HAIKU BACK

Success through kinship
Volleying across the ‘net
Aiming to advance

Marie Elena

NEARNESS OF SPIRIT

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.

FATHER'S HAND

"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.



Walt

INGLORIOUS BASTARD

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.


Walt

THE DEVIL RESIDES

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


Walt

TIDES

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.


Walt

KENNING'S WALT

Beatles-mad
  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? ;)  

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!

Walt

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.

Walt

SAIL

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

 

 

Walt

MUSIC HATH CHARMS

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.

Walt

AUNT JANE

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.

Walt

MEET ME

Meet me where memory encounters moment,

dream melds with certainty,

and loss is rendered impotent.

Marie Elena

OF LOSS AND REMEMBRANCE AT CHRISTMASTIME

Years pass.
Christmas never changes.
In the exchange of gifts and greeting
there is a meeting of hearts and it starts.
Thoughts of voices that have been silenced
and smiles that have faded into misty memory.
Melancholy peeks through the windows
of a heart broken soul; a token show of
love for loved ones long vacant.
At some point you anoint these recollections;
a status of legend and immortality takes hold.
We remember Christmases of long ago as if
they are visions of a changeable future.
It nurtures us and give our sorrow rest.
The tomorrows are the best when our steps
are guided and propelled by the lessons learned.
Through our losses, we remember the wonder of love
and we will be healed by it; the gift of Christmas.


Walt

HAIKU

Crash! One at a time
each shoe falls, leaving footprints
when I carried you.


Walt 

BEFORE THE STORM

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

AT THE ZOO

Cramped quarters, and crowded to overflow,

you never know how these things are planned.

As it would stand, the animals had little say.

It was sad and upsetting in a way,

that the keepers made the choices and

those without voices had little to say.

The variety of the species was intriguing,

in a league all their own, over-blown

in scope, and that left little to say.

Everyday, the wild ones were forced into domesticity,

a simplicity to those cracking the whip. The zookeeper

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

Four young lions, strong in spirit and vision,

but always in division over their birth right

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

Gazelles, graceful and girlish, flanked the habitat,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We were well protected, and that said it all.

 

FOREST FIRE

Rising out of the trees,

a misty wafting of moisture raising 

skyward amidst the changing leaves, colors

ablaze against an ashen sky. Much heat in the 

oranges, warmth in the golden hues, the 

crackle of crimson, crisp and clear. 

From here, as 

the morning 

awakens, my 

soul is shaken 

by the beauty,

and stirred by 

the illusion; 

visual intrusion

of autumnal foliage,

appearing to smolder as night bids adieu.

Walt

THREE IN SIJO FORM

I
When the beckoning telephone causes your heart to race,
and you awaken each morning to daunting and disturbing truths,
be reminded of the friends God has placed upon your path.
 
II
In the midst of these disconcerting times, this painful trend,
this season of anguishing heartache and languishing disquiet,
I will lift my face to the heavens -- and I will choose joy.

III
I search the lake for still waters, yet see riotous wave
after riotous wave, thus hindering my view of the lighthouse.
Yet the Light of the World illuminates my path to joy.


Marie Elena

ER

 

Silently she sits,
vigilant, ever-concerned.

More trouble than a Good

and loving soul should stand.

Making a grand plea for peace
for a troubled daughter,

an aging father, and
a mother-in-law that is

as Good as her name.

Just the same, she'd rather

cuddle on the couch,

contemplating poetry
and wearing her "Buckeye Pride",
while inside there is
a sentinel, a guard of her sanity

and her heart. Always that Good man

near to keep her well-rounded,

grounded in her faith; relief

in every belief on which she was raised.

Praise to He who is deserving,

never swerving from her heart.

But for now, she sits.

Silently. Steadfast.

Good to the last.

Walt