UNDERWALTER WORLD

I must rescind on aquatic beings,
plural though they might be,
Across the lake with friends like you,
who needs anemones?


Walt

TWO SQUATS, OR NOT TWO SQUATS?

… and now comes deciding if squat

is plural already, or not.

I'm guessing it is,

but this isn’t a quiz,

I just like the cuteness squats brought!

Marie Elena

SQUATs

Deciding “squat” sounds rather sea-creature-ish (stretch your imagination), there’s this:

Seen only by folks named Marie

are squats swimming gleefully free

in Lake Erie’s muck

with the carp and woodchuck,

all skillfully dodging debris.

Marie Elena

ALL IN GOOD TASTE. OR NOT.

Though critters of Erie are lame,

I’m here to stand up and proclaim

Superior’s beasts

Do not make seafood feasts:

Superior only in name.

Marie Elena

HAIKU

Erie has critters
but they aren’t as amusing
as they otter be.

Marie Elena

HAIKU

Why does the ocean
get all the fun sea creatures,
while Erie gets squat?

Marie Elena

Disclaimer:  Okay, I guess fish and snakes aren't "squat."  But they sure aren't dolphins and sea lions and otters and manatee and ...

HAIKU

so utterly blessed
to have found this connection
that stirs and buoys

Marie Elena

Announcing: 2010 Writer's Digest Poetic Asides Poet Laureate!

Congratulations to my Partner-in-Rhyme for earning this prestigious title. Believe me, this comes as no surprise to me. Walt has an innate passion and talent, is well loved by not only the PA poets, but the poetic community as a whole, and is a consistent encourager of his poetic peers.

As you know, Walt, it took a year longer to be recognized in print than it did in my own heart. That’s okay, though. Victory earned is victory earned … no matter the wait.

So proud of you. 

Your friend and partner, across the lake

HAIKU

Somewhere inside me
a child peers out a window
pining for puddles

WOOD PLACE

Once tree lined,

until Dutch Elm Disease

took her toll. A quiet knoll

that came to life when the kids came out to play.

We'd play all day,
along this out of the way
thoroughfare, it was there that
we came to life; brothers, sisters and I.

A double lot 

was our footprint, no postage stamp

of God's little acre; the Maker gave us

all that we could handle and all we wanted.

The generational home,
where we were born, where Mom was raised,
where my newly naturalized grandfather settled
to raise his growing brood. He also grew food

on the lot he purchased 

along the rail lines. That was the place

that piqued my interest in trains. On time,

always to the schedule the iron rumbled.

Cousins always near,
the only fear we embraced,
came from the characters we devised.
The knights of Wood Place spent our nights

sleeping in the backyard,

roaming the 'hood after dark,

never in a malicious manner, more

of a watchful and protective way.

From the end
of our driveway to the second
telephone pole was our domain, street football
on a neatly painted asphalt gridiron; the envy

of the kids in the neighboring

streets. We were emulated; never duplicated,

celebrated for our camaraderie and brotherhood, 

in our neighborhood on Wood Place.

Dad held fort
until the end and after we and our friends
had found our own stations; our own Wood Places.
I remember the faces in my dreams.

Now Wood Place is a memory.

You can't go back again. It isn't

the same; wasn't meant to be. It was

a starting point, that mint green castle. No hassle

came without backup.
I do not venture near there.
I wish for my memories to be unburdened
by the sadness of her rapid decline, a sign that

we left Wood Place

at the exact right time. In my heart and mind

I run the streets at night, kicking cans and keeping

my hiding spots secret. All in sanctuary, on Wood Place.

Walt

BROTHERHOOD OF THE WHITE STITCHED BALL

They came as nine.
Perfect for this game.
Third base line seats tucked
behind the opposition dugout.
Every cheer and shout directed
at the pristine field. Five were brothers;
one by proxy. Three were cousins, close.
The ninth, a long time compatriot, a brother
of sorts; cohorts in this simple game. Hit. Catch.
Throw. Wouldn't you know it would be so simple?
"A sky so blue, it'd hurt your eyes to look at it!"
A strand of clouds lined the outfield. Contrasting,
completing; highlighted in pinkish tones. No bones about it.
Our father was punctuating a perfect day, in "the land of the free,
and the home of the brave". Play Ball!


Walt                                                            Photo by Aron Martinez (Coca-Cola Field Security Man)

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 stand
and 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.


Walt

THE MORIN POINT YEARS

A lifetime ago

When my kids were kids

Summer meant Erie

“Overnights” with cousins

Hours fishing on the dock

Sipping trumpet vine

Boating with Grandpop

Awaiting words, “Want to steer?”

Bracing for waves

Haunted Erie Lighthouse

Spotting Turtle Island once more

Wading Toledo Beach

Faygo quenches thirst

Seagulls play Follow-the-Leader

Sleepyheads nap reluctantly

Lakeside fire pit

Outside in pajamas, laughter abounds

Sticky blackened marshmallows

Rainy-day fun

Kitchen-table Euchre with Grandma

Blanket tent cities

The music room

Grandpop’s headphones gobbling their heads

Jazz on vinyl

Time with Grandpop

Stretched out on the floor

Catching “Tarzan” reruns

Fond memories abound

Summer days on Morin Point

With devoted Grandparents

Marie Elena

… AND TO THE *REPUBLIC FOR WHICH IT STANDS

*Responsible, Empowered People; United By Liberty, Independence,

and Civic virtue

Marie Elena

Eerie Lake

A Great Lake,
connection betwixt Toledo and Buffalo
an Eerie bond.

On the shore
ripples of waves come crashing,
lashing the sand.

Children run freely,
splashing in the rising foam.
Roaming in surf.

Sea Gulls swoop
down to the water's edge,
dredging swimming morsels.

At evening's end,
the sun seeks refuge below,
amidst orange glow.

Erie finds rest,
to arise anew and refreshed.
Summer in Buffalo.



Walt