I'm Walt. And I'm Marie Elena.
This is the collaboration of two kindred spirits; partners in rhyme;
"the best friends we've never met."
All "Across the Lake. Eerily."

Friday, April 30, 2010


Our souls bloom with these words.
Budding brilliance planted deep within our hearts and minds.
Nurtured and tended with the awakenings of life.
A good life made more perfect by us, the gentle gardeners,
who encourage the growth of these gifts.
The growth of our freindship.
An eternal sunshine beams forth by the glowing of our gardener's hearts.
This sunshine brightens these days
and illuminates our thoughts,
making our growth fertile,
and fruitful and productive.

Our souls bloom with thoughts of this friendship.
Thoughts brought to light
like the first flowers of Spring
as they break the earth
and show their potential.
You a gardener, cares for me
and loosens the soil around me,
and I free your roots to branch out
and allow you to grow full of life.
Full of our verbal beauty.
And we give back to each other,
the "caregivers", with a very bountiful harvest
of the bloomings of our souls.
We are the gardeners.
I bloom brilliantly with you.



Another April has come to an end
Whereby thirteen months were consumed
Pondering thoughts we’ve collectively penned
Grateful this poetic friendship has bloomed

Marie Elena

Photo by Keith R. Good

Wednesday, April 28, 2010


A length of cord attaches,
wound and secured to the center
of your emotion. A stretch
to say the least, that all tied up
can keep the rest of you from unraveling,
hearts traveling at the speed of light,
second star to the right, and straight on
until morning. Without warning your senses
drop all pretenses and leave you hanging
precariously, daring to wear thread thin
and snap at the first sign of pressure and doubt.
But, therein lies the crux of your dilemma.
What had once connected to a fleeting past;
a love for a lifetime, again joins you to your
very survival and you strive to hold on,
both hands clutching and hoping for your vital signs
to be as vibrant as the day is long.
You are feeling stronger every day.
Heartstrings remain in tune; their symphony
is the song for an all-consuming love.
Hum along if the words escape you.



Always the instigator,
starting something at every turn,
there's so much to learn, and so little time
spent in rhyme. A fresh start,
a rejuvenation; the rebirth of heart,
a salutation to the new day.
In introduction, souls unite
doing what's right, right off the bat.
The sun rises, the journey embarks,
hearkening to the initiation
of this daily itinerary, nothing scary,
just a chance to commence with
the life to which you had been inaugurated.
Slated for greatness, starting now.
Funny how beginnings alway pick up
where endings tend to leave off.


Tuesday, April 27, 2010


Sometimes hearts return
to their once-upon-a-time
love and hope and dreams.

Wishes for twenty five to happily-ever-after for you, my friend.

Marie Elena


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.



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!



Now these three remain:
faith, hope, and love. And of these,
the greatest is love.

In a sense, this is a "found poem."  1 Corinthians 13:13.  Who knew the Bible lent itself so well to haiku?
Marie Elena

Monday, April 26, 2010


It's kinda funny, sorta
that on a day the prompt at PA
reads "More Than Five",
I'll be posting less than four
since the bullies have taken the playground.



Behold, the Hundred Acre Wood
Where all is well, and all is good
Where no one is misunderstood
Where all work for the common good
Where friends help friends, just as they should.

Marie Elena


(To the tune of Cake Walkin’ Babies from Home, by Clarence Williams, Henry Troy, Chris Smith)

Cake walkers may come, and cake walkers may go
But I wanna tell you ‘bout Cake Walkers that I know.
Well, there they were at Tony Packo’s, playin’
Weekends, all. Still should be (I’m just sayin’...)
Talk-o-the-town. Always bringin’ em down,
Packin’ the joint and bringin’ it renown
‘Til Tony balked. What was he thinkin’
When he let them go? That business move’s still stinkin’.
They’d be embraced by the riverboat fleet,
Or in the heart of jazz on Bourbon Street,
But here, not so. Not in so-called Glass City
Wake up, my friends! C’mon now, it’s a pity
To waste this gem! Toledo, turn on your dome
And find those Cake Walkin’ babies a home!

Marie Elena

Check it out! The Cake Walking Jass Band performing Cake Walkin’ Babies From Home!  Go Dad, Go!


Sunday, April 25, 2010


feeling the freeing
lack of divisive drama
on our own playground

Marie Elena

Friday, April 23, 2010


I received a surprise invitation for lunch this afternoon. My wife Janice, suggested we go to our favorite Italian Restaurant, Ilio DiPaolo's Ringside Lounge. It prompted me to post the following piece:

Ilio DiPaolo

A man among men,
a towering teddy bear
with a heart of gold
and the Midas touch
with children and Fagioli.

A professional wrestler in the golden age,
before the mass media theatrics,
and soap opera story lines,
Ilio played both sides of
his rope lined office.

But his renown and fame came after the ring,
as restaurateur was Ilio's acclaim,
a gentle giant with a table side manner
quick with the greeting and a lively banter
laced with his strong Abruzzian accent.

A fifth anniversary dinner at his "Ringside Lounge",
brought the “newlyweds” and their four year old Melissa,
To dine and be regaled by the wrestling memorabilia.
A daughter in awe of the Romanesque portrait
of this Adonis in grappling gear.

He emerged from the kitchen; to initiate his small talk
and devour my daughter’s young face with his large meaty hands,
planting a kiss on the forehead of his “Little Sweetie”.
She made the connection, as did he. His departure prompted her response.
“Daddy, that Mr. Apollo was a nice man!”

Author Note:  Ilio DiPaolo was a local Buffalo Celebrity. He died in 1995 after being struck by a car during a torrential downpour. Ilio DiPaolo was indeed, a nice man.


Thursday, April 22, 2010


On an archaeological dig,
through the historical site
which is my life.
More precisely,
an archive-logical dig.
A search for ancestry;
a validation of descendancy;
a self-searching soul.
Progenitors I had never known,
from places I have never
seen, nor heard about.
All clues in this
investigation, no revelation
left unturned. A return to
my origin, a re-birthing;
an unearthing. Placing me
at the scene of this life,
lived according to the dictates
of my DNA, and nurtured
by whichever diamonds
in the rough I uncover.


Wednesday, April 21, 2010


It was your song. 
Every year on this day
it played in your hearts.
Your day; your song.
The "Anniversary Waltz"
brought you to your feet
and brought you to dance.
Through all the trials and
tribulations you had 
encountered, your love
would transcend, in
a passionate slow dance
to celebrate this day.
Today would have marked
fifty-nine years of your love.
I celebrate for you in my heart.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!
I love you guys.


Tuesday, April 20, 2010


God hates divorce.
I don’t kid myself about this.
I recognize and respect His view.
Marriage is His institution, after all.
He invented it. He made the rules.
God hates divorce. I get that.

…and yet,

I divorced my husband of nearly 13 years.
Does God hate that? Absolutely.
He hates that vows were broken. Time and again,
and without remorse.
He hates that two, who were one, are now no longer.
Do I feel the brunt of God’s hate?
Absolutely not.

For, it isn’t me that He hates.
It isn’t my ex-husband that He hates.
It’s sin. The sin of selfishness,
In all manner of speaking.

During that time, He was with me.
I felt like an only child,
Cuddled and watched over and protected
By my Father.

Not only did He make me feel loved
And forgiven,
He gave me a true gift.
Nineteen years ago,
He gave me unselfish, faithful,
supportive you.

And I thank Him every day.

Marie Elena


a recovery.
saved from an incineration
at the local dump.
mud clotted and tarnished;
plastic woodgrain end mangled.
but there was something there.
he saw it. he always saw it.
it would be different when
he was done molding it to
a new glory. it was only a toy.

a reconstruction.
a wire wheel found its soul;
an oiled rag found its shimmer.
mud, unplugged and liberated,
fated for better things.
a learning experience.
master and apprentice; hands-on.
it would be different when
they were done fighting for
its new glory. it was only a toy.

a manipulation.
hand-crafted and brought to a new light,
a fight for what was good and right.
a father and son searching for
a common foothold; standing abreast together.
one expressed in words; one spoke in woods
both with an eye to an uncertain future.
he looked to the father for the guidance to cope;
the elder looked through a smoky brown bottle to deal.
no glory, it was only a toy.

a presentation.
shiny; newly blued gun barrel, detailed and gleaming.
shiny; freshly carved gun stock, his father's vision,
a craftsman in artistry; an artist in craftsmanship.
mounted on a placard of equal polish and shine.
and it was all his. they worked it together,
each with a unique vision for a common cause,
amidst applause and a few more draws on the foamy malt,
they shared in its pristine newness; a bond - father and son.
fated in glory, it was only a toy.

a disintegration.
perspective breeds contempt, pubescent and independent,
the son and father, sharing a name and a craftsmanship,
and little else. offspring, impressionable and fragile, a lump of clay
eager to be molded. parent, increasingly cold and inebriate,
escapist artist with a hand at wood, but not clay.
the father becomes the hunter, the son the protector
of all they had shared. slowly being extracted from
his warm and living hands. the bond; the truth and reality.
the alcoholic without glory and a boy with a toy.

a destruction.
shiny; newly blued gun barrel, detailed and gleaming.
shiny; freshly carved gun stock, his father's vision,
a craftsman's artistry; two artist's craftsmanship.
mounted on a placard of equal polish and shine.
the solution to an argument; a physical affront to the abuse
of a mother caught in the cross hairs. a drunken stare
and a lashing out to cause as much pain; as much mutual
destruction. a common bond; a joint effort;
one time glory. it was only a toy.

a devastation.
a project bringing/tearing apart all that was attained
through camaraderie; for an ideal. a father, taking the barrel
between his calloused and smoke scented hands;
swinging for the fences, sending shards of white metal shrapnel
skittering; sending slivers of burnished mahogany into flight.
throwing the shattered remains at my feet. a declaration;
"you are my son. you walk in my steps unfaltering."
an upheaval. rebellion. a denial of all preached as gospel.
devoid of glory. it was only a toy.

a resentment.
long harboring animus for one so loved and revered.
bonded in a conservative ideal, from opposite sides
of a shared misery. a choice; a road less journeyed.
the son strays to find his way; his voice, his choice
to walk his path. the father grasping at what had always
passed from father to son, somehow undone in this rendition,
and his suspicion lies in the opposition they have assumed.
the old mule and the young pachyderm seeking an open mind,
lost glory. it was only a toy.

a revelation.
scars remain on a heart that had found peace and forgiveness
in the passing of one so loved and revered. the fear of
taking a contrary stand against the old guard long buried
along with whatever hatchet remained. the vision of shattered
dreams and ventures, made somewhat whole. in heart and soul,
father and son again achieve oneness. two men joined in name,
sharing similar styles, from diverse sides of the aisle.
the thoughts stir up a laugh and a smile, all in mutual forgiveness;
a new glory. it was only a toy.



we each said "I do"
nineteen years ago, today
and never looked back

Marie Elena


Standing on the cusp of a new adventure,
son of a cavalry commander in a country
steeped in tradition; in a turbulent land
of ever-changing borders and politics.

Out of Igolomia the soul sprang, songs
of patriotism and struggle inside your head;
an opportunity in a land that prided itself
on offering every chance to make a life.

A life free: to encourage self-reliance,
personal responsibility, to build a family,
a home, a legacy which was that strong thread
that a tattered fabric relies upon for its beauty.

It became your duty; your determination,
to come to a nation so rife with mystery
for a young man whose name had been changed
before an unknowing smile by a disinterested bureaucrat.

Assume the position; stoic and proud, a tribute to
a military upbringing by a father that released his son
to make a better life in a new land. Handsome, the
strong dark Eastern European; the broken English American,

of Polish descent. Not displaced, not discarded.
Accepted to make a name in a land of many names and religious
beliefs. Jozef Kura. Your name means "chicken" in Polish.
You were anything but. You were strong, proud and driven.

You were my Grandfather.


Monday, April 19, 2010

TO DEANNA, BRANDON, AND MICHAELA (my grown children)

I hear the:
sewage spewed,
raised voices,
slammed doors,
and abhorrence
on the streets,
in the schools,
closing in,
shredding my nerves…

                           ... and I’m thankful.

                            Thankful that your voices
                            are not heard among the racket…
                                                 and never have been.

Marie Elena


You seized his heart,
and even now
you sing to him
and so endow
his very soul
with words of love,
and we enjoy
the fruit thereof.

Marie Elena

Sunday, April 18, 2010


Adrift on a choppy lake,
lost and unsure , uncharted
are the waters just ahead.
I sit in silence, not
knowing which star to
follow to bring me back
to a safe and solid shore.
In the distance it appears.
A blink; a blip on my radar,
A light offering a hand to draw
my tired vessel to the
harbor of humanity. The light
travels across the lake and
I take comfort and solace there.
A beam, a beacon, the warmth
of a thousand suns brings me home.
In the murky night; a lighthouse shines.


Thursday, April 15, 2010


No pressure
   No deadlines
      No drama
         No headlines
           Two poets
                 Two shorelines

Marie Elena

Wednesday, April 14, 2010


A warm embrace,
a group hug,
upon your return.

Warm in the hearth
of heart and home,
upon your return.

Warm as a summer breeze on Lake Erie,
Floating in familiarity,
upon your return.

A tingle, heart warming and true,
flush with the passion of love,
upon your return.

A newly discovered self-made island,
totally surrounded on all sides, with love
upon your return.



Life in the balance.
The scales reflect
what the mind will not fathom.
Life in the balance.
Hate strays from balance.
Complete love is distant from balance.
Somewhere in between
it is achieved.
True love knows
there is balance in heartbreak.
There is no other way.



...and if I look at you from across the room and you smile,
will I know that I had touched something deeply without moving my feet?
Does that one glance illicit the old fire; the slumbering ember
that has crackled since the first day we would meet?

...and if I see something in your eyes that flashes a semaphore;
signals deciphered in the darkness that your gaze outshines,
would my heart steer clear of the jagged rocks that had clouded our past
and find safe harbor in your heart as you had in mine?

...and if these lips would dip down to sip the refreshing nectar
that your passion has rekindled and your heart has shared,
would our journey find a restful companionship in each other
and seal the fate that brings the knowledge that we still cared?

...and if I sing to you, the songs my soul has written,
and offer them up to the heavens for the angels to sing along,
would your step lighten and your dance be liberated,
and would they tell you where my heart belongs?

...and if I hold you in my arms, will that embrace
erase all the turbulence that had shadowed our doubts and fears
and bring us closer than ever to indulge the lives we have remaining,
putting heartfelt meaning in the expression of our tears?

...and if I whisper "I love you" in the midnight darkness,
would you respond in kind, knowing that was all I needed to stay,
and give you every bit of me you would need to be completed
because you wouldn't want it any other way?

...and if I did all that, would you understand?


Tuesday, April 13, 2010


A decade separates us.
You didn’t seem to notice.

I came disassembled.
You picked up the pieces.

My dispirited children,
You readily embraced.

On our wedding day,
You told my dad,
“I won’t let you down.”

It was then that he knew
You understood love.

Marie Elena
Photo by Ron Gries


Veiled within your mantle tissue,
Nests a rare and precious pearl.
Spin protective beauty ‘round her;
Let your nacreous tiers unfurl.

Marie Elena

Photo by Steve Gertz

Monday, April 12, 2010


Like “Mommy,” with the accent on “Me,” not “Mom,”
An historic city with great aplomb.
Her river feeds Erie,
She’s female (my theory),
See Maumee dot org (not dot com).

Marie Elena

Sunday, April 11, 2010


And then he wrote of his love for her.
Her beauty, now fragile, infused his words.
And I felt the depth of his love
In the passion of his written word.

And then he wrote of his love for her.
Her life, now silenced, inhabited his words.
And I grieved for this stranger
Who openly exposed his heart.

And he writes of his love for her.
Her memory, now vivid, permeates his being.
And I listen as words on the page
Sing in the absence of music.

Marie Elena

In honor of this day.


For me, a year has quickly passed.
For him, eternity, since last
The one that won his poet’s heart
Did breathe her last, and so depart
Her delicate and failing frame.
A wisp of air snuffed out life’s flame,
And yet, she lives and loves through one,
Whose stirring words could raise the sun.
Her spirit lives, her joy is sung,
Her brand new frame is strong and young.
She gently cradles from above,
The poet’s heart that stirred her love.

Marie Elena
My heart is with you today, my friend.


She was skin and bones, frail
as all skeletal remains become,
with every last breath of life
still sticking to her ribs. Every
exhale came with the burdened
anticipation of the next deep gasp.
Her eyes, a vacuous stare, looking
through me and seeing nothing but
a chance to finally go home to her rest.
Well past the need  for words; or the
ability to express the same. Her face
contorted with each painful smile,
pleads in silence for one last embrace.
Wrapping my arms under her absence,
closing around her distance; squeezing
through my need to feel something,
only to fail miserably. A flame, extinguished
well before the light in her eyes had dimmed.
And I stood in her darkness, clinging
to the shadow of her and any lasting
memory that she had left me.
The last time that I held her
was my last goodbye.


Friday, April 9, 2010


Eyes closed,
I visualize a muddied canvas.
An image I hesitate to recognize as myself
Peers into a mirror,
Horrified at the malevolent apparition reflected.
A disquieting consciousness of her inability
To expunge the source is clearly evident in her eyes.
The Artist smiles,
Then bathes the canvas
In a soothing, pastel wash.
Gentle strokes flow with ease,
As the very canvas emits light.
An image I long to recognize as myself
Peers into a mirror,
And sees the face of Jesus.

Marie Elena


My deepest desire is that you would see beyond
my once-brown-now-green eyes;
tell-tale Italian shadows;
unruly dark curls, and down-right raucous silvers;
asymmetrical face that lights up when I smile;
5’6” fifty-plus-year-old, imperfect sinner …
And see the heart of Jesus.

Marie Elena


Behemoth of his power tools,
the table saw did indeed see
years of action. Many cuts made;
many piece trimmed.

It belonged to him, my Dad.
Skilled carpenter; an artist with lumber.
When the saw ran, the screech and hum
was unmistakable. The sawdust hung,

suspended in air; a slightly burnt smell
of wood and electrical ozone filled
each breath. The sound of the table saw
meant Dad was home, hard at work.

When he passed away, the saw fell silent.
The whole house did really. It was apparent
there was no longer life here at "home".
There was no saw dust; there was no hum.

Walking through the empty house, it no longer
felt like home. Nothing would changes that.
Or so I thought, anyway. Cleaning out his
workshop offered many unfinished projects he had

left so, due to his illness. The entire shop
was as he had left it the last time he worked in it.
A pile of wood sat in the rack, a canvas without
its Picasso. Mantle shelves, I thought.

I brought down the boards to the table top,
measuring lengths and marking cut lines.
Goggles covered my eyes, and the guard was in place
over the spinning blade. I flipped the switch.

The motor moaned to a start. When the saw ran,
the screech and hum was unmistakable.
The sawdust hung, suspended in air;
a slightly burnt smell of wood and electrical ozone

returned. The sound of the table saw
meant I was back home, at least once more.
The shelves now hang in my living room, reminders
of my Father and the hum of this table saw which I inherited.


Wednesday, April 7, 2010


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.



Him, my shy and quiet one. You, gregarious and full of life. Him, at 6’1”. You, perhaps 5’6”. An unlikely friendship.

Yet, you fished, and laughed, and talked, and shared struggles, and shared faith, and lunched, and … did I say laughed? No one makes him laugh like you. We’d be walking, he and I, and he’d get a call from you. A text that made him grin. Plans that made him smile. A joke that gave him an honest-to-goodness, hardy belly laugh. He counted on you to understand when and how he falls short of the man I know he is. You fueled his faith, and he, yours.

Breaking through the quiet exterior wasn’t nearly as hard as you anticipated, and you saw the gem that is my husband. When a friend asked you how you ever came to know him, you responded that he was well worth the effort.

If only I had a nickel for every hour you two spent on Lake Erie together.  Today, as he fussed over his tackle box, the tears flowed. As we ate dinner, he opened up. He loved you, Paul. In less than forty eight hours, he will help carry your casket, and lower your body into the ground. But you won’t be there. How fitting, that the day we celebrated Christ’s victory over death, is the day that you slipped into eternal life.  Someday, we will join you.  Until then, you will be sorely missed.

Marie Elena
Photo by Keith R. Good

Monday, April 5, 2010


“There is something I need to tell you”
as I lead her to a chair for a sit.
“Now, this won’t be to easy for you to hear
but I had better get on with it.”

“See, for over a year I’ve been ‘occupied’,
lost with my head in the clouds,
I wanted to tell you, but knew you would yell,
and Honey you yell fairly loud.”

“The moments at night that you wonder
where in the world I could be,
well, you see I’ve been sneaking…”
Her interest was piquing, with doubts of my fidelity.

“She’s quite a remarkable mistress,”
I heard myself starting to say,
“She gives what I need when I need it;
she’s holding my wild heart at bay.”

“I’ve taken her down to the lake shore
to walk in the wet wave swept sand,
with the sound of the gulls acapella,
She’s quite magical here in my hands.”

“She shows me that life is a wonder,
most precious of gifts to behold,
with mirth and emotion, and puerile devotion,
she fills me right down to my soul.”

“I whisper sweet things in the night time
only to hear how it sounds,
she rolls off my tongue, and when I am done,
I’m ripe for a couple more rounds.”

“A few of my friends think I’m crazy,
the rest think I’m wasting my time,
but, the ones most approving can feel the earth moving
without knowing the reason or rhyme.”

“In the darkness of my empty old homestead,
We get lost in a heartfelt embrace,
With thoughts of me growing right there, and knowing
the intimacy of that vacant space.”

“I can’t break away from her power,
A spell cast from the very first word,
You’ve given me chances, but this new romance is
The most beautiful thing that I’ve endured.”

The hurt in her eyes was heartbreaking,
the sound of her voice mixed with sobs,
she sought her composure to give her some closure,
while I felt like an insufferable slob.

But she gathered herself in an instant,
I could see the words form in her head,
when she started to speak, I turned rather meek
and just listened to what she had said.

“I don’t know why you need to torture me,
my heart is about to explode.”
The hell and the fury of this woman scorned
is about to make her thoughts implode.

“Who is she?” she said. ”No, I don’t want to know,
Just leave me to process this scene”
Now fire and anger soon put me in danger
I never had seen her so mean.

“Are you telling me, you’re having an affair?”
I panicked, “Yes, all right? It’s the end!”
“Oh good” she exhaled. “For a minute there,
I thought you were writing again.”



My youngest daughter (Little Miss Monologue) came home from Pre-K oh-so-excited to tell me she knows the Pledge of Allegiance by heart. In her usual auctioneer style, she gave me her no-pause, no-breath rendition:

"I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the republic for which it stands one nation under God indivisible with liberty and justice for all thank you you may be seated.”
Marie Elena

Saturday, April 3, 2010


A neophyte, unsure of ability,
the consummate of fair gentility,
poetic posturing her new dance,
if she gave her muse a fighting chance.

And he, no veteran as they go,
ensconced knee deep in Buffalo,
writing rhyme, a haiku harrier,
reaching across this Great Lake barrier.

The poetess, her verse inspires,
fueling his poetic pyres,
And poet, his sheer numbers "wow" her,
with assumed poetic power.
A stretch to think their muse would tie
their muse together, eye to eye,
across the lake, this eerie connection,
a proving ground of poetic perfection.

As the water rolls and churns,
confidence and strengths are learned,
prodded with a gentle hand,
this fair lady and gentle man.

From Toledo to Buffalo,
a "handshake", and "away we go",
connected how we ought to be,
Across the Lake, Eerily!



Before she claimed over 1800 lives;
Before she flooded parishes,
And displaced thousands;
Before she wreaked catastrophic havoc
On the levees of New Orleans;
Before she hit southeast Louisiana;
Before making her second landfall;
Before gaining strength in the Gulf of Mexico;
Before she formed over the Bahamas;
Before a drop of rain fell;
Before she eyed her target;
You were engulfed.

Marie Elena

Thursday, April 1, 2010


Free isn't lonely.
The choice to "uncleave"
is all your own.
Freedom is a long embrace
of the space one's been given,
living within oneself
comfortable in the skin you own.
People who see as lonely,
what is actually an escape,
see with only half-closed eyes.
No surprise, the half-filled glass
seeks its own level.

Lonely isn't free.
There is a price to be paid,
a ransom laid for relinquishing
the part of oneself that is life giving.
The self-proclaimed sacrificial lamb
led to the slaughter of uselessness,
when it ought to take inventory
of all it has to offer.
Stewing in the juices
of a sad lament meant
for the ears of one who cares;
falling deafly. Bereft of completion.

Being free does not render one lonely;
being lonely does not set one free.



I offer up this “word bouquet”
to celebrate one-year-today
when this camaraderie began
Ohio woman / New York man
Alliance formed in verse’s wake
Eerily, across the lake.

Marie Elena


No fooling. April is upon us. Spring is truly taking root, leaving another winter in its wake. April is the beginning month in the rebirth of the soul and spirit. You can hear it in the sounds and sights around us. The birds are chirpier, the days are sunnier and the poets all over the place are celebrating another month of mirth with rhyme. April is National Poetry Month and the minions are chomping at the bit to get these thirty days rolling. A cascade of words. A torrent of thought. A flash flood of frivolity. All rolled up into a month that promises to be creative and inspired. A shower? An April shower to bring the flowers of poetry to the fore, come what may. No fooling.