THIS BIRD HAS FLOWN

Orientation.
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.

FINNEGAN, BEGIN AGAIN?

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.

ANNOUNCING WALT'S FIRST POETRY COLLECTION!

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

HAIKU

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.

TWO APRILS AGO

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

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

THE BIGGEST PICTURE

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.

Walt

PARTNERS IN RHYME

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.


Walt

POSTCARD TO IGOLOMIA, 1905

Father,

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,
Jozef


Walt

A YOUNG MAN'S FANCY (1949)

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!

Walt

WE WERE CONNECTED

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.
Walt

MELISSA

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!


Walt

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

SOPHIA ROSE MAVIS

Sometimes, there just aren't any words.

Photo by Keith R. Good

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

IMPATIENCE

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

Eagerly waiting "Nonna Marie"

WASTED TIME

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


Walt

HAIKU

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 .

SO WE DECIDED TO GO DOWN TO TRY AND GET AUTOGRAPHS

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.


Walt

JANUARY SNOWS

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!


Walt