things and expose things about me that without, would not be me. Debilitating was this fear to connect, rejection not something I handled well, or handled at all. So my fall from grace saved me from the disgrace of “embarrassing” myself by letting loose and living my life.

The perpetual lost boy languished in Neverland.

2.) Phase Two – Righting the Ship

Looky, looky, there goes Hooky!

The ribald Captain has been dispatched with a swift kick in his steering mechanism. A discovery, a long time in the making has taken a stand as well as command of my journey; a life’s worth of yearning for solid footing and a direction much easier to navigate than blindly following burned out novas in the cosmos of my mind. For in the stars, paths that crossed each other unnoticed have found a circuitous path to intersect once again.

Older now, more aware of selves and of this moment and what lead each to move to embrace it. In the kindling of a reborn kinship, acquaintances long removed and left unseen, find a connection that closes unsure circles, and opens the world to new adventures. Both stand, with eyes open like the wide-eyes kids we were when we began. A familiarity which neither knew, comes through to ground us as the friends we never realized we were.

The gathering of spirits once left to roam those hallowed halls has stepped back to touch base and begin anew, assuring us of the fact that yes, you can go home again.

EULOGY FOR JANE F. BURKOWSKI

2011-07-30T15:26:00.002-04:00

I had been asked to deliver the Eulogy for Jane. She lived a different life than most in the family. And at 90 years of age, she had earned it. She owed nothing to anyone. Half the family that still loved and accepted her for who she was, took comfort in my words. The ones that looked down their noses at her all their lives, rolled their eyes and did not appreciate my candor. Bottom line: I liked Aunt Jane for the reasons listed below. But also because there was plenty of reason to like her. She was a human being. I could relate to that!

THE EULOGY

Today we celebrate the life of Jane Burkowski. These brief words touch on one small part of that life. It was a life that she lived by her own dictates. Whether people understood or agreed with her grand plan did not matter. The fact is we are what we are, and Jane was who she was. Being quick to judge her took the spotlight off of our flaws and imperfections. But what can I say about a woman from my perspective of as “outsider” looking in?

What do we remember about Jane? That she worked at AM&As? That she was an avid sports fan? She love the Buffalo Bills, the lay of the land at Fort Erie Racetrack and the ponies that played there. That she held her heritage and language and faith close to heart? That she loved her brother John, and although they had their differences the love always shone through. I’m sure there was a time when she probably could remember more about us than we did of her. Maybe we could have tried a little harder to achieve that familiarity. Jane’s life had become just a matter of existence; a daily cross to bear, unwittingly.

She did no more or no less than any of we do to survive in the life we were given. She was no better and no worse than anyone in this church. In her later days she was made comfortable and Jane was afforded the dignity of passing as she had lived. In her own way; in her own time.

On a personal note, I liked Aunt Jane. I liked her independence and I liked that she pushed people’s buttons. Good or bad, she got people to give her attention whether they intended to or not. I loved her laugh, a cross between a cackle and a cavort; when she was filled with joy, her presence was known. My regret is in not having taken the time to know her just a little better. In my eyes, she was good people; better than most.

In the final analysis, you didn’t care that you had been forgotten by her. You embrace the brief flashes of lucidity that graced her and accept that life had caressed her heart.

This week, life stopped caressing Aunt Jane’s heart and placed her in the caring hands of her Heavenly Father, her Boze (Bo-zha - Polish for God/Jesus) to whom she talked and prayed. Her nephew Kenny Rompala cleared her way and held the gate opened for her as she returned to the eternal warmth of her mother, Frances, for whom she cared in her later years, and is once more in the embrace of her beloved father, Jan, and siblings Mary, Rose, Bertha and Emil. Thankfully, there remains an empty seat in this family grouping for the moment. Jane has gone to a better place where she will always remember and hurtful words cannot denigrate the life she chose to live. She is home again; a new home. May God bless you, Aunt Jane. Rest in peace.

NEXT PROJECT: I AM SANTA CLAUS

2011-06-30T13:53:00.004-04:00

Cover art for "I Am Santa Claus"

My latest project has taken a wonderful new turn, and a new collaboration is being forged. The chapbook, I AM SANTA CLAUS is under review by a good friend, Cathy Milosevich Crepeau with an eye on providing illustrations to enhance the poetic text. Cathy is a talented and progressive graphic artist and a friend since our days at Lackawanna High School. She had studied at the Art Institute of Pittsburgh and was owner of Downstairs Graphics. I am extremely thrilled and honored that Cathy has enthusiastically agreed to be a major contributor to this book. A publisher will be sought to undertake the newly enhanced material.

The text of I AM SANTA CLAUS will consist of poems I have written from the Santa Claus perspective. Release information has been delayed, but updates will be posted on these developments. Please watch this page for details.

NEARNESS OF SPIRIT

2011-06-18T18:12:00.000-04:00

I hear it in the darkness of a dream filled sleep,
my Father’s voice. Reassuring. Comforting.
Directing my every step in choreographed
mimicry of his own journey. I feel a hand
placed lovingly on a shoulder slouched
and weary from the burdens life provides.
It is an affirmation that my direction
is right and forward moving, all learned in the
spirit of his nearness. Nestled in this son’s heart,
respect and reverence are his, burnished
with love and temperament that his example set.
No regret comes with my genealogy.
I am my Father’s son. I will carry his torch.

UPDATE ON WOOD 2

2011-06-12T10:06:00.000-04:00

The CD recording of my chapbook, WOOD, is completed. It contains all poems from the book and included two bonus tracks, my "A Poet Sees Things" and a reading of Yehuda Amichai's "A Man In His Life" followed by my short story inspired by it entitled, "Procrasti-Nate".

The books and CDs are $10 each. If both are purchased together, the cost is $15 for the pair. Payment can be sent to:

Walt Wojtanik
c/o Hesse-Reynolds Sales
3372 North Benzing Road
Orchard Park, New York 14127

Please restate which item(s) you requested and I'll have them out ASAP. Again, thank you for your interest and support.

A HOUSE OF CARDS

2011-06-09T08:00:00.000-04:00

Brick by brick we assembled
this life we've come to know.
Mortar provided strength,
but little else to solidify
these emotions. A devotion
cemented and inflexible;
an expected result of
living and learning
and burning all bridges behind us.
If they find us outlined in chalk,
the talk would be that I wore you out.
But I doubt your facade would crumble
as easily as that. Pointed and level,
every detail possessing its own devil,
dishevelling all your efforts
to build it better. Give yourself room
or your doom will be certain,
veiled by a curtain of doubt.
Maybe brick by brick is flawed
Each terra cotta block is rigid and hard
not like some wind-blown house of cards.

FINNEGAN, BEGIN AGAIN?

2011-06-08T14:55:00.000-04:00

There's that song.
All along I've held this animous,
an anonymous dislike for its root
that burrows into every furrow
of gray matter. Mad as a hatter
and twice as worn. I was not born
to listen incessantly to this melody.
And just when it appears to disappear,
I hear it. There's that song.

UPDATE ON WOOD

2011-06-05T22:50:00.000-04:00

I have the books bound and ready. But, I've needed to re-recorded three of the poems for the CD which will include two bonus tracks of works not found in the printed version. I have had an unsavory experience with Pay-Pal and am resistant to use this function for payment. A check or money order will satisfy all conditions. The books and CDs are $10 each. If both are purchased together, the cost is $15 for the pair. Payment can be sent to:

Walt Wojtanik
c/o Hesse-Reynolds Sales
3372 North Benzing Road
Orchard Park, New York 14127

Please restate which item(s) you requested and I'll have them out ASAP. The CDs orders will not be delayed at all. Thank you for your interest and support.

THE BLUSH OF SPRING

2011-06-04T21:39:00.000-04:00

Her cheeks flush;
the crimson spreading
to her heart
and her lips.
A young man’s fancy turns with
the blush of her cheek.

ANNOUNCING MY FIRST POETRY COLLECTION

2011-06-01T21:53:00.001-04:00

After three years of intensive poem composing, I've finally found my nerve to compile my first collection of poems into the limited edition chapbook entitled, WOOD. The inspiration for WOOD was two-fold. Of the poems included, the majority is about my Father who was a very skilled carpenter. It is fitting that Dad worked his mastery of woods while I have developed a mastery of words. Along, with that connection, we lived at 76 Wood Street.

I had gotten a bit ambitious in offering 31 poems in this collection, but strung together, they actually tell the story of my relationship with my Father and that place near the Erie Tracks where we lived and grew up.

I will initially be releasing a limited run (76 copies) of the First Edition of WOOD. I plan on also issuing an audio CD of a reading of the book. The price of either will be $10. However, the combo will be made available together for a special $15 price. Further information will be posted soon. Anyone interested can submit their queries to Walt at wojisme@roadrunner.com with the subject line "Interest in Your Chapbook"

ANGEL VOICES AT DAWNING

2011-05-18T08:43:00.000-04:00

I hear it gently,
and I mentally
take note of the lilting song.
Angel voices sing
the soundtrack of Spring.
Their chorus is loud and strong.

Morning brings their sound,
and it is around
dawn’s first light that I hear it.
A poet’s heart sees
the living beauty
within euphonic spirit.

I begin each day
the exact same way.
I am thankful for this gift.
My whispered prayer
rises through the air;
as their harmonies uplift.

UNENCUMBERED SLUMBER

2011-05-13T14:51:00.000-04:00

The weather forecast delivers as predicted;
a wicked downpour, torrential and damaging.
All the while, I keep managing to sleep.
It is a deep doze, nearly comatose is my brain
as the rain continues. It appears she brought friends.
The lightning flashes and the rumbles never end.

Thunder rattles my windows, but it does not disturb my slumber.

Oddly, insomnia escaped me when the rains came.
The same can be said of my apnea, I wonder
if the hum of the thunder plays into my slumber?
Does the electricity cause static that makes it cling
within the ring of its timpani; a "drum" laden symphony
that pacifies my eyes allowing them to not be breached?
Does the lightning beseech my heart to remain still
until the thrill of thunder's wonder subsides?

Thunder rattles my windows, but it does not disturb my slumber

and therein lies my answer. Is it right every night
to pray for the rain that offers my tired strain a respite?
For the hypnotic roll takes full control as I lay in a heap,
awash in dream filled sleep, unfettered and undisturbed.
But, the silence of the night supplies a fright that says I will lay here,
awake all night. It is then, I thank the forecasters call for rain with thunder.

Thunder rattles my windows, but it does not disturb my slumber.

PRECIPICE

2011-05-09T08:46:00.001-04:00

The crossroad ends at this juncture,
a puncture to you psyche; a stab to
the heart and soul. Toes straddle
the point of no return, it is up
to you to discern your next best move.
Not long ago, you held your groove
slotted for success. But lest you forget,
you are now in a rut and your voice
cannot hoist you out of every predicament
you encounter. The pressure mounts
and you can count on one hand every stand
you had ever taken; shaken to your core
and wanting more. The chasm is wide.
Can you afford to ford its expanse?
Then again, can you afford not, too?

FALLETTA

2011-04-26T16:32:00.000-04:00

Baton tapping,
a gentle rapping
to bring instruments at the ready.
Steady guys and gals,
she will dictate the pace,
this is not a race to the finish,
so don't diminish her worth.
Nowhere on earth has
the music sounded as sweet,
and she stands replete with looks
and style; a smile
that makes beautiful misuc
all by itself. Some great composers
have inspired her and the Buffalo
Philharmonic Orchestra hired her
to resurrect a great ensemble.
They follow her lead,
indeed JoAnn Falletta deserves
the accolades for the melodies played.

TAKING FLIGHT

2011-04-23T22:16:00.001-04:00

Poems

are kites.

We wait for the wind

to be right and delight to bring

them out to fly and display, and we

play like children, releasing our words into
the air. Sometimes they struggle to lift off the ground,
and we run dragging them behind us. Stopping

and starting until the wind shifts and it catches.

It stretches our muse like a taut string,
a connection from our common

grounding. High and higher

still, bounding; seeking
altitudes that defy

logic, and find-

ing attitudes

that mimic

yours.
An

expres-
sion,

airborne

and

soaring.
Bringing

delight to

others

who
find

kite

flight

fascin-

ating.
Release

your

words

into the

wind.
Poems

are kites.

CHATEAUNEUF DU PAPE

2011-04-22T00:44:00.000-04:00

All that was left from the shipwreck
was a tin of caviar and the wine.
A bottle of the grape and a can of bait.
You hated the taste of the caviar,
but the fish it had lured to your
make-shift fishing pole were a treat.
All you could eat until the can was drained.
For an ungodly reason, you kept the cork
intact for a special occasion, and today
was that day. The day you lost all hope.
The bottle popped with a resonance that was
a perfect counter point to the waves lapping the shore.
A sip.
A swig.
A gulp.
That label read "Châteauneuf du Pape, 1951"
Probably French for "Water from 1,951 Sewers".
Your inebriate binge lasted long enough
for you to scribble something on the back of a leaf.
You stuffed it into the bottle.
Your last will and testament.
All your worldly possessions.
An empty tin can and your father's watch.
You heave the bottle into the surf and watch it bob,
praying for death to rescue you. Your coconut just stares.

NO CRY FOR HELP ( A Trillonet)

2011-04-13T08:51:00.001-04:00

A boy, the age of seventeen,
still standing on the cusp of dreams,
wandered lonely in his despair.

A handsome lad; athletic, lean,
not bound to someone else's schemes.
Eyes, a bright blue; brown shaggy hair,

kept to himself, no one had seen,
Troy coming apart at the seams.
On the surface, without a care.

Who would have guessed that this bright teen,
would end his own life amidst screams,
his final breath with no one there.

A bullet blast, and now he's gone,
A promising life had gone wrong.

"Troy", a boy in my youngest daughter Andrea's English class
ended his life yesterday afternoon. He sat in front of her in class
and although they weren't good friends, had sided with her in a discussion yesterday morning; aside from a shy hello when they passed, verbal exchanges weren't a part of their routine.
Now, my bright seventeen year old daughter doesn't understand
why life is "so fucked up". Me, a man of words, had few answers.

WHY DO YOU VEX THEM SO, DEAREST SESTINA?

2011-04-12T12:39:00.000-04:00

Why do you vex them so, Sestina Faire?
Lovely maiden with golden hair, a warming smile
and caring heart, I am startled by your beauty.
You carry your soul within your expression,
a gradual progression to the core of your being.
Seeing you amongst us gives me cause to cheer.

Soft and lilting, your voice is euphonic, a cheerful
blend of whisper and song. It is a fair
assessment of your strong sense of being
a part of the world that surrounds you. Your smile
is a wish for understanding, without remanding your expression
to the darkened pages of closed minds, hiding your beauty.

And it is such that something considered so beautiful
can scare her unsure suitor, her once cheerful
companion, to shy away from all for the expressed
purpose of rejecting her. It is not fair
that within her circles she is looked upon with as smile,
but when standing on her own, is denied her very being.

There is a great disservice brought about by being
callously ignored, oh wonderfully worded beauty.
Dearest Sestina, will you charm me with your smile?
Will you bring to this saddened heart, your cheer?
Loved and lovely, fairest of all the fair,
hear my song and all unconditional expression

that it conveys. It says much, although simply expressed.
You are the reason for my being
as poetic as my heart will allow; our love affair
is a thing of overwhelming beauty.
It becomes my life-long duty to warm you; to cheer
you and revere you. And blanketed by the shadow of your smile,

I offer you comfort in the knowing that your captivating and caressing smile
will live in my heart for as long as your name can be an expression
of truest love, Sestina Faire. I raise in toast a glass to cheer
your welcomed place in my world. You are a part of my being.
You are a lasting thing of extreme beauty,
You are the epitome of poetic love, Sestina Faire.

Bless me with your fair smile.
Make your beauty and expression of my heart.
Bring exuberant cheer to my very being, Dearest Sestina Faire.

INVENTING A NEW POETIC FORM - FABRIQUE

2011-04-12T11:07:00.000-04:00

The Fabrique takes its inspiration from the popular French forms (villanelle, pantoum, etc.) of poetry in that it makes use of rhyme and repetition throughout the verse, woven much like a thread through a swatch of fabric.

The pattern of the "Fabrique":

It requires a short (2-3 word) title.

Line 1: The title doubles as the first line (A)
Line 2: Two verbs depicting an action of the subject.
Line 3: Three adjectives describing something about the subject.
Line 4: Rhymes with line 1, seven syllables in length. (A)
Line 5: Twelve syllables; third word is an internal rhyme (A); last word (B)
Line 6: Twelve syllables (B)
Line 7: Twelve syllables (C)
Line 8: Seven syllables in length (C)
Line 9: Two rhyming adjectives (D-D)
Line 10: Two rhyming adjectives (E-E)
Line 11: Repeats line 2
Line 12: Repeats line 3
Line 13: Repeats line 4 (A)
Line 14: Repeats the title of the poem. (A)

Example:

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

WHAT IF WE REALLY ARE WHAT WE EAT?

2011-04-08T08:04:00.001-04:00

In terms of food, I have no doubt,
I'll never be a brussel sprout.

And in that vein I'd never see
me living life like broccoli.

If I ate a lot of cabbage,
I'd be saddled with some baggage.

But I would gladly be a mobster, and make no mistake,
I'm a big Surf and Turf fan, bring me lobster and steak, man!

COMPOSER

2011-04-04T17:08:00.000-04:00

Clips of melodic minutia sliced,
diced and restructured to sound
like the symphony in his head.
Dreading the chore, hoping to jam instead
but the first measure seems undone,
no fun until he gets to the bridge.
Crossing out a whole movement,
his groove seem gone and his hand
aches from pounding the same key
over and over hoping it catches fire.
His only desire is to rework "Chopsticks'
to sound like Handel's "Messiah",
So, he tinkles and trills,
until it fills his head with the
sound which he seeks. He peeks
over his shoulder to see if anyone's heard.
He dreams of airplay, and everyday
he is back to the grind, tired and bored,
hoping to find the lost chord.
It's in his head. It was born in his soul.
And he believes, when it gets into his heart
he will lose all control. Big dreams die hard.
He knows in the end, he will just decompose.

STILLBORN: FEBRUARY 3, 1956

2011-04-03T19:41:00.000-04:00

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Wojtanik".
Words of comfort meant to heal,
only to steal the lasting memories
that now will never come.

"I'm so sorry". Words to stab at
the heart and rendered her broken.
Twice in four years, toxemia her venom;
a powerful poison to suck her soul

from within. A boy. Another Handsome boy.
He was to be named Walter Joseph,
a tribute to her husband's father, Walter,
and her own immigrant patriarch, Jozef.

Her first born; her first stillborn,
Joseph Walter's life ended before it began
as well. A living hell for young parents
of promise and love; she almost went with him.

But after two successful live births,
another would-be child held hope,
but no one could have imagined the private
pain would reoccur. It was two days shy of her

own birthday. She felt the emptiness.
She felt the loss. And she felt more.
In nine months of anticipation, she had a sense;
an immense feeling of wonder this boy

provided. Potential and promise.
Her heart ached so. Words could not describe it.
Words were taken from her. Or maybe,
she had given her words for her son to use.

A chance to express what she could not say;
he would have shared with the world. An orator?
No, a composer. A poet. Yes. She had a sense.
He would have given his heart in metered rhyme.

His life would have been a living poem.
A poem of love for the mother that bore him,
and the father that could have taught him the beauty
of the art in which he could have excelled.

Now, people will never know, or grow in the
warmth of his heartfelt hearth of words.
They could never miss what they never had,
but she always will. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Wojtanik"

"I'm so sorry".

(Poetic Asides prompt for Day 3 of the Poem-a-Day Challenge: Envision a life without you in it.)

BRINGING YOURSELF TO RHYME

2011-04-01T19:19:00.000-04:00

In the present we stand, hand-in-hand for the cause of poetry.
Not quite sure what means to this end, but poets and friends
sharing in the hearth of majestic musings warm their hearts
for the start of April. Never at a loss for words
but sometimes a lot of effort goes unnoticed. The rhyme
stays within reason, for 'tis the season for all to write.

We would be well within our right
to seize the opportunity to delve into poetry,
giving proper respect to the relevant rhyme,
for what would sound more fitting between friends?
After all, we all craft with our own fine words
and hold the verse of others to our hearts.

For it is within the beating of said hearts
that we find the power in all that we write.
Poems flow from the manipulation of words,
and become the true essence of living poetry.
Inspiration expressed in the gathering of friends
all for the propagation of rapturous rhyme.

Not all find worth in the like sounding rhymes
preferring the freedom that liberates their hearts
in the form a verse that is as free. These, my friends,
are the choices that we as poets make. We are what we write.
It takes all kinds to write all forms of poetry,
but a true poet see the emotion woven into words.

Offer up your musings, for the communion of words
never ceases. Be they random or deliberate, rhymes
are the glue that holds together all our pieces. Poetry
is the literal music of our souls. It resides in every heartfelt
pang of passion and fashions itself into the right
moments of our lives as if they were comforting old friends.

What can we do to spread the scope of our beauty, friends?
Put the power of your opinion or your longing into words,
for it is within every woman and man's right
to give the world exactly what we glean from our rhymes.
Poetry is a pulse. It is the syncopation of a loving heart.
And the living that we do, becomes our lifelong poetry.

Give poetry a chance, friends.
Leaving your heart in every word.
You have the time to rhyme; and all night to write it.

A FINE LINE

2011-04-01T09:36:00.000-04:00

The tightroope; taunt and trecherous,
and me, no more pious than lecherous,
Never the bane of humanity
but this sanity rides the fence.
At the expense of sounding crazy,
my thoughts get hazy and I wander.
I wonder what lies ahead but feeling
dread instead. A fine unnatural balance,
wearing this valance like the shroud it is.
Darkness offers no recompense, and you plead
the only defense you can, insanity.
You were crazy not to have seen it.
Walking a fine line between help and hell.

COMMUNICATION BREAKDOWN

2011-04-01T07:43:00.001-04:00

We don't make eye contact anymore.
I ask; you're FINE!
And all your venom is reserved for me,
it's mine. Something I said?
If your demeanor was any meaner
I'd be pushing up daisies instead.
Call me crazy, but you never
balk at talking until I enter the conversation.
A text on my phone emotes more elation
than you stealing moments of silence
from my vacant stare. Are you still there?
What we have here...is a failure...

METRONOME

2011-03-30T07:54:00.000-04:00

Tick, tick, tick-tick-tick,
the rhythm sticks in my head,
so sick, tick-tick-tick.

Kinda waltzy, always schmaltzy,
playing as backbeat to every feat
I attempt to conquer. In my ear

tick, tick, tick-tick-tick,
life at a metered beat, sweet
syncopation of this celebration,

high elation and a quick
tick-tick-tick. Slick in its
cyclical pattern, mechanical toe tappin'

Keeps me at an even keel, a real
chance to keep pace with the rat race
and face the challenges I pick,

tick, tick, tick-tick-tick,
the rhythm sticks in my heart
great way to start the day. Tick.

NED WOOD

2011-03-29T13:05:00.000-04:00

Prestonesque, your fingers danced
across the ivory and ebony,
your now bony fingers, danced.

The ivory is the purity of life's page,
played simply and powerfully,
a tribute to your aptitude.

The ebony is the blackness;
the cursed cancer consuming you.
A tribute to your strength.

A musician and mentor,
like all of us, life's renter.
In decline, but inclined to play

every sweet note left in your magic hands,
harmonic, symphonic; an iconic sound.
One of the best around Buffalo town.

Awe strikes with each passage played.
Awe strikes with the courage shown,
never over-blown, gratefully, home-grown.

Ned, glad to have known you.
And yet, we hardly knew ye!

　

ETERNALLY EQUINE

2011-03-19T11:28:00.000-04:00

Alabaster and roan, she was put down; a
broken fetlock blamed for the turn lame.
Certainly, a sad end for a once proud and
determined foal. She was a true beauty;
effervescent and ethereal.
Furlong after furlong, a strong
gait with the gallop of each
hoof striking a counterpoint to the crowd.
Indeed, now the odds were against her.
Jockeys would run her hard and fast,
keeping her on the track far
longer than she should have been.
Many years back, she was a champion, but
now in her later days, she was not.
Other trainers would have put her to
pasture, but where her legs failed, her spirit remained strong.
Question her determination, and she'd prove you wrong.
Rest would have helped her for sure, but
she knew she had one good race left in her.
Three quarters of the way around the track,
unknown to her owner, she fractured a leg.
Very few horses would have continued, but
winning her final race would reveal a true champion's heart.
X-rays would verify the sad fact. After
years of racing, her fate was sealed. Outstanding in her field,
Zenotrope's Zip found her rest in eternal pastures.

Response to:

"Heaven For Horses" by Lew Sarett

WALLEGORY AND OTHER STORIES: PROCRASTI-NATE

2011-03-18T12:57:00.000-04:00

WALLEGORY AND OTHER STORIES: PROCRASTI-NATE: "Nathan Shell was a good man, to hear his Mama tell it. 'My son, the screenwriter' she would proclaim. But, all the same she loved her Nate. ..."

ECCLESIASTES

2011-03-11T11:30:00.000-05:00

Inquisitive and questioning,
the whys and what fors
come to the fore to satify
a muddled soul. All control
once thought to be ours,
becomes clearer the nearer
we come to believing.
Not as decieving as expected,
for it has been perfected
since the world was new.
And you, seekers of a truth
you can accept, expect it
to fall into you laps like manna.
But, to everything under heaven,
there is purpose, and the worst
we can do is think in terms of now.
In its time and season, everything
for a reason. A time to live and die.
A time to laugh and cry.
A time to reap and sow, don't you know?
When the time is right, you will in turn.

WILDWOOD WEED (by Jim Stafford)

2011-03-01T18:32:00.001-05:00

Hidden in the thicket,
near a picket fence it grows
wild and high. And so do I!

WRAP MY WORDS AROUND YOU (by Daniel Bedingfield)

2011-02-25T13:18:00.000-05:00

In the night, you approach.
A wafting wind to warm me,
a gentle hand to soothe my anguish.
I am inspired by your beauty,
a vision to feast upon,
a voice to quell an angel's sigh.
And I, merely a mortal man,
a word monger striving;
surviving this life through verse.
Sometimes this blessing is a curse,
a perverse ability to seduce
the mind and heart. I am an upstart
in search of the phrase that will
open you, longing for the rhyme that will
infect your spirit with an unending love.
Find solace in my wile;
take comfort in my words.
Warmth and security emenate
from within my verbose blanket.
To you, I offer the rendings of my heart.
Wrap my words around you.

WALK LIKE A MAN (Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons)

2011-02-24T17:30:00.000-05:00

Striding, head held high,
a strong classic chin leading,
your breeding shows, and she knows it.
You smile, pearly whites, bright they are,
each a shining star in your oral galaxy.
Broad shoulders and a chiseled boulder
for a chest. You're doing your best
to display the package; a knack you've had.
It doesn't make you bad as you nod,
an acknowledgment to her passing.
A beauty in her own right, you fight
the urge to speak; a mysterious smile
guides your wile. You look back
and as she strolls away without fail,
you exhale. Your chest drops
as does your belly, lapping your belt
like a bowl full of jelly. Short and labored
is your breath as you struggle to retrieve it.
Who'd have believed it...that you still
thought that act would get you noticed.
You trudge away, another day in anonymity.

SAIL

2011-02-21T14:36:00.000-05:00

Unfurled, my canvas tightens,
taut and rigid in the strength
of a gale force wind. Beginning
and ending with the gusts
prevailing, sailing into the waters,
uncharted and unsure. It is purely
the epitome of self-sufficiency;
this proficiency so star-guided
provides me with the direction I crave.
In it, I am saved, a navigator of
life's currents. Wave after wave,
I am coaxed toward shore, for sure
more open waters await me.
My sole journey continues undeterred.

WHEN WE WAS FAB

2011-02-17T19:34:00.002-05:00

Do you want to know a secret?
I want to hold your hand.
It won't be long, just eight days a week.
I wanna be your man, but I'm happy just to dance with you.
Girl, tell me what you see. I want to tell you, I need you.
Yesterday, or the night before...any time at all,
I will carry that weight. I want you.
I've got a feeling, Martha my dear,
that we can come together. Don't let me down.
In my life, this boy knows, all you need is love.
Oh Darling, good night.

P.S I love you.

NOT ABOUT THE BLING

2011-02-17T11:57:00.000-05:00

Level headed, keeping eyes
close to the vest, at best.
Not drawn to the sparkle,
left in the "dark" for the most part.

It's a start when beauty is beheld,
a wealth for the eyes, as it decries
all that glitters. Never a bitter glance,
askance or other wise, it flies

in the face of reason. Coveteous I am
not, a guy blinded by bauble or bead
does not succeed. It distracts and retracts
from the grounding found in youth.

Finding wonder in a mystic smile,
Venus de "Milo" meets memory,
and all that he can see, inspires.
Fires of passion seek repose in poem.

And there beauty resides.
It hides in the shadow of worded rhyme,
in time it finds the bright light of day.
Not blinded by the bling; allowing hearts to sing.

WHERE ARE YOU NOW?

2011-02-17T10:00:00.000-05:00

Lyrics by Walter J. Wojtanik - © 2011

Sitting here I watch your picture on the wall,
dancing to the gentle strains of melodies we knew.
Memories we've shared; the times that showed we cared,
fade away in thoughts of you.

All alone at night I wonder where you are
and I wonder if you think about me now and then,
thoughts inside my head are better left unsaid
since my heart fell from your hands.

Where are you now,
now that I need you?
Where are you now,
wishing somehow you still need me too,
the way you used to do.

Looking in your eyes was like a dream come true,
feeling all the little things I learned so hard to need.
But, now I look around and realize, I've found
just how much I need you still.

Where are you now,
now that I need you?
Where are you now?
I just don't believe in love anymore
since you've walked out my door. Now you're gone.

ONE OF THESE DAYS

2011-02-09T12:48:00.000-05:00

I'll finally be the man I've aspired to be,
one of these days.
Happy in my station, a perpetual situation,
one of these days.
An unconvicted, man of conviction
one of these days,
who is as adept at poetry as at fiction.
One of theses days,
my wife and I will find comfort in the nest, and
one of these days,
when my daughters find their joy, it'll be the best.
One of these days
the aches and pains will be tolerable, less taxing
one of these days
I'll find time for relaxing.
One of these days
I'll walk my daughters down the aisle, and
on those days,
I'll sport a sad tear and a smile.
One of these days,
all of the projects I've started will find completion, and
one of these days
I'll finish my novel, a fine first edition.
One of these days
I'll run out of things to do, before I run out of time.
One of these days
when people say my name, they'll say "He was fine!"
One of these days.

WASTED TIME

2011-02-08T09:42:00.000-05:00

Seconds tick.
The tympany of lost moments
left to linger in the anteroom of thought.
In the expanse of eternal existance,
we offer resistance to the passing of days,
hoping to delay their demise; returning with
each new rise of the sun. But, when we are done,
will we be remembered for all we strived to be?
Or will we be forgotten in the unmarked grave
of obscurity? Our procrastination is telling.
Time's a wasting. There's no tasting success
until we kick up our heels and initiate.
Tick, tick, tick,...

**For micro poetry's prompt, "AND I QUOTE..." - "If we wait for the moment when everything, absolutely everything is ready, we shall never begin." ~ Ivan Turgenev

MUSIC HATH CHARMS

2011-02-07T12:55:00.001-05:00

Melodic memories, triggered by random turns
of phrase, a new page in your book of dreams.
It surely seems that a mind can be shaken or stirred
into a whir of activity. You possess a proclivity for
drawing upon the past long enough gone
to notate upon the staff of your life;
it is a song composed with ethos and verve.
Steeling your nerve, thrown caution becomes windblown
and all are shown the power of your voice.
A flash-back to a day when music was an ally
to rely upon, a trigger for thoughts nurtured
in the womb of your fertile mind. Gestation,
born of elation for all your songs relate;
it is never too late to write your score.
The more you remember, more tender the melody.

POETRY AS ART

2011-02-02T12:38:00.003-05:00

Another honor bestowed upon me thanks to my association with Robert Lee Brewer and the absolutely amazing poets of the Writer's Digest.com/Poetic Asides group. I have been riding high on my laurels since Robert had named me the 2010 Poetic Asides April PAD Poet Laureate on his birthday. Fittingly, my chapbook, "Worth a Thousand Words" has been selected as one of the top seven finalist for the November Chapbook Challenge a day before mine. The top honor, and deservedly so, went to Uma Gowrishankar for her chapbook, "Inhale".

I had submitted two manuscripts for the challenge. The first "Chronicles of the Traveling Red Suit", was a collection of my "I Am Santa" poems. A rough draft of a future work for sure. I am proud of this one in its own right.

But, "Worth a Thousand Words" is a compilation of some of my concrete poetry. Concrete poetry is a visual representation having a direct connection to the poetry proffered. Each "picture", although not nessessarily comprised of a thousand words, conveys the work in an artful way. From Snoopy, to a fishing pond, to an electric guitar, each was a unique challenge in itself. If I am ever questioned about poetry being an art form, I will place "Worth a Thousand Words" on the table and answer with a resounding "Yes!"

Along with Robert Lee Brewer and his gracious wife Tammy (Thanks Tammy), I must also express my gratitude to the following people:

Marie Elena Good, a good and loyal friend and wonderful poet as well. Marie has supported these efforts, while provoking and nurturing the works, along with offering her own takes on every piece. A great partner with whom I am happy and proud to share the blog "Across the Lake, Eerily".

Sara Gwen, another of the Poetic Asides contributors you helped reveal the "secrets" of spacing in relation to the PA site.

My daughters Melissa and Andrea who have been my biggest critics and supporters. I love that they share my interest in the written word, being partial to poetry as well.

And thanks to all of the fantastic poets I have encountered on this incredible network called the Internet.
You have all added a small piece of yourselves through your works and words.

FOCAL POINT

2011-01-20T21:31:00.000-05:00

You were merely a snapshot,
a moment in time preserved,
reserved for random viewing,
your candid doing, frozen.
Had I chosen to snap a second
sooner, your expression
would not be as expressive,
and your movements
may have been in motion, but excessive.
I took a flyer on your
ability to dance across my mind
in floating steplets two and three
ahead of where you were, for sure
a fortunate accident of a slow trigger
finger, had I lingered an instance longer
the moment would have gone and I would
be longing for its replay. This is a day
to celebrate in constant exuberance,
a mystic circumstance; a chance moment
frozen in the album of our history.
A mystery preserved in time, yours and mine.

BY CHANCE

2011-01-20T21:28:00.001-05:00

A quick glimpse was all it was.
A hesitation in my focus that caught me.
All I could see was what I spotted, by chance.

A fated glance as it became
a prelude to finding out your name,
putting it all on the line in my mind. By chance,

did you see me as well? Do tell
if familiarity breeds consent? I think what I meant
was, do you believe in things coming together by chance?

In the great expanse of a universal truth,
what struck me in youth was a step toward eternity,
this serendipitous happenstance, a twist of fate by chance.

You signed your signature with a smile
and it was while your teeth gleemed that it seemed
we were a destiny waiting to transpire; an inner fire. By chance.

An extended hand, a stand closerthanthis, and a kiss;
a bold expression of a newfound emotion. A building
devotion to a love long languishing enhanced by chance

and a feeling you get. And yet, you know when you know,
that love will grow despite the obstacles, this optical illusion,
this passionate confusion has taken root. All by chance.

IF YOU'VE EVER BEEN A LADY TO BEGIN WITH

2011-01-20T21:23:00.000-05:00

Luck, be a lady tonight.
But be good luck. I've had it
up to here with your sister.
I'm a stand-up mister, but keep falling
flat on my face in this place.
Quit stalling, I'm calling you out.
Do you need me to shout it?
Can I do without luck? I doubt it.
So, would it be fine to you, if I wine and dine you,
candle and moon light, dimly bright?
Dancing, romancing; chancing all I have?
You could be the salve for what ails me.
Lady, don't fail me. I'm the fella
you came in with. Luck, be that lady!

JANUARY SNOWS

2011-01-04T08:08:00.000-05:00

First comes the thaw.

A heartless tease from a gentle breeze,

bringing showers and hours of warm.

No storm in site; just the right temperature

to make a nice White Christmas

a fond memory. Every sensory stimulus

is less provoking as I stand, choking back

my enthuiasm. A wide chasm between

reality and what I know to be an illusion.

It is this intrusion of this lake; unfrozen and

enabling, labeling these shores as

the snow capital of nowhere. Glancing to stare,

aware that the forecast calls for resurgent flurries.

You scurry to catch a quick glimpse of the skies

and there before your eyes you realize.

The snow machine is well in tune.

I hope it ends before we hit June!

BEGINNING ANEW

2011-01-02T00:06:00.000-05:00

Starting from here;
going on from now.
A fresh start is at the heart
of all that is to come.
A brand new year
comes to call, and all
that transpires grows
from the seeds planted
in the twelve month prior.
That fire in your belly
spurs you on, a prodding
giving the nod to better things.
A fresh start is at the heart
of perfecting your art.
It all up to you
to begin anew.

IN THE BOTTOM OF MY BAG

2010-12-24T11:28:00.002-05:00

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

2010-12-12T22:37:00.001-05:00

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?

2010-12-08T09:14:00.000-05:00

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

2010-12-07T21:56:00.000-05:00

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

2010-11-30T12:45:00.001-05:00

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

2010-11-17T22:33:00.000-05:00

                                                                                                       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

2010-10-25T13:01:00.001-04:00

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)

2010-10-20T16:32:00.000-04:00

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

2010-10-19T18:56:00.000-04:00

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

2010-10-19T10:34:00.000-04:00

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

2010-10-18T12:35:00.000-04:00

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

2010-10-18T12:17:00.002-04:00

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

2010-10-17T01:45:00.000-04:00

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

2010-10-16T01:50:00.000-04:00

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

2010-10-14T13:04:00.001-04:00

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

2010-10-14T11:32:00.000-04:00

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

2010-10-13T17:22:00.000-04:00

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!

2010-10-13T11:30:00.002-04:00

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

2010-10-11T09:25:00.002-04:00

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

2010-10-10T12:48:00.001-04:00

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

2010-10-09T15:34:00.008-04:00

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

2010-09-30T07:35:00.001-04:00

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

2010-09-28T21:54:00.000-04:00

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

2010-09-21T08:26:00.002-04:00

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)

2010-09-20T15:06:00.000-04:00

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

2010-09-18T14:04:00.000-04:00

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

2010-09-04T12:42:00.000-04:00

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

2010-07-09T12:12:00.002-04:00

‎

"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

2010-07-09T11:46:00.001-04:00

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

2010-06-23T16:36:00.000-04:00

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

2010-06-20T00:13:00.000-04:00

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!

2010-05-12T11:05:00.001-04:00

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

2010-05-04T14:15:00.000-04:00

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

2010-04-27T11:59:00.000-04:00

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

2010-04-27T11:44:00.000-04:00

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

2010-04-26T18:19:00.000-04:00

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

2010-04-26T18:16:00.001-04:00

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

2010-04-26T18:13:00.003-04:00

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

2010-03-31T09:17:00.000-04:00

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

2010-03-26T17:57:00.000-04:00

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

2010-03-17T16:33:00.000-04:00

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

2010-03-14T10:53:00.000-04:00

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

2010-03-08T12:38:00.000-05:00

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

2010-02-24T23:13:00.000-05:00

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

2010-02-09T19:32:00.000-05:00

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

2010-01-25T13:17:00.000-05:00

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

2010-01-13T11:51:00.002-05:00

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

2010-01-12T16:11:00.000-05:00

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

2010-01-08T08:08:00.000-05:00

(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

2010-01-07T09:33:00.001-05:00

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.

NOT GETTING AROUND TO PUTTING CHRISTMAS AWAY

2009-12-30T09:18:00.002-05:00

(i carry Christmas with me)

i carry Christmas with me
(i carry it in my heart)
i am never without Christmas
(anywhere i am Christmas lives;
and whatever is done by me
is because of Christmas)
i fear no reprisal
(for it is my choice)
i want no ridicule(for the beauty
of Christmas has become my world)
and it is whatever
a child's smile has always meant
and whatever melodic carol is sung
Christmas will be within me.

here is my deepest secret nobody knows
(the birth of love is the cause of my joy
and the bounce in my step
and the feeling of heart
for a time called Christmas;
which grows deeper than the soul can grasp
or mind can conceive)and it is this wonder
that's keeping the spirit alive within me.

i carry Christmas(i carry it in my heart)

i am santa

***based on "i carry your heart ~e.e. cummings"