OPPOSING SHORES

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.

Walt

OCZEPINY

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.


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

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

LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER

Isolated,

an island out-

post hosting a

beacon bright;
scanning the night,
offering sight 

to wayward
wayfarers. 

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.

 

 

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

A SPARK OF MEMORY

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

Walt

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


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

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

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

NIAGARA FALLS ( A RETURN)

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...

Walt

NOT WELL OFF, BETTER OFF

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.

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

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

CHRISTMAS LIGHTS

Christmas lights.
Blinking, twinkling.
Red, yellow, blue.
Green and white; burns all night, bright.
Beacons of light in a mid-December snowfall.
Offering a brilliance not seen since early fall.
Silent, accenting vignettes of serenity.
A Christmas amenity:
strung and hung,
eclectic and electric.
Blinking, twinkling.
Red, yellow, blue.
Green and white, burns all night. Bright
Christmas lights.



Walt

POPSICLE TOES REVISITED

It comes and goes
when the west wind blows
and we're in the throes
of lake effect snows.
Jack Frost, the leader of my foes,
is drowning out my Ho, Ho, Ho's.
These ten little guys have surely froze;
the way it goes with popsicle toes.


Walt

TELL ME WHY YOU BELIEVE

                                                                                                                 I
                                                                                                             have
                                                                                                         done this
                                                                                                  for many years.
                                                                                       Tell me why I’ve never
                                                                                    noticed before. Why is it
                                                                            even the naughty ones get nice
             at                                                     this time of year? I don’t mind, since
           it                                                  means they want to get on my good side.
        Tell                               me why that is? I understand that every child, woman
     and                            man, don’t always believe in me, but I can see the good-
    ness in                    every person. I really do know. It’s a talent passed down
     from                   generations of Clauses. A telepathy maybe, or a knack. A
      crick in my back, or a tingle in my fingers. It lingers throughout the year
       and I hear a voice in my head that fills me instead with a compassion.
         I fasten my belt and get down to business. And my business has al-
          ways been Christmas. On the Eve of my big day, the elves load all
   of                                    the                                 gifts
  in                                      to                                   this
 sl                                         ei                                    gh.
  Then it’s up, up and away. Tell me why you still believe? I am Santa!!!!!


Walt

WHISPERS

It's a tranquil lake that licks the shoreline,

a gentle taste; longing for the familiar flavor

of a summer sent packing. Lacking much
in the way of seasoning, but anxious for the season
that approaches. It can be heard in soft sounds.
Not rambunctious and raucous; more tip-toey

and cautious. Secretive. Seductive. Luring

and alluring. Stirring the paint pot with
a broad brush, coloring the landscape to offer

a grand escape from the hum-drum. Some

certainly envision the splay of oranges and golds,

crimsons and whatever else nature holds for our viewing.

Autumn is brewing. Not with an extravagant entrance,
but with a warm nuzzle; a comfortable caress.

Hushed words expressing what a heart can feel.

Hear it in the whistle of wind. Listen to the rustle of the leaves.
See it in the palette of the Grand Master's artful stroke.
Embrace the whispers of a serene and assuring nature.

Walt