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 ALL HAVE HEROES

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

TRIBUTE TO MY GODFATHER
(Originally posted August 7, 2010)

Generosity, personified
Outstanding uncle
Dedicated


Father-at-the-ready
Admirable
Trustworthy
Honest businessman
Enterprising
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

CROSSROADS (A sonnet for my cousin, with love)

Psalm 139:16. … all the days ordained for me were written in your book

before one of them came to be.

James E. Powers, Jr. 

September 23, 1952 - November 19, 2010

He stands between the living and the dead,
as ailing lungs no longer understand
the expectations of a heart in dread,
not willing to let go of all it planned.

Though comatose, his mind exerts its will,
Not giving up, nor knowing how to cope;
As loved ones, keeping vigilant, instill
An ember of illuminating hope.

Sad we cannot return to days of old,
Of playing ‘til the streetlights called us home;
Now, heart-in-throat, we watch events unfold;
Our desperate pens add chapters to his tome.

Yet, God imparts His own life-giving breath,
to give eternal life that transcends death.

Marie Elena
 
"...  just around the corner from the light of day"  The Boss

You lost the battle to breathe earth's air this morning, but gained eternal, celestial air.  You are loved, and always will be.  See you on the other side, Punk.

HAIKU

Belmont Avenue
Nestled among family
Longing to return

Childhood memories.
Joyful. Innocent. Carefree.
Longing to return.

Marie Elena

MOM

At 4:30 a.m., she left this world.

I can only imagine she gazed with sheer awe into the eyes of God,

and had trouble looking away, even momentarily, to greet her Mom and Dad,

and others who were excitedly waiting to throw their arms around her

 and welcome her home.

They now have the honor of her gracious presence,

while we will be without.

They have the pleasure of her lovely, ready smile,

while we will need to content ourselves with one-dimensional photographs,

and warm memories that we will not allow to dull.

Keith and I count it a privilege to have accompanied her on her journey.

Bearing witness to Dad’s adoration of her to the very end,

we walked with them hand-in-hand to the line separating this world
from the next.

It was there that Dad tenderly and selflessly encouraged her to

 “Go ahead, Dolly.”

A man of valor. A woman of nobility.

An exceptional love story

 that will not end with the death of one’s earthly vessel.

Thank you, Mom, for making it easy for me to call you “Mom.” You will be deeply missed.

Marie Elena

Deloris Jean Good

November 8, 1939 – October 26, 2010

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.

 

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

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

… AND TO THE *REPUBLIC FOR WHICH IT STANDS

*Responsible, Empowered People; United By Liberty, Independence,

and Civic virtue

Marie Elena

AMAZED

The way you looked at me at first,

you look at me, still.

Those tender eyes that warmed my heart,

stir and warm me, still.

The way your soul would speak to me,

speaks so sweetly, still.

The patience you displayed to me,

endures with me, still.

And after nineteen years with you,

you amaze me, still.

Marie Elena

HAIKU

Our Mother Nature
isn't always motherly.
Thankful for safety.

Marie Elena

TOLEDO BLADE COVERAGE:  http://www.toledoblade.com/

BEWARE THE IDES OF MAY

Summer approaches in theory,
a month away and the middle of May,
and it appears to be a nice non-rainy day
to finish putting my winter away.

Grass to cut and edges to trim,
the neighbor in foreclosure, he left a mess,
and I'll be cleaning up after him, I guess
I'll do what I have to to make it less

a cesspool around my domain, I'm kicking it in gear,
giving the yard a good spring cleaning,
(at least these intentions are what I'm meaning)
the sky is clear in the direction I'm leaning

but off to the East, it appears darkly cloudy,
this changeable weather is well expected,
but with all the rain lately, I'll feel so dejected
not being able to do what I've projected.

The middle of May, there's flowers to plant,
gardens to plan, and as usual, I'm the guy
to do the bull work as I like to, and try
to get it all done, but I sigh.

I felt a drop, and he brought family,
if it's a brief shower, I think I'll be fine,
on God's little acre (and this part is mine),
but if it pours, I'll get wet and whine.

Beware the Ides of March May,
take this day and seize 'er,
"Et tu, brutal (weather)?"
This Spring's been a killer.

Walt

THE HUNDRED ACRE WOOD

Behold, the Hundred Acre Wood

Where all is well, and all is good

Where no one is misunderstood

Where all work for the common good

Where friends help friends, just as they should.

Marie Elena

HAIKU

feeling the freeing
lack of divisive drama
on our own playground

Marie Elena

IT WAS ONLY A TOY

a recovery.
saved from an incineration
at the local dump.
mud clotted and tarnished;
plastic woodgrain end mangled.
but there was something there.
he saw it. he always saw it.
it would be different when
he was done molding it to
a new glory. it was only a toy.

a reconstruction.
a wire wheel found its soul;
an oiled rag found its shimmer.
mud, unplugged and liberated,
fated for better things.
a learning experience.
master and apprentice; hands-on.
it would be different when
they were done fighting for
its new glory. it was only a toy.

a manipulation.
hand-crafted and brought to a new light,
a fight for what was good and right.
a father and son searching for
a common foothold; standing abreast together.
one expressed in words; one spoke in woods
both with an eye to an uncertain future.
he looked to the father for the guidance to cope;
the elder looked through a smoky brown bottle to deal.
no glory, it was only a toy.

a presentation.
shiny; newly blued gun barrel, detailed and gleaming.
shiny; freshly carved gun stock, his father's vision,
a craftsman in artistry; an artist in craftsmanship.
mounted on a placard of equal polish and shine.
and it was all his. they worked it together,
each with a unique vision for a common cause,
amidst applause and a few more draws on the foamy malt,
they shared in its pristine newness; a bond - father and son.
fated in glory, it was only a toy.

a disintegration.
perspective breeds contempt, pubescent and independent,
the son and father, sharing a name and a craftsmanship,
and little else. offspring, impressionable and fragile, a lump of clay
eager to be molded. parent, increasingly cold and inebriate,
escapist artist with a hand at wood, but not clay.
the father becomes the hunter, the son the protector
of all they had shared. slowly being extracted from
his warm and living hands. the bond; the truth and reality.
the alcoholic without glory and a boy with a toy.

a destruction.
shiny; newly blued gun barrel, detailed and gleaming.
shiny; freshly carved gun stock, his father's vision,
a craftsman's artistry; two artist's craftsmanship.
mounted on a placard of equal polish and shine.
the solution to an argument; a physical affront to the abuse
of a mother caught in the cross hairs. a drunken stare
and a lashing out to cause as much pain; as much mutual
destruction. a common bond; a joint effort;
one time glory. it was only a toy.

a devastation.
a project bringing/tearing apart all that was attained
through camaraderie; for an ideal. a father, taking the barrel
between his calloused and smoke scented hands;
swinging for the fences, sending shards of white metal shrapnel
skittering; sending slivers of burnished mahogany into flight.
throwing the shattered remains at my feet. a declaration;
"you are my son. you walk in my steps unfaltering."
an upheaval. rebellion. a denial of all preached as gospel.
devoid of glory. it was only a toy.

a resentment.
long harboring animus for one so loved and revered.
bonded in a conservative ideal, from opposite sides
of a shared misery. a choice; a road less journeyed.
the son strays to find his way; his voice, his choice
to walk his path. the father grasping at what had always
passed from father to son, somehow undone in this rendition,
and his suspicion lies in the opposition they have assumed.
the old mule and the young pachyderm seeking an open mind,
lost glory. it was only a toy.

a revelation.
scars remain on a heart that had found peace and forgiveness
in the passing of one so loved and revered. the fear of
taking a contrary stand against the old guard long buried
along with whatever hatchet remained. the vision of shattered
dreams and ventures, made somewhat whole. in heart and soul,
father and son again achieve oneness. two men joined in name,
sharing similar styles, from diverse sides of the aisle.
the thoughts stir up a laugh and a smile, all in mutual forgiveness;
a new glory. it was only a toy.

Walt

BEACON IN THE MURKY NIGHT

Adrift on a choppy lake,
lost and unsure , uncharted
are the waters just ahead.
I sit in silence, not
knowing which star to
follow to bring me back
to a safe and solid shore.
In the distance it appears.
A blink; a blip on my radar,
A light offering a hand to draw
my tired vessel to the
harbor of humanity. The light
travels across the lake and
I take comfort and solace there.
A beam, a beacon, the warmth
of a thousand suns brings me home.
In the murky night; a lighthouse shines.


Walt

SELF-MADE ISLAND: TOTALLY SURROUNDED ON ALL SIDES

A warm embrace,
a group hug,
upon your return.

Warm in the hearth
of heart and home,
upon your return.

Warm as a summer breeze on Lake Erie,
Floating in familiarity,
upon your return.

A tingle, heart warming and true,
flush with the passion of love,
upon your return.

A newly discovered self-made island,
totally surrounded on all sides, with love
upon your return.

Walt

BROOKLYN

Veiled within your mantle tissue,

Nests a rare and precious pearl.

Spin protective beauty ‘round her;

Let your nacreous tiers unfurl.

Marie Elena

Photo by Steve Gertz

MAUMEE

Like “Mommy,” with the accent on “Me,” not “Mom,”
An historic city with great aplomb.
Her river feeds Erie,
She’s female (my theory),
See Maumee dot org (not dot com).

Marie Elena