HAIKU

together they play

as the sun shines brilliantly

casting two shadows

Marie Elena

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

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

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

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.

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

HOLDING THE GIFT FOR ANOTHER YEAR

A gift so given, entrusted,

to be held for as long your hands can hold.

When we were presented with this prize,

we weren't sure what to do with it,

but we knew it would take a lifetime to learn.

It came with no instructions; no manual for success.

Just a trust that you would do the right thing

as you had come to recognize it.

There were times people tried to show you,

but you found that you could figure it out.

You would fall flat on your face sometimes,

only to pick yourself up and keep going.

You would leave little pieces of yourself 

wherever you went; spreading your joy

through the wonder of your "toy".

Yours from the day you were born, 

no need to be forlorn, it's a happy day. 

You've held your gift for another year,

and those who know you, hold you dear.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MARIE!

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

DRAWING NEAR...

Temperatures be damned, in a week we enter the "official" start of the fall season. With the Autumnal Equinox at hand, we accept that all good things must come to an end. It was a great summer in Buffalo (an oxymoron, to be sure), and although I hate to see it go, it is time to move on. We're doing a lot of that now-a-days; not always willingly,but neccessary in all cases. So in re-prioritizing our lives on the business ends of this Great Lake, we cling to what matters most. Family. True Friendship. The odd poem, from time to time.(And if you read my and Marie's work, you'll agree we hit that mark all too often. ;) We'll try and keep the warmth at a comfortable level here "Across the Lake", not too cold - not too hot. Just write, Right!?

The final third of 2010 inches to completion. It has been a tumultuous, yet productive year for both of us here. The holidays are drawing near; a chance to put those familial lifelines to good use. Thanks to all who have visited M. E. and me here at "Across the Lake, Eerily", and have offered encouragement or have been touched by our heartfelt muses. You tell us we matter, and that's always a good thing. It just helps us all draw nearer.


Walt 

SUMMER SETS SAIL

                                           The
                                           winds blow,
                                           mo
                                           re
                                           brisk
                                           and cooler
                                           over Great Lake
                                           waters.An eerie sense
                                           of finality raises over the
                                           horizon and blends frantically
                                           with the darkening cloud patches,
                                           traces of Summer becoming fainter
                                           memories. Autumn waits ever impatiently,
                                           fighting for a dominance; prominence, meeting
                                           resistance. In the distance, a lone boat tracks, sail
                                           billowed in the stiff breeze, a genteel serenity commands
                                           the late afternoon. You swoon over the beauty as it faintly
                                           grips
                                           you,
                                           waves of emotions and Erie's redundant tide.
                        A whiff of warmth lingers, as you can count the fingers on one hand
                              the number of the times the lake had disappointed. Turning
                                        toward shore, the shifting wind brings the single
                                               sailor homeward. Summer sets sail.


Walt

AS I WAS SAYING, TOO!

Take me back to sixty-nine,
the year, not the...never mind.
I keep reverting to that time,
when life was simpler; sublime.
In the throes of puberty,
feeling music course through me.
Songs of the day,
artists of the time,
albums of the year,
in my mind, they all shine.
For music was where I found my "voice",
those melodic poems were my choice,
when I ran out of notes, the lyrics popped,
(and for a span of twelve years I completely stopped).
But back with a vengeance I came roaring
to hear my poetry take flight, now soaring
beyond all expectations, my fait accompli;
my celebration of mind, and words and me.
If I had to pinpoint where it began,
'twas the "Summer of Love" kick-started this man,
and so as I venture to continue in rhyme,
I toss my once-upon-a-mane to Nineteen Sixty-Nine!

Peace, Brother!


Walt

WAY TO FIND NEVERLAND

"Why are you crying, boy? Are you lost?"

In a manner of speaking, yes!

Who'd have guessed I'd find myself here,

a lost boy in the world of learned men.

Nothing but a moral compass always

pointing due North, giving forth all

my heart desires, leaving little in reserve.

My sole existence seems to have swerved

into an unfamiliar place as I face

my aging with as much ambivalence

as that little spark remaining can ignite.

And I declare to "stand up and fight"

as I soar past the second star on the right

and straight on until morning, without warning.

I will take you as my Wendy, a friend

who knows me as well as can be imagined,

a solitary figure at the window living dreams

only read in stories and fables. You are able

to provide the urge to stick to my muse,

and my shadow and everything else that slips away.

No Nana barking in the night, for it just seems right

that the vigilance of such protection is

taken to heart as I start to feel the tingle

of youth long forgotten, slightly rotten

but never totally elusive, or exclusive to my survival.

I feel my spirit lift. A light and airy faerie that

refuses to die since I truly believe, and am relieved

that I am not the only fool clapping; slapping hands

together, whether you can hear me or not.

I can claim my place along with the other lost boys,

the Michael's and John's and others, brothers all,

never to fall far from the tree, fulfilling this need,

I know, I have to crow and let my voice be heard,

every word of this fantastic voyage of life,

looking to find a place to land in this Neverland!

When it feels life is giving me the hook

and I'm up to my knees in Smees, it's a crock

to think that time is ticking away from me.

I'll find my "Happy Thought" and go do what I ought to,

making as much noise along the way. The second star

to the right is the way to go. And don't forget to crow!

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

WRITTEN IN STONE

We walked together, you and I,

close by were your mother

and your mother-in-law.

Well, I walked and carried you

here in my heart. You are never far

from the first beat you felt

of a heart so faint and labored,

now older and drawn to this place

where your lives met their terminus.

Your mortal life had come to rest,

in the shade of gigantic poplar trees.

And I hit my knees in prayer for your soul;

the eternal life that began here as well.

Here with your parents who guided you

through the earliest recollections of truth

and faith. Here with your husband; the father

who had joined you after a long exile. I smile.

A length of paces removed from the parents

that had given him their names and their heritage.

Names emblazoned in marble; a monument to

your mortality, and in reality just markers

from where your new journey began.

Written in stone: Irene Wojtanik,

Bertha Kura, Lottie Wojtanik.

Together again for eternity 

from this day, Mothers loved 

and blessed at the behest of this heart

that sprang from all three. From me

to you, Happy Mother's Day.

Walt

NO MATTER WHERE YOU GO, THERE YOU ARE

I can't believe it's you.
You look regal; majestic.
Amongst your peers,
and yet, you stand out in that crowd.

Quiet, unassuming and blooming
into the strong and determined woman
we quietly prayed you'd be.
Finally finding your way,

on the course to a dream.
We should have known.
Your sister worships you
for she knows, she'd be

less well off without your influence.
The games you played despite
your seven year age difference,
put you on the course

to take your spot on that stage.
You played school, the two of you.
She, the eager student.
You, the patient teacher.

You taught her an alphabet.
You showed her math skills.
She acquired reading skills at three,
thanks to your loving tutelage.

She learned what you taught,
as she continues to do today. I've never
seen her so proud as when you walked
across that platform to take

what was well earned and deserving.
You graduate today.
Now you are certified to do
what you've done all your life.

Teach. You've even taught me
a thing or two. Because of you,
I've learned that beauty and brains
are a lethal combination but

hold great power in the proper hands.
I've learned that my methods weren't as
maddening as I feared, giving you
a firm bit of ground on which

to make your stand. And I get
the sense that I'm not letting you go
out into the world unprepared to deal
with life, I'm giving you to the world

to give others the pleasure of your smile,
the warmth of your personality,
the courage of your convictions,
and the same advantage your sister had

in learning how to survive this life.
For no matter where you go, there you are!



*** Last night, I sat in awe of my daughter Melissa, the little girl/turned confident young woman who graduated with honors from the University of Buffalo with her Masters degree in Childhood Education. I've seen the power of what she could do, long before she decided to do what she was meant to: teach. I am the proud father. (If you couldn't already tell!)

Walt

MAY, OR MAY NOT.

The second third of the year begins with weather patterns in flux, and poets all over the world are off soaking their tired muse, after the activity during National Poetry Month. Ambition and confidence has been stoked enough to prompt a new focus on getting our work published. Nothing new here Across the Lake. I'm sure Marie will allow me to speak for her when I say, our work strives to that end. May will seem like child's play compared to the past thirty days, but activity levels will remain high in our quest for excellence. We may see some amazing things Across the Lake, Eerily. Or may not!


Walt

AN APRIL MOON

The final April moon will soon take leave.
Contentedly, he navigates the sky.
He knows not that his passing makes us grieve,
Nor hears the tone of our collective sigh.

For thirty eves, the moon has cast his spell
Releasing inspiration from his core.
Yet, now has come the time to say farewell,
As April’s moon will strum our hearts no more.

No gathering beneath his fetching smile,
Nor once-upon-a-timing ‘neath his glow.
Though next year, he will once again beguile;
Inspiring prose and verse to daily flow.

Our melancholy hearts will melt away
For there will be a new moon come what May.

Marie Elena

My last poem of the 2010 April Poem-a-Day Challenge.  Phew!  I truly don't know if it is acceptable to end an otherwise solemn sonnet with a bit of humor.  (?)  It's been a sometimes grueling, but always pleasurable experience.  I've learned much once again from the talented poetic community at Poetic Asides. 

Welcome, May.

THE BLOOMINGS OF OUR SOULS

Our souls bloom with these words.
Budding brilliance planted deep within our hearts and minds.
Nurtured and tended with the awakenings of life.
A good life made more perfect by us, the gentle gardeners,
who encourage the growth of these gifts.
The growth of our freindship.
An eternal sunshine beams forth by the glowing of our gardener's hearts.
This sunshine brightens these days
and illuminates our thoughts,
making our growth fertile,
and fruitful and productive.

Our souls bloom with thoughts of this friendship.
Thoughts brought to light
like the first flowers of Spring
as they break the earth
and show their potential.
You a gardener, cares for me
and loosens the soil around me,
and I free your roots to branch out
and allow you to grow full of life.
Full of our verbal beauty.
And we give back to each other,
the "caregivers", with a very bountiful harvest
of the bloomings of our souls.
We are the gardeners.
I bloom brilliantly with you.

Walt

BEGINNINGS

Always the instigator,
starting something at every turn,
there's so much to learn, and so little time
spent in rhyme. A fresh start,
a rejuvenation; the rebirth of heart,
a salutation to the new day.
In introduction, souls unite
doing what's right, right off the bat.
The sun rises, the journey embarks,
hearkening to the initiation
of this daily itinerary, nothing scary,
just a chance to commence with
the life to which you had been inaugurated.
Slated for greatness, starting now.
Funny how beginnings alway pick up
where endings tend to leave off.

Walt 

HAIKU

Sometimes hearts return

to their once-upon-a-time

love and hope and dreams.

Wishes for twenty five to happily-ever-after for you, my friend.

Marie Elena