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."

Wednesday, July 27, 2011


One of the quintuplets nestled,
dividing countries and states.
Friendship awaits at every crash
of lunacy's pull. Waves across the water,
shore-to-shore in a connection,
eerie and complete. We join daily
in an exchange of written wonder,
falling under its spell.
Person-to-person, Toledo-to-Buffalo,
on opposing shores a kinship blooms.


Saturday, July 16, 2011


I am resurrecting an old piece of mine, because this happens to be the weekend of this festival.  I envy my relatives who still live in the area, and can attend at will.  Save some cheese puffs for me, guys!  And thanks to Chris for helping me with a few of the details.


I’m scorching hot. My clothes cling to me in the smothering humidity. Add to that the people-laden, sticky black tar church parking lot without a shade tree in sight. Ugh.

Yet, the air is saturated with inviting aromas: potent garlic; sweet onion; roasted peppers; spicy Italian sausage; yeast bread rolls; sweet dough twists with cinnamon sugar; cotton candy … and cheese puffs. My cousin Tom and I make a beeline for the deep-fried sweet dough filled with ooey gooey cheese. Yummmmm!

We race toward the Ferris wheel, dodging through the crammed masses and attractions. My nostrils are suddenly assaulted with the fishy stench of smelt. Eew. This booth boasts a line of cuffed pants; brimmed hats; men’s black shoes; and long-sleeved shirts soaked with sweat, each revealing the standard white muscle T beneath. These older Italian men puff cigars (again, eew!) and pass the time in line playing the loud, fast-paced game of Morra.

“Quatro!” (four!)

“Sette!” (seven!)

“Otto di fuoco!” (eights on fire!)

Roars of laughter rise with the cigar smoke above the cacophony of festival sounds.

From a game booth, a hoarse female voice hails, “Roll down, roll down! Six tries for a dollar!”

Various carnival rides summon as well: Creeeek … screeeeeech … tic, tic … whoooosh!

A button accordion pumps out a Polka, accompanied by the “oom pah” of a tuba. We pause to watch smiling couples bob as they step, quick-step, step, hold their way around a make-shift dance floor.

We spot Nonna at the Bingo Tent with an array of cards spread before her, fervently trying to win an “Infant of Prague.” This uniquely Catholic carnival prize is a plaster figure of the jewel-crowned infant Jesus, clothed magnificently in a robe of rich red, royal blue, or gold. Game booths and tents flaunt eye-catching displays of the satiny fabrics, glistening jewels, and outstretched arms of the holy infant. I feel the contrast of Nonna's satiny cheeks and stiffly sprayed hair as she pulls us close, and presses a quarter into each of our palms.

Continuing to the Ferris wheel, a small stand topped with a six-foot twirling glass of yellow lemonade beckons. Soon soothing icy lemon slush slides down the back of my throat.

I nurse my treat while in line for our ride. Cold sweat drips off the cup into my sandals, and squishes between my toes. A silvery car grinds its way to the bottom of the giant spoked wheel. We hop on, my bare legs sticking to the hot metal seat. Tom slams the safety bar shut, and we rock precariously forward and back.

The car jerks and jolts as we inch up a notch so the one below us can load, and so on -






Stuck at the peak, we get a birds-eye view. The setting sun creates peach, mauve, and midnight blue hues. Glistening stringed lights of sapphire, emerald, ruby, and gold crisscross the grounds. Suddenly, my hair flies up and my stomach drops, then settles back in as it grows accustomed to the whirling sensation. For just a moment, I close my eyes and relish the breeze.

Marie Elena

Thursday, July 14, 2011


A romp through new digs.
It figures I end up a lone wolf
when the cub heads out. There
is no doubt that she will succeed.
Indeed, she will set the pace
in this place of higher learning.
Yearning to be free, it is she
who will stand tall. I should have known
this bird has flown. Empty nest and all.

Sunday, July 10, 2011


Success through kinship
Volleying across the ‘net
Aiming to advance

Marie Elena

Saturday, July 9, 2011


Two shadows at play.
collaborative effort,
success through kinship.


Tuesday, July 5, 2011


together they play
as the sun shines brilliantly
casting two shadows

Marie Elena

Monday, July 4, 2011


Brava! Marie Elena for placing a poem in the 21st place of the 2011 April PAD. You are coming into your own as a masterful poet, and I couldn't be more proud. Pleased that you can carry the torch for all lake dwellers and relieve me of the pressure of poetic excellence. Continue to grow and express in the manner to which I have become accustomed. I'll catch you around the beach and in the garden.!


Wednesday, June 22, 2011


We each pay our dime,
And enter the theater.
We are greeted with
   Air conditioning,
   The luscious scent
      Of unaffordable popcorn,
   And deafening previews
      Of coming attractions.

We also find we are the only ones

We do what any going-into-third-grade-r would do.

We sit in the balcony.

Then the front row, center.

Then you move to the back, and I stay put

And we wave and yell echoed hellos

And laugh

And laugh

And laugh.

We laugh at Laurel and Hardy,
But we mostly laugh
At the sheer fun of being.

Cousins are cousins.
Or strangers.
Or friends.
But you are the brother
I never had.

Saturday, June 18, 2011


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.

Sunday, June 12, 2011


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.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011


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.

Sunday, June 5, 2011


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 your mailing address and I'll have them out ASAP. The CDs orders will not be delayed at all. Thank you for your interest and support.


Thursday, June 2, 2011


I stole the following from my prolific and terrific BlogPal:

"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.”

Number 1 has my name on it. 

Marie Elena

Saturday, May 28, 2011


My sincerest appreciation for those who gave their lives for our country, and their families:

Democrat to Republican

Evangelical to Atheist

Conservative to Liberal

Officer to Private

Reform to Libertarian

Americans, ALL

Tea Party to Progressive

Independent to Green

Objectivist to Prohibition

National Heroes, ALL

Marie Elena

Tuesday, May 24, 2011


Sound: rhythmic clicking
Scent: smoldering, blazing flames

Marie Elena 

Write on, Partner!

Wednesday, May 18, 2011


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.

Copyright © 2011 Walt Wojtanik

Saturday, May 14, 2011


Thunder rumbles,
Nature grumbles,
Evening Grosbeak comes to rest.

Danger brewing,
Floods ensuing,
Evening Grosbeak puffs his breast.

Marie Elena

 Photo by Keith R. Good

Saturday, May 7, 2011


to honor the call
to love unreservedly
to be a mother

Marie Elena

Happy Mothers' Day to all moms everywhere, but especially to my mom and godmother. I couldn't have asked for more love, nor amazing role models. Mom and Aunt Peg, you are loved and honored every day.

Thursday, May 5, 2011


A moment in time.
Tuxedo clad and my dad
gives up his "date" for the next dance.
Me, adorned with a monstrosity on my head.
A hat bearing fruit: apples, grapes,
a banana and two lemons astride it.
Very Suggestive, I couldn't hide it if I wanted.
And my mother, moist from tears
that had replaced her make-up hours ago.
The music plays sad and sweet,
and my day is complete.
Mom puts her head on my shoulder.
A moment in time. Perfect.

** Oczepiny is a ceremony performed at Polish weddings. It signifies that the bride ceases to be a bride; she is now a wife.


Saturday, April 30, 2011


Two Aprils ago, and soon to be three, she established herself as a poem devotee. So timid at first, and so easily veiled; just pleased to rub elbows with those who are hailed as poets … TRUE poets, whose pens fairly crooned. She smiled through April, yet never attuned, and just shy of ease, was she.

Two Aprils ago, with three closing in, she opened a door to see what lies therein. She’s never looked back; now relaxed and at home … still pleased to rub elbows, and eager to poem. For once seeds were planted, and buds were in bloom, enamored was she with poetic perfume.

Two Aprils ago, now closer to three, goodbyes were not needed … nor will they now be.

Marie Elena


The final April moon will soon take leave.
Contentedly, he navigates the sky.
He knows not that his passing makes us grieve,
Nor hears the tone of our collective sigh.

For thirty eves, the moon has cast his spell
Releasing inspiration from his core
Yet, now has come the time to say farewell,
As April’s moon will strum our hearts no more.

No gathering beneath his fetching smile,
Nor once-upon-a-timing ‘neath his glow.
Though next year, he will once again beguile;
Inspiring prose and verse to daily flow.

Our melancholy hearts will melt away,
For there will be a new moon come what May.

Marie Elena

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

HAIKU (For Uncle Jim)

You were a leader
Who never let followers
Feel less than partners

Marie Elena

Note:  Today's Writer's Digest Poetic Asides poetry prompt challenged us to write about leaders, followers, or both.  How can I hear the word "leader" without thinking of Uncle Jim?



"Talk to me some more.  You don't have to go.  You're the poetry man.  You make things all rhyme."

A "wish I'd written that," to honor Walt.

Marie Elena


"A street is no place to play"
you would say as you clasped her
hand, gentle in its unsurety.
Held in the purity of her heart,
she sees you as a leader.

"Look both ways" you would say,
"to be sure that it's okay"
And she stand toes-to-curb erect,
able to detect the proper moment
that she will follow her leader.

"Hold my hand" you assure her,
your tender flower with the enthusiasm
of a sponge; waiting to sop up all
that you pour before her. She looks up
and smiles. "You lead, Daddy."

Lessons learned at her father's hand,
the kind of man she wishes to grace her life,
when she is ready to become a wife.
Standing at the end of this magnificent aisle,
she'll take your hand. Walking together once again.

All in the name of her father's hand.


Monday, April 25, 2011


Sandstone giants creep downhill
Imperceptibly at will
Littering the valley floor,
Weighing half-a-ton or more.
Monsters float with silent grace,
Falling from their lofty place.

Would not wish to be on hand
When goliaths finally land.

Marie Elena
Photo by Marie Elena Good

Note:  This is a true phenomenon in Conkle’s Hollow Nature Preserve of the Hocking Hills of Ohio.  Sandstone rocks, weighing in the tons, detach from the bedrock wall of 200-feet, and slide absolutely imperceptibly downhill to the floor of the gorge.  The rock in the photo above is one such “Slump block.”

Sunday, April 24, 2011

MY GOD, MY GOD (A Kyrielle)

an empty tomb the stone rolled away huge and heavy yet rolled away by ...
Sheer loneliness, epitomized
In One so tortured, scorned, despised
When hanging there upon the tree
Cried “Why hast Thou forsaken Me?”

I loathe my sin that held Him there,
And offer up the sinner’s prayer.
Still, shaken, as I hear His plea,
“God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?”

I’ll not forget His sacrifice;
The blood He shed to pay the price;
Nor how He, when estranged from Thee;
Wailed, “Why hast Thou forsaken Me?”

Behold, this selfless, sinless Lamb
Dismissed the power of I AM.
He emptied Himself willingly,
and He has not forsaken me.

Marie Elena

Eternally grateful to my Redeemer.

Photo Source: http://www.pubsub.com/AM-Music-News-China-Snubs-Dylan-Beck-Hits-INXS-The-Thermals-Separate-Rolling-Stone-6HIlDYEzn7VS

Friday, April 22, 2011


Forty pieces of silver has it's allure.
For sure, it could have bought enough
to feed a few and briefly ease their suffering.
But what you were offering was worth so much more.
I see that now. Too late, too late.
You always talked about your Father's will,
but nobody asked me what I wanted.
I wanted to stay and finish my meal.
I wanted to die in the oldness of my age.
I wanted you to be my Brother throughout.
And what I've found out won't change things.
Instead, we fought. I abandoned you.
I betrayed you. Sold you for some pocket change.
And in the end, you were beaten and broken.
Without words spoken, our eyes met and
every opportunity for a second chance
died, nailed to that tree. But I did not see.
Not then; not now. Blood money leaves
a nasty stain on beloved hearts.
I would have changed if I could,
but my fate was predicated,
and vermin like me are easily convinced.
In the end, we're all left hanging.
Does forgiveness come at the end of one's rope?


Wednesday, April 20, 2011


I write of love for my family, friends, and home. Yet, ink halts the flow of emotion to page when I attempt to write of my love for you. The deep sentiment I feel translates tritely to the page, while my soul yearns to write lyrics for the love song my heart endlessly hums. Listen, then, to the silent lyrics penned in tender eyes and gentle touch, for it is there that my heart’s song is rendered.

Happy 20th Anniversary to Keith, the love of my life. 

Marie Elena

Monday, April 18, 2011


Congratulations to my poetic partner Marie Elena Good for her poem "Crossroads", a top 10 finish in the Poetic Asides Sonnet Challenge. Her beauty in words lies in the Sonnet and Haiku forms. Great job Lady!
Also, kudos to Bruce Niedt for taking the top spot. Very Well done, Jim would be very proud!



Sunday, April 17, 2011


From here I can see it all,
why can't they?
It was they that brought me here
to hang and suffer,
to act as their buffer
from here to the here after.
From here I can see it all.

From here I can see my friends cower
they lower their eyes
and despise all who do me harm,
something warm flows into mine.
Blood as a testament,
an unrelenting reminder from my Father,
I search to find her. My Mother,

from here I can see her,
sad and heart-broken and salvation
is one small token in response.
My brother John beside her,
comforting and consoling,
extolling praises on Him who had sent me.
She is his now. Here is your Mother.

From here I can see the soldiers and rabble
gambling over my cloak and robe,
no compassion is theirs, but they are still heirs
to this sacrifice in which they are complicit.
They proffer their rancid vinegar
to quench my thirst. I offer my blood
the flowing water of eternal love.

From here I can see the elders and supposed
people of wisdom and scripture
witnesses to my demise. Forgiveness I offer
for their ignorance. Hypocrites all.
Their stature falls with every second
I am aloft. Their stance does not soften
but they will be haunted often by this.

From here I can see the criminals who
suffer the same fate, it is too late for them.
One does not feel remorse and his course is clear.
The other will share a paradise straight from here.
I will assure you he will. And still
my blood will cleanse him as well.
It is hard to tell who deserved this fate more.

From here I can see the skies darken.
I harken to my Father, "Eli, Eli"
but his will I do. Thunder rumbles and
the rain tumbles from these black cloud.
I cry out loud as I am near death.
They see me as a man hanging from a tree,
but from here, I can see the big picture.


Friday, April 15, 2011


Cool it with the Charles noise,
I'm just one of Ella and Larry's three boys.
Call me Buddy, everyone does,
I don't know why; they tell me "Just because"

     I found my voice by the age of five,
     recorded songs from before I was alive.
     Music lived in me; it filled me, obsessed me,
     I'd even say that "demon" possessed me.

Along the way they screwed up my name,
yet in their mistake, I found my fame.
Finding my piece of pie in the American Dream,
when I gulped and hiccupped onto the scene.

     Rock and Roll was in its early stage,
     but I knew it would be the rage,
     I assembled a band, that was the ticket,
     and with me to lead, we were the Crickets.

Oh Boy, what a time! A thrill of my life,
It's so easy to get into this life.
The drums were the heartbeat, and I knew what to do,
If you love Rock and Roll, I'm gonna love you too.

     It's great to rave on with these words of love,
     Below it was blue days, black nights up above.
     But, something touched this brown eyed handsome man.
     If you saw her smile, maybe baby, you'd understand.

I found true love ways, in Maria Elena's smile,
she gave me my heart, it gave me my style.
Love at first sight, I asked "think it over",
she said "Yes". I was rolling in clover.

     I went on the road, she stayed home expecting,
     her sad Spanish eyes were surely reflecting
     the raining in her heart, she appeared to be coping,
     while she sat by the phone crying, waiting, hoping.

Clearlake was rocking, the music insane,
a late winter storm as we boarded the plane.
"I hope your plane crashes", Waylon Jennings would say,
In my bright Holly smile I said, "That'll be the day!"

     "And the three men I admire the most,
     the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost,
     well, they caught the last train for the coast,
     the day the music died." ~ Don McLean (American Pie)


Thursday, April 14, 2011


cradling tenderly
a cherished friend’s aching heart
in hands that can’t hold

Marie Elena

My friend, I'm at a loss. I did not make it to FB, PA, or Across the Lake yesterday. On FB this morning, I saw that many of the dear souls at PA were posting words of comfort on your wall. I visited PA to see what was happening.

There is nothing harder than watching in vain as your child struggles with pain that is unfair, out of your control, and inconsolable. My heart is with you and your wife, Andrea, and the family of this lost soul. May he be at rest now in the arms of Jesus.

Your heart is aching for your sweet Andrea, her classmate, lost family, and lost love … it is too much. God give you strength and comfort, Walt. And may He remind me throughout today to hold you all in prayer.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011


Poetic justice presented as a nudge,
an effort to budge me from my malaise.
It's been one of those days
but in times as these, I find it pleases
me to think of the friendship we've amassed.
Marie Elena Good, a perfect monicker for one
so open of heart, and giving of warmth; an angel.
Set before me for the reasons only He knows,
but she truly grows on me daily. It is safe
to imagine that the gift of Marie becomes one
that continues to give; her nature and upbringing
dictate it. We can debate it as much as we want,
but I can't claim my laurels without thanking
Him who made me, and she who made me continue.
Supportive, comforting, but with a swift kick
when the need demands. The hands that hold
family and friends so dear, the hands that hold
her darling Sophia, stretch across the lake,
eerily touching the heart and soul of one
usually in control. We do no more, no less.
The "Best Friend I ALMOST met".
I thank God for the reason. And I thank Marie
for three seasons of poetic prodding,
always nodding in her Good way.


Tuesday, April 5, 2011


I know you; we've met
in the darkened shadows,
where you cower, and reign

your power and terror upon
the ones I love; or have loved.
A black fisted glove clenched in victory.

A thief in the night,
strikes as horribly in mid-afternoon,
or April Sunday mornings, without warning;

a plague most verulent. Never repentant,
nor indiscriminant, an ignorant disease
bringing to their knees, all hopes and futures planned.

Your wish and command stands defiant,
and reliant on the grief and sorrow of those
that will someday follow, by your "hand" or

some other insidious grip. No radiance
or chemical drip can clip your wings for long;
your grasp is strong. Buying time, but never enough.

Many things left to say, but tough!
As lives in the balance dangle to mangle
and devastate; a wicked fate. A silent coma,

from this carcinoma. The victor.
Life's restrictor. Never paints a flattering picture.
Inglorious bastard.


Monday, April 4, 2011


an island out-
post hosting a
beacon bright;
scanning the night,
offering sight 
to wayward
He stands on 
watch, keeping 
the lamp sweep-
ing the water.Buoys 
bob in the darkness,
harkening the bells 
with the swell of each 
wave. Deep bellow-
ing horns cut the evening
fog, leaving a long echo 
from harbor to shore. A 
solitary ex-sailor never fails 
to offer security; a sentinel 
sure and silent. Alone in the night, a beacon bright.

Sunday, April 3, 2011


Robert Lee Brewer of The Writer's Digest Poetic Asides interviewed 2010 Poet Laureate, Walt Wojtanik.  I couldn't be more proud! Way to go, Walt! Click here to read the entire interview.

Marie Elena

Saturday, April 2, 2011



I have come to America.
We are huddled here, masses
of peoples from many places.
Polish, German, Irish, Italian.
Swedish, Nordic, Austrian, Czech...
Slowly, we are processed to be free.
Men, women and children; both strong and infirm.
Some are detained; but I am lucky.
The lady of liberty says,
"Welcome to America, Jozef".
I am free.

Your son,


Sunday, March 27, 2011


A sailor, on leave back at home
from his deployment on the USS Borie,
this story has been told by many old
salts of his day. Along the way she
attracted his eye; fetching, catching
his heart off guard. It wasn't hard to see
the attraction, and her reaction to him
was cool at best. But, at his request
she relented, and that sent the gears
into motion. Navigating without an ocean
but steered by the stars in her eyes
his skies became clear. It was the strangest
thing when a young man's fancy turns in Spring!



Blue skies
Welcoming sun

A high of thirty six

Brave souls angling for the love of

Marie Elena
Photo by Keith R. Good

Wednesday, March 23, 2011


She lays confused, lonely, cold
in a world where warmth was never
her strongest point. But she waits

unknowingly for the synapse to fire
a brief link to past thoughts;
sparks of memory to catch and ignite

the life she has lived. It gives
her as sense of self that lasts
sometimes for the blink of her eye.

She cries at the futility.
Tears, the utility of every broken heart
start to stream, teeming within red and tired eyes,

a life as seen through her vision
sits in contrast to her existence.
Days numbered and passing unnoticed.

She sees her young neice as an old friend
from a neighborhood that had died years ago.
A photo of the girl's father, her brother,

sparks a smile with the recognition.
Then her condition takes control and
her stroll down memory lane ends.

Each day starts and ends in darkness.
Every moment in between holds
a murkiness of its own. Aunt Jane lingers.

Fingers curled and fisted, clutching
prayer beads, or maybe the last moments of life.
Her memory fades and she does not remember.

Prelude to:

"She Does Not Remember" by Anna Swirszczynska


Monday, March 21, 2011


Eerily flaming
Rising into Earth’s night sky
Rare parigee moon
Marie Elena

Photos by Keith R. Good

Keith captured these vastly different photos of the March 19, 2011 "supermoon" above the Maumee River.   

NEAR THE ERIE TRACK (The House With None of Us In It)

I do not venture there anymore.
The old homestead near the Erie track
stands in an unrecognizable state.
The tales I’ve been told of our old house are tragic.

The house is empty, a haunted house bears more life.
The sharp contrast cuts like a serrated knife,
shredded, tattered edges and shards of memory
laid to waste and leaving a bitter taste in our mouths.

Generations stacked three high would cry
a collective tear if they went near the Erie track.
In fact, many more would shed when the fact enters their heads
that there’s nobody in the house worth a mention.

I cringe with a strain; a tension winding my spring
until I release and cease to be rational.
A right and traditional home; a suitable sanctuary,
it is scary how quickly it has fallen. It is hard

to imagine a manicured yard and bountiful garden left barren,
I wouldn’t care if the years of my making weren’t taking
their toll on my memory. There is nary a day that goes by
that I do not try to recall her as our domain. All that’s left is pain.

Indeed, she offered us all that a house should, it was good
that warmth and shelter were felt in her embrace.
We played no part in her disgrace; this place is no longer
ours to concern over. We’ve grown stronger in our absence.

I do not venture there anymore. That place,
that house with none of us in it. I do not look back.
Response to:

"The House With Nobody In It" by Joyce Kilmer


Saturday, March 19, 2011


Here in the details, a demon lurks.
Recollections and distractions;
interactions of our lives.
I wear you like your comfortable coat,
which I had spirited away from the home
in which we lived; now abandoned.
Its warmth still soothes an aching soul,
and no one knows. No one knows.
Your hat, a cap really, shields my eyes,
the brilliance of daylight you cannot
see, belongs only to me. Your vision
lives in my vision; your bloodline secure.
It was no disgrace that you had succumbed
to the most vile of venom; your riddled body
ravaged and recoiled, spoiled for your function.
Your anger and denial fought weakly,
and your resolve held gently to the slender
thread, instead of giving up the ghost
to live in that shroud ever-so-briefly.
Then, your voice was silenced, a wretched
cacophony that shouted through your vacant stare.
And I was there, suspending my own life to share
every last second of your diminished existence.
In the distance you heard her calling,
and I was stalling for one last word of love between
estranged father and son. One last word; maybe “sorry”?
It haunts me, your memory and all that had burned
itself into my soul. There is no mending that could
placate this pain. Again I search through something
of yours to try to repair you to prominence. But,
the predominance of your paternity will remain
for an eternity, ever buried deeply in my memories.

In response to:

“Try to Remember Some Details” by Yehuda Amichai


Friday, March 18, 2011


Back in the story telling business. Here is one of what I hope is many more to come:

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. ..."

Monday, March 14, 2011


Growing into adulthood, I like to think I have set myself up to be a role model for my daughters and the young minds with which I would come in contact. I hoped to be an example of what striving for a dream meant to my own life; and demonstrate the value of commitment that had become a lesson well learned. This emotion has its root in my childhood.

We grew up, four brothers with varied temperaments and interests. A span of six years from youngest to oldest, our battles were legendary around the block - a rock 'em, sock 'em tandem fighting for dominance. But that discrepancy would all but vanish in the celebration of frozen ice on a backyard pond. Lackawanna, New York, a suburb of Buffalo, was home. It may as well have been Victoriaville, Quebec. Hockey had quickly become king in Western New York. A short jaunt over a Peace Bridge was a weekly pleasure, a treasure of our puckish youth and this ice time a rag-tag group of hockey wannabes could secure at un-Godly hours at the Fort Erie Arena. In 1970, the old "Pepsi" Logo of the American Hockey League Buffalo Bisons was replaced by the charging bison above crossed swords of the new upstarts of the National Hockey League, Buffalo Sabres.

The Sabres became the glue that bound us. The team leveled our familial playing field; gave us a common ground that rose above our unique personalities. The loyalty bred through that association remains lasting. The proof in this muddled pudding came in the acquisition of three very talented players.

Gilbert Perreault (Pare-o) was THE original Sabre. The most coveted player coming out of Junior hockey that year, he was the equivalent to a Sidney Crosby of today. The majority of his first year was spend as the main attraction for an entertaining, albeit struggling expansion franchise.

Richard Martin, a teammate of his with the Montreal Junior Canadiens, joined Perreault the next year. Where as Perreault was grace and finnesse, Martin was pure power. A natural goal scorer with a knack for finding the opening from all over the ice, their chemistry flourished with the Sabres.

In short time, the Buffalo team had acquired a journeyman forward from the Pittsburgh Penguins in exchange for Eddie Shack, who at the time was my favorite player. The young winger, Rene Robert (Ro-Bear) stepped on the Buffalo Memorial Auditorium ice and quickly endured himself to the Sabres fans (myself included). In his experimentation, Joe Crozier, who had replaced the legendary Punch Imlach as coach of the fledgling team, combined the three on the same forward line, which would become one of the most prolific combinations in the leauge. They were dubbed the "French Connection" after the player's French Canadian heritage and the popular movie of the same name.

The three youngest of the Wojtanik boys, brothers Tim and Ken and myself, would attach their aspirations on the rise and fall of their favorite players. Tim was the miniature version of Martin who became his idol. He possessed a hard shot and an acuity for scoring goals. An injury kept him from a tryout with the Binghamton Broome Dusters minor hockey league team and pursuing his dream of playing professionally.

Ken was a graceful skater and a very heady player. He had a touch with the puck as well, but was more of a playmaker. He took his cue from Perreault and followed his career with interest.

I was a big fan of the game, but my skills were less developed than my siblings.
Let's say I could hold my own. As aforementioned, Robert had found his way into vision.

With those allegiances, we became the French Connection. We were Perreault, Martin and Robert, on a lesser scale. But that bond brought a unity to a family of our fractured fraternity that remains to this day. We are brothers first and foremost, and "teammates" for life.

Why do I rant? Richard Martin died yesterday in a one-vehicle crash, apparently caused by a heart attack he had suffered prior to losing control of his car. The news touched me deeply. I thought back to his playing days in Buffalo, and his unknown influence on a band of hockey playing brothers. It saddens me that a part of our youth, our very fabric, had been taken from us. I think of my brother Tim, who idolized Rick Martin to the extent of wearing his number 7 throughout his playing days. I worry for his health. With a family history for heart maladies and his more rambunctious lifestyle, I'd hate to see him suffer a similar fate.

A man died Sunday. In all, Richard Martin was a husband, father, friend, teammate, and hero to thousands of Buffalo Sabres fans. And in his passing, once more a group of brothers became connected. Rest Peacefully, Fallen Hero.


Friday, March 11, 2011


The milk of human kindness pours
freely; clearly. Nearly everyone
aspires to a higher calling,
but ends up falling flat on their
best intentions. Conventional wisdom
is a conscienable nudge to action.
But, only a fraction of the folk
respond. It is beyond comprehension,
not to mention beyond reason.
Those who want stand in legion
pleading, needing to just sustain;
a respite from the torrential rain
life pours down. Sounds simple,
but pride becomes the pimple
that blemishes the clear complexion
of a complex humanity. Such insanity
is treated in a fashion, a mix
of compassion and ignorance. And all
that is required is an effort,
a sort of determination to improve
the station of those who had lost their way.
Do it because you want to; do it
because you can. Take a stand;
you'll be better for it. Don't ignore it,
we're all deserving of one good turn.


Thursday, March 10, 2011


Rising and falling,
sea birds calling
a trill, shrill
and resounding.
Surrounding the shore,
seaweed tossed and sands
of lost childhood, decay.
On a good day, you can see
clear across to Canada,
a cyclical sonata awash
in rushes and retreats.
Beneath the feet
of beachcombers, the warmth
of a million suns baking,
taking shells and driftwood;
a good haul for an early spring.
Still, the gulls sing
a redundant song, strong and shreiking.
Another wave rises, then beats
a hasty withdrawal. Through it all
you breathe the freshness abounding,
Rising and falling, your chest
duplicates the lunar lambada
of the Great Lake. Waters rake
the moistened sand on its departure.
Sunsets and crashes leaving colorful dashes
across the glinted surf. Tides return
to where they had come as the night descends.
Another day ends in the swell of tides.



Nature's wonder
under the thunder,
over the span of generations
the cascade continues.
One of those venues that
stirs the heart
and moistens the eyes
(and most of your clothes
if the wind takes a turn)
You yearn for the beauty
to capture you, taking
your pulse to feed its frenzy.
Many come to be enchanted,
enhanced by the sheer power
they can stare for hours.
Newlyweds and wannabes,
seek to sneak a peek
on their way to more
intimate locales. Sex sells
but in the shell of the gorge,
the churning is matched
only by the memory it leaves.
Branded upon a romantic heart,
the roar of Niagara remains.
She never leaves you.
You'd be a stooge to not
take refuge in her thunder.
Nature's wonder, Niagara Falls.
Slowly I turn...


Wednesday, March 9, 2011


A woman in charge,
barging into life with ambition,
a condition she's served well
in twenty-five years, that's my "Mel".
Confident and secure, demure
to make a princess curse.
My first born and my best
critic. Mimicked, but never duplicated.
I've waited all these years to see,
the younger version of me
in a prettier package. Glad to be Dad.
Happy Birthday, Kid!


Monday, March 7, 2011


So, a few less dollars grace my pockets,
and no sky rocket celebrations in the offing.
And maybe my offspring don't inherit any more
than their mother's good looks
and their father's well turned phrases.
At this phase in my life, my wife and I,
though preferring a lifestyle upgrade,
have decided that our pride and upbringing,
could have us singing in the rain,
instead of preying on that rainy day pittance.
Our daughters have learned well, and it tells
in the way they carry their grace and name,
and although they are not the same by any stretch
of my over-active imagination, they know their staion.
It might seem that we have no ambition to position
ourselves on the ladder of success, but I guess
raising these beauties with an eye towards
bettering themselves and the world around them,
is worth its weight in a life well lived.
We're not well off, but are much better off in the long run.


Angels sing me lullabies
Softly lilting voices rise
Wafting gently through the air
Carrying an earnest prayer:

“Dream of Jesus, little one
He who hung the moon and sun
Cradles you all through the night
Safely snug ‘til morning light.
Safely snug ‘til morning light.”

(My father [Sophie's Great Grandfather] wrote an original tune for this lullaby.   It may also be sung to the tune of Mary Poppins’ “Stay Awake.”)

Marie Elena (Nonna Marie)
Photo by Marie Elena Good

Sunday, March 6, 2011


While His children sleep
In quiet stillness of night,
God paints purity.

Photo by Keith R. Good
Marie Elena

This is not a black-and-white photo.  This is Keith's un-retouched color photo of our Chinese Red Maple during last night's exquisite snowfall.

Thursday, March 3, 2011


  Polish lad
    Friday’s child
      Smidgen wild

        Stuff fixer
          Rhyme mixer
            Beach walker
              Ed talker

                Hard worker
                   P.A. lurker
                    Bills fan
                      Buckeye man

                        Poem writer
                          Sleep fighter
                            Word gifter
                              Mood lifter

                                Lake dweller
                                  Funny feller
                                    Smile bearer
                                      Blog sharer

Marie Elena

There.  I KNEW I'd seen a photo from your BeatleMagic Ed Sullivan gig.  Hope you don't mind that I snooped through your FB photos and snatched your Ed Sullivan impersonation pic, Partner. Too fun! Now maybe my "Ed talker" line will make a little more sense to people, eh? ;)  

Saturday, February 26, 2011

PRINTS (Sophie's Sonnet)

A woman knows instinctively, it seems,
Which moments will leave prints upon her soul.
Her future life weaves fabric through her dreams
And writes upon her heart, as though a scroll.

A woman thinks she knows what to expect
From pioneering moments in her world -
Anticipation of events’ effects,
And how her heart will feel as they’re unfurled.

Yet, there was I, as wholly unprepared
As if I’d never given you a thought.
My heart and hub were all-at-once ensnared –
I would convey in words, yet I cannot.

Sophia Rose: a gift from God above –
New life. New breath. New gift. New print. New love.

Marie Elena (Nonna Marie)
Photo by Marie Elena Good

Thursday, February 24, 2011


Sometimes, there just aren't any words.

Photo by Keith R. Good

MARIA ELENA (by Jerry Vale, Marty Robbins and others)

Much to share in answer to every prayer,
an ability to touch a heart in a caring
manner, hiding her banner
contrary to her ability, a verbal agility
that floors me; it never bores me.
A beacon bright shedding her blessed light
on every soul she encounters.
Each mounting day says much
to an inner beauty and charm,
arm-in-arm with the men who carry her:
He who made her and the lucky one to marry her.
A miracle of mirth and motherhood,
a "Good" and decent woman. No man
could be luckier to befriend her,
a pillar of loving grace on her end of
a lake, Great and eerie. Dearie,
you make my day. I'm proud to say
and you can bet, the best friend
I STILL haven't met!


Wednesday, February 23, 2011

POETRY MAN (by Phoebe Snow)

It's in my head, I can't escape it,
for within it lies my truth.
These thoughts and words become my song,
a melodic twist of poetic justice.
Every step of every day becomes
a lively dance; a prance through
the obstacles we all face. But,
in its place is a rhyme that fuels me;
it won't refuse me when I call.
Its all in a well turned phrase.
It makes my days fly by with a glint
in my eye and emotion to express my soul.
I'm in control. I'm the Poetry Man.


Tuesday, February 22, 2011


Here all alone,
writing; inciting.
Loudly, expressively, proudly,
with verses and rhymes to hone.
The only one to know what my heart is thinking,
dispatching those thoughts without me even blinking.
I revel in the silence; my sanctuary,
comforting and not scary.
Projected, protected.
Defined, refined.
Writing; inciting
loudly. Expressively, proudly
with verses and rhymes to hone,
here all alone.

*** The poetic form is called "Fabrique", reminiscent of the French forms with their repetition which is woven throughout the "fabric" of the poem. Devised by Walt Wojtanik for the Poetic Asides Poetry Forms Challenge.


Monday, February 21, 2011


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

Friday, February 18, 2011


There once was a madman ‘cross Erie,
Who, throughout the madness, was cheery.
And while I’m assessing:
His work is a blessing.
At least, that’s this blog partner’s theory. ;)

Marie Elena


Just a crazy old guy,
collecting poems as if they were cats.
Stumbling, sometimes mumbling to himself.
"Moon, June, bafoon...", this lyrical loon
searches for the right word. The way
he plays with nomenclature, they're all right.
Off to his outpost, with a host of other
rhyming things, he sings words to a song
he had once written, smitten with a lovely.
Above him a placard bearing quotations,
and random notations; nuggets to ponder.
Yonder is a file box, stocked with pages:
rants and rages, laments and upstages.
A poetic pariah, lost in a world
in which every street leads to the
center of his worded thunder.
It's no wonder others of his ilk
seek distance, with some resistance
to be sure. Purely speaking, they are seeking
his persistence and reticence. He pens in perfect
solitude, an attitude he's acquired
to be all he's desired; full throttle ahead.
Damn the torpedoes. Across the lake
he takes his stand. Just a crazy old guy.


Thursday, February 17, 2011


Set adrift.
Surrounded on all sides,
a man stands, aloof,
proof of his arrogance.
There is an ignorance
that precedes him,
An apathy that defines him.
Lost in a sea of self-import,
he'll resort to anything
to make his point. Annointed
in his mind, he will soon find
a need. Lessons of a life,
rife with pitfall and valleys,
he'll someday rally. Treading water.
Clutching to the life preserver called hope.
Survival awaits, as long as he stays afloat.


Wednesday, February 16, 2011


Misery in the company of strangers,
brothers in arms and for a cause.
Silence interrupted, a brief pause
and the raucous resumes. Plumes of smoke
and the resonance of ordinance,
repetitive and resounding; pounding
the pavement and every ramshackled
residence in sight. The plight is the same.
Loved ones yearning, discerning the emptiness
from the heartache. Another quake
and shrapnel flies. Shutting his eyes
he clutches a hand to his chest, pressing
her photograph closer to his pulsing heart.
Another Valentine's Day in absentia.



Intensely mind-controlling, pulsating, all-consuming thoughts!  Impetuously eager, nerve-wrackingly cognizant excitement!

Eagerly waiting "Nonna Marie"

Tuesday, February 8, 2011


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


Monday, February 7, 2011


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 whirr 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.


Thursday, February 3, 2011


With penchant for the written rhyme,
He’s now in his poetic prime.
The years have only added days
To wheedle words, or turn a phrase;
To woo a reader, pierce a vein --

And it is here that he’ll remain.

Marie Elena

Happy birthday to the best mentor a girl could ever ask for. Here’s to future decades of sweet-talking your muse into dancing ‘til the sun comes up.

Saturday, January 29, 2011


“Give credit where credit is due!”
(Apparently something I blew.)
In movie-line credit
go look for my edit.
See, Peggy? I did that for you!

Marie Elena



We feel like we’ve lost you too soon,
but just when we’re needing a boon,
we’ll look up and smile:
in true Powers style
you’ve platinum-plated the moon.

Marie Elena

Inspired by my cousin, Carrie Powers-Miller.  Thanks for the idea of Uncle Jim and Punk platinum-plating the heavens! 

Also inspired by my son, Brandon, who was inspired by his Aunt Peggy (my seeester), who was inspired by Truvy, who reminded us that "It's all right. Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion." Truvy (Dolly Parton); Steel Magnolias. 

The edit of this credit was inspired by Peg, who read it, then reminded me that it was *she who told my son to get it.   


Friday, January 28, 2011


Psalm 139:16. … all the days ordained for me were written in your book
before one of them came to be.

James E. Powers, Sr.
April 21, 1931 - January 28, 2011

On August 7, 2010, I wrote the following to honor my Godfather, Uncle Jim.
At 12:45 this morning, he lost his battle with leukemia.

My parents and I went to the hospital as soon as we got word, where we found a room filled to capacity with his wife, daughters, sons-in-law, daughter-in-law and grandchildren.
Noticeably present was Jim, Jr. (“Punk”), his only son, business partner, and best friend,
who left us on November 19.

Written on the patient whiteboard was Uncle Jim’s goal for today:
“Golf with Punk.”
That brought a smile to my face. Goal met.

Thank you, Blessed Father, for allowing Punk to be there to escort Uncle Jim into Your presence.

Link to "Crossroads,"  A sonnet for my cousin:  http://aleerily.blogspot.com/2010/11/crossroads-sonnet-for-my-cousin-with.html

(Originally posted August 7, 2010)

Generosity, personified
Outstanding uncle

Honest businessman
Respected by all

Uncle Jim is a man to be admired. In 1977, he bravely started his own precious-metal plating company here in Toledo. It was a 1200 sq. ft., father-and-son business. Once business took off, he employed many over the years. He offered free education through a tuition reimbursement program, full healthcare coverage, and respect for everyone from part-time housekeeper to chemist. As is the case for too many small businesses, the economy has taken its toll, and he has had to downsize severely.

He is a loving father to his own children, and father-at-the-ready for me. When I was a little girl, I feared nearly everyone … including (unfortunately, and for no reason) my own father. When I was approximately four, I decided my dad was an okay guy after all. One day in our kitchen, I decided I was going to tell him how I felt about him. I climbed up in his lap to give him the very best compliment a man could ever be given: I told him that of all the "men" I knew, I loved God first, Uncle Jim Powers second, and him third. Poor Dad. I was such an evil child. Sincere, but evil. I've never lived that one down.

Too often, we wait until it is too late to express our love and admiration for people in our lives. On this side of the Lake, I have many.

And I’m not waiting.

Marie Elena

Monday, January 24, 2011


Floating in a sea of her own perspiration,
she clutches the bed sheets like a life preserver.
Vacant is her stare, a weapon of every ache and pain
ingrained in her broken heart.
Showing little life; her eyes clench
closed to the world of familiarity,
a similarity to the other residents
who have found themselves left
to languish in lassitude.
Aunt Jane appears to be asleep,
tears seem to weep through her slumber.
The touch of a tender hand is all
that stands between life and the abyss.
A gentle kiss on a timeworn cheek
eyes flutter to a bleary peek
at the face inches from hers.
“How are you Aunt Jane?”
Her tired eyes smile briefly.
“Better” she whispers,
turning to her pillow with a sigh.
In that moment, she found recognition.
In her condition, it was more that I had hoped.
You don’t care that you’ve been forgotten.
You embrace that brief flash of lucidity
and accept that life still caresses her heart.


Thursday, January 20, 2011


God offers heart peace
To the world-weary sinner.
A soothing soul balm.

Marie Elena

Thank you, Jim Donadio, for pointing me to this “heart peace” this morning.  Jim started a new faith-based blog, and it is blessing me greatly.  I love you, Cuz!  http://victoryinhisgrace.blogspot.com/2011/01/identity-crisis-ii.html .

Monday, January 10, 2011


Even from high in the bleachers
he looked mammoth.
Broad shoulders and legs
strong, churning, crushing.
Eight years old
and I was hanging close to my Dad's knee.
I knew the name. Cookie Gilchrist.
Before I knew all my prayers. Cookie Gilchrist.

Cookie ran for the Buffalo Bills
on this cold afternoon November of 64.
I sat riveted, watching my idol
steamroll over opposing linemen,
linebackers and the odd zebra or two.
Dad laughed as it was
"Cookie this", and "Cookie that"
He knew a boy needed his heroes.

The Bills could have won without him,
but Gilchrist made it special.
"Thanks Dad" I remember saying,
"He's my hero"
Dad smiled a smile
that continues to warm me to this day.
We grabbed our gear and headed out.

"This way, Sonny" he instructed.
And I followed in obedience.
Ramp, after tunnel, after stair
to a ramp. We found ourselves
in the lowest point in the "Rockpile".
A swarm of screaming kids blocked the way.
Standing above the throng...
Cookie Gilchrist.

Dad leaned in and whispered to me
and I nodded in compliance.
In my loud eight year old voice
I called, "Mr. Gilchrist?"
He stopped. And glancing our way, he smiled.
Cookie pressed past the crowd
to the place where my father and I stood.

This mountain of a man
reached for my program.
He smiled even more broadly
and he plied his signature
onto the glossy crisp page.
In awe I stammered,
"Thank you very much, Mr. Gilchrist!

One last smile graced his face.
"No son, thank you!"
I came to understand
his gratitude as the years passed.
For in a simple gesture,
my father taught me a great lesson.
I learned respect.

I had the opportunity to thank my father
before he had died.
"No Sonny, thank you!" he said.
With that the lesson was completed.
A boy has to have his hero.

Carlton "Cookie" Gilchrist died today from a recurrence of Cancer. He was 75.


Tuesday, January 4, 2011


Masked intruder,
Prowler, looter --
Cute as cute can be.
On a lark
At Sidecut Park
Along the great Maumee.

Marie Elena
Photo by Keith R. Good


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!


Saturday, January 1, 2011


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.