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

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

ONE GOOD TURN

The milk of human kindness pours
freely; clearly. Nearly everyone
aspires to a higher calling,
but ends up falling flat on their
best intentions. Conventional wisdom
is a conscienable nudge to action.
But, only a fraction of the folk
respond. It is beyond comprehension,
not to mention beyond reason.
Those who want stand in legion
pleading, needing to just sustain;
a respite from the torrential rain
life pours down. Sounds simple,
but pride becomes the pimple
that blemishes the clear complexion
of a complex humanity. Such insanity
is treated in a fashion, a mix
of compassion and ignorance. And all
that is required is an effort,
a sort of determination to improve
the station of those who had lost their way.
Do it because you want to; do it
because you can. Take a stand;
you'll be better for it. Don't ignore it,
we're all deserving of one good turn.


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

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

MEET ME

Meet me where memory encounters moment,

dream melds with certainty,

and loss is rendered impotent.

Marie Elena

THE GIFT

                                                                    Silent                                                                                        

                                                                  and still,

                                                                 the way a

                                                                night like this

                                                               should be. All have

                                                            retired, they surely look-

                                                            ed tired and worn. They’ll

                                                           be better in the morning, they

                                                        have earned their rest.   They did

                                                            their best. I’d be resting too, but

                                                                it’s just that I’ve still too much to do.

                                                 There’s   that list; a new quick check for updates,

                                                reprieves from me in a stretch.   A call to the stable,

          assuring                           this latest chapter of the fable goes off without a hitch.

       The        suit                        is pressed. The boots shine next to the white fur, setting

     the    brig       ht                     crimson ablaze; a staple for the Holidays. Am I crazy, or has

      De   cember   co                 me more rapid than eagles? It feels like it to me. Time flies

      wh   en I’m hav ing     fun.        I scan under the tree with a twinkled eye, spying the

   presents displayed. Every          brightly wrapped package becomes the best prize, never

    taking away from the next, at        best joining each box in wonder and richness. But,

   there is one gift that draws my attention. Did I ever mention my total love of Christmas?  It

     is in that spirit that I take up this Gift so incons       picuous, yet so utterly necessary   for

     this day. For in my hands, I hold perfection. At    closer inspection, I am certain. No giftof 

Christmas was ever so right; so accepted. So loved.   Remembering the verse, “…and the
greatest of these, is Love”, my heart swells, a telling    sign that Christmas lives within me.
 This                            Gift      so needed, fills my hands with its girth, and makes my heart
    wor                        thy                through all that it espouses. It houses purity, and sanct-
         ity.                It                       represents love. The Truest of All Love. And so it is
             with      this                   First Gift of Christmas.              I bow my head; a silent
                 prayer                         prepares me for my jour           ney. “God so       loved
              the       wor                      ld that he gave his only            son…”              and
          I ret             urn           The Babe to His manger, the love of Christmas fills me. I raise
       from                     my      knee, coming to stand near the tree. I am Santa Claus, chosen to be an icon of the season. I am humbled to receive “The Gift” I represent Who gives it a reason.          Walking in silence and reverent thought, to a waiting sleigh and a day of love.

Walt

HAIKU

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


Walt 

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

POETIC NURTURE (Pathetic Future)

Life went on in a downward spiral,

a world gone viral and lacking in decorum, no forum for discourse, 

just the forces of nature in coercion with the latest version of humanity without sanity.

The vanity of every man, woman and child had taken a wild turn, spurning tradition and
heading on amission to destroy all good things. Presidents and Kings, lacking in insight,
fight for their agenda, hardly mending fences and fostering the pretense that they strive
for the common good. But, no man had the ability to change things, no hope was ever
offered. We asked not what we could do to achieve that city on the hill amidst a thou
sand  points of light. All we did was fight. In a country of excess, we came to lose the
ability to express, we would digress, a less civilized purpose; a banal circus of
illusionists and clowns. Cities and towns, centers of populations and industry,
armies of force and destruction laid barewithout care.
The inevitability of a
world wide revolution,
a universal solution

to pollution and
hunger, homelessness
and hopelessness,

brought all the
problems to the
common man
to solve. We 

had evolved into 

survivors, alive 

for each other; 

sister and brother,

Father and mother.

Pulling together in

the same direction.

Not striving for per-

fection, but working

to keep the peace.

Poets became the keepers of wisdom, wordsmiths

and scholars, knew it got better before every verse. But first we needed 

to join our hearts and minds to find our footing; a good way to start. No longer were
we right of left.Conservatives and Liberals ceased to exist. Republican and Democrat
were not viable concepts.Too bad we had to destroy all we held dear to get to
here.          Maybe          in          the          future,          we'll          remember.

Walt

ONE GOOD EYE

The vision of a friend; seeker of artistic worth.
How on earth did she ever find this connection?

But the direction she chose to expose that eye,
a far cry from Toledo, across the Erie Lake toward Buffalo.

Little did she know, the voice she heard spoke in words
that expressed a devotion to song, lyrical and lilting; lifting

an unsure foot, and then the next. Small steps into his world
unfurling the banner of poetic pondering, wondering if her words

could touch the soul of one she perceived so gifted,
lifted by his support and recognition; a position reciprocated

in kind. In his mind, he is driven, given the opportunity
to share in poetic unity; like minds finding a common bond.

Hands across the lake, reaching and teaching each other,
a rhyming sister and brother, related by their poetry, knowing

they are enhanced by their presence, in essence their words
become their umbilical, joining and nourishing their combined muse.

He is used to relying on her friendship; a necessary camaraderie
in her eye, the window to their personalities, a view to their worlds.  


Walt

GIVING LIFE MEANING

It's how they raised me;
my background; genetics.
A frenetic romp through
those formative years,
a shyness relegating me
to a tool lacking function,
but with a passion to learn.
Lessons of knowledge,
lessons of compassion,
lessons of ability.
Honing the skills that
took me years to realize I had.
A way with music; a way with words,
saying what I mean; meaning what I say.
Far and away the sole purpose
of my art is to start expressing
all my heart had been silent to speak.
In each golden moment, a new reason,
a change of season to carry the year,
and it is here that I belong.
Poetic poser full of song, a head
full of ideas and pleas to the Power
that is, that what I feel is real,
and every life I touch is accepting.
A cleansing of all misdeeds,
and a need to make a difference.
Having been given the gift of life,
it is up to us to give it meaning. 

Walt

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

WINDS OF CHANGE

Thermal inversion run amok
just your luck to be caught
in the cross hairs of a violent assault.
Not the fault of any one,
just nature's way of reminding us
that someone else is in control.
Every soul held in the balance
in the hands of One all knowing.
Showing that protection is only
a prayer away. The winds of change
come at a cost. But never due
to lost faith. Giving us all we can handle.


Walt

...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

SHY GUY

Silent wallflower,
barely empowered
to rise above the current;
always prey to the undertow.
Wouldn't you know the escape
so prescribed hides in the words
chosen to become the battering ram
for any debilitating aftermath. Standing
more sure of foot and confident, triumphant
and courageous; wielding an outrageous sword.
Expressive Excalibur! Strident; leading with
little chance to lose your bravado,
believing that sure and steady wins
the moment at hand, away from the corner
to be surrounded by those who admire.
Strength in supportive numbers.

 

Walt 

JAMES TRAFICANT

Mafia ally, or crime ring's worst foe?

Headed for heaven, or places below?

Darling of Youngstown, this one they revere:

Congressman, sheriff, toupee’d racketeer.

Once ran for office from prison, no less --

Running again now, says CBS press.

Monster, or hero? Crook, or mere slander?

Rise back to Congress? Or sink in *Meander?

Marie Elena


*Mahoning Valley’s Meander Reservoir is legendary for the number of dead bodies the Mafia has dumped in its waters.


Jim Traficant: "I'm Going to Run For Congress" CBS News Article

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

TO DEANNA, BRANDON, AND MICHAELA (my grown children)

I hear the:
irritation,
disregard,
disdain,
sewage spewed,
disrespect,
contempt,
raised voices,
slammed doors,
and abhorrence
on the streets,
in the schools,
surrounding,
closing in,
shredding my nerves…

                           ... and I’m thankful.


                            Thankful that your voices
                            are not heard among the racket…
                                                 and never have been.


Marie Elena

THE LAST TIME I HELD HER

She was skin and bones, frail
as all skeletal remains become,
with every last breath of life
still sticking to her ribs. Every
exhale came with the burdened
anticipation of the next deep gasp.
Her eyes, a vacuous stare, looking
through me and seeing nothing but
a chance to finally go home to her rest.
Well past the need  for words; or the
ability to express the same. Her face
contorted with each painful smile,
pleads in silence for one last embrace.
Wrapping my arms under her absence,
closing around her distance; squeezing
through my need to feel something,
only to fail miserably. A flame, extinguished
well before the light in her eyes had dimmed.
And I stood in her darkness, clinging
to the shadow of her and any lasting
memory that she had left me.
The last time that I held her
was my last goodbye.



Walt