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.

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

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

HAIKU

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.

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

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

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

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

A FATHER'S LOVE

In a battle for his life,

Leukemia disassembles his cells,

One by one.

So,

When did counting breaths take precedence

Over counting cells?

When his son’s diseased lungs

Began sucking life

Instead of oxygen.

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

LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON

I was drawn to their son.

The kind blue eyes

That softened, and crinkled in the corners

When they dared make contact with mine.

The broad shoulders,

That beckoned me to lay my head

Against the chest they framed.

The unassuming demeanor

That spoke volumes to me

Of how he was raised.

But my heart had been wounded.

My trust had been broken.

My spirit was guarded.

Until I met them.

And I saw

The kind blue eyes

That softened, and crinkled in the corners

When they made contact with hers.

The kiss placed tenderly on her head.

The hand that gently stroked her cheek.

The whispered prayer that honored her.

The heart that took in

Every word she spoke,

Every breath she drew.

And I knew

Their son,
Who was stealing my heart,

Could be trusted.

Marie Elena

Photo by Ron Gries

To Mom and Dad Good, with much love and great respect.

MY BIBLE (A SONNET)

I’m living in a country where I’m blessed;

where I can freely read God’s word at will.

Without the fear of seizure and arrest,

I drink it in to get my daily fill.

Not everybody sees it as God’s word;

some see it as a convoluted text.

I can’t believe their hearts would not be stirred;

a thought that leaves me saddened and perplexed.

I cannot fathom life without this gift

that speaks to me through times of pain and strife.

Without God’s word, my heart would be adrift,

and, aimlessly, I’d wander through this life.

Immersed inside The Word, I’m right at home --

My Father is the author of this tome.

Thankful for this freedom.

Marie Elena

WOOD PLACE

Once tree lined,

until Dutch Elm Disease

took her toll. A quiet knoll

that came to life when the kids came out to play.

We'd play all day,
along this out of the way
thoroughfare, it was there that
we came to life; brothers, sisters and I.

A double lot 

was our footprint, no postage stamp

of God's little acre; the Maker gave us

all that we could handle and all we wanted.

The generational home,
where we were born, where Mom was raised,
where my newly naturalized grandfather settled
to raise his growing brood. He also grew food

on the lot he purchased 

along the rail lines. That was the place

that piqued my interest in trains. On time,

always to the schedule the iron rumbled.

Cousins always near,
the only fear we embraced,
came from the characters we devised.
The knights of Wood Place spent our nights

sleeping in the backyard,

roaming the 'hood after dark,

never in a malicious manner, more

of a watchful and protective way.

From the end
of our driveway to the second
telephone pole was our domain, street football
on a neatly painted asphalt gridiron; the envy

of the kids in the neighboring

streets. We were emulated; never duplicated,

celebrated for our camaraderie and brotherhood, 

in our neighborhood on Wood Place.

Dad held fort
until the end and after we and our friends
had found our own stations; our own Wood Places.
I remember the faces in my dreams.

Now Wood Place is a memory.

You can't go back again. It isn't

the same; wasn't meant to be. It was

a starting point, that mint green castle. No hassle

came without backup.
I do not venture near there.
I wish for my memories to be unburdened
by the sadness of her rapid decline, a sign that

we left Wood Place

at the exact right time. In my heart and mind

I run the streets at night, kicking cans and keeping

my hiding spots secret. All in sanctuary, on Wood Place.

Walt

BROTHERHOOD OF THE WHITE STITCHED BALL

They came as nine.
Perfect for this game.
Third base line seats tucked
behind the opposition dugout.
Every cheer and shout directed
at the pristine field. Five were brothers;
one by proxy. Three were cousins, close.
The ninth, a long time compatriot, a brother
of sorts; cohorts in this simple game. Hit. Catch.
Throw. Wouldn't you know it would be so simple?
"A sky so blue, it'd hurt your eyes to look at it!"
A strand of clouds lined the outfield. Contrasting,
completing; highlighted in pinkish tones. No bones about it.
Our father was punctuating a perfect day, in "the land of the free,
and the home of the brave". Play Ball!


Walt                                                            Photo by Aron Martinez (Coca-Cola Field Security Man)

IN MY FATHER'S HANDS

Life.

Held in the balance,
held in high regard,
held in my Father's hands.

Held within my heart,
held in respect,
held in my Father's hands.

Held in loving embrace,
held with reverence,
held in my Father's hands.

Held for a lifetime,
held in fervent memory,
my Father, the hands that held.

Life.


Walt

HAIKU

Happy Father's Day
to my respected mentor
Across Lake Erie.

Marie Elena

JUST BECAUSE (A Father's Day Tribute to My Dad)

Because you love and respect,

I love and respect.

Because you are content with modest means,

I am content with modest means.

Because you cherish simple pleasures,

I cherish simple pleasures.

Because you value my mother,

I married a man who values me.

Because you are loving and just,

I easily see my Heavenly Father as loving and just.

And so, Dad, I love you

just because.

Marie Elena

HAIKU

He’s not their father --

He is the one who chose to

father my children.

Marie Elena

...AND THAT'S WHEN I CARRIED YOU

When your burden is heavy,
place them in my hands and continue your journey.

When your mind is troubled,
hand them to me and be comforted by clarity.

When your challenges are oppressive,
give me the chance to handle them. Be at peace.

When your heart is breaking,
remember I hold the capacity for eternal love.

When your eyes are unseeing,
know that my hand is outstretched to guide you.

When your confidence wanes and doubt resides,
be grateful my hands will wash yours, strengthening them.

And when life seems arduous,
rest in my hands, and I will carry you.

I will hold you close,
and you will be loved.


Walt