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

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

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

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

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

MARIA ELENA (by Jerry Vale, Marty Robbins and others)

Much to share in answer to every prayer,
an ability to touch a heart in a caring
manner, hiding her banner
contrary to her ability, a verbal agility
that floors me; it never bores me.
A beacon bright shedding her blessed light
on every soul she encounters.
Each mounting day says much
to an inner beauty and charm,
arm-in-arm with the men who carry her:
He who made her and the lucky one to marry her.
A miracle of mirth and motherhood,
a "Good" and decent woman. No man
could be luckier to befriend her,
a pillar of loving grace on her end of
a lake, Great and eerie. Dearie,
you make my day. I'm proud to say
and you can bet, the best friend
I STILL haven't met!

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

MADMAN ACROSS THE WATER

Just a crazy old guy,
collecting poems as if they were cats.
Stumbling, sometimes mumbling to himself.
"Moon, June, bafoon...", this lyrical loon
searches for the right word. The way
he plays with nomenclature, they're all right.
Off to his outpost, with a host of other
rhyming things, he sings words to a song
he had once written, smitten with a lovely.
Above him a placard bearing quotations,
and random notations; nuggets to ponder.
Yonder is a file box, stocked with pages:
rants and rages, laments and upstages.
A poetic pariah, lost in a world
in which every street leads to the
center of his worded thunder.
It's no wonder others of his ilk
seek distance, with some resistance
to be sure. Purely speaking, they are seeking
his persistence and reticence. He pens in perfect
solitude, an attitude he's acquired
to be all he's desired; full throttle ahead.
Damn the torpedoes. Across the lake
he takes his stand. Just a crazy old guy.

Walt

NO MAN IS AN ISLAND

Set adrift.
Surrounded on all sides,
a man stands, aloof,
proof of his arrogance.
There is an ignorance
that precedes him,
An apathy that defines him.
Lost in a sea of self-import,
he'll resort to anything
to make his point. Annointed
in his mind, he will soon find
a need. Lessons of a life,
rife with pitfall and valleys,
he'll someday rally. Treading water.
Clutching to the life preserver called hope.
Survival awaits, as long as he stays afloat.

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

BEFORE THE STORM

How strangely still
the water is today.
Calm and tranquil, strangely still.

Clouds upon the horizon,
harbingers of things to come;
clouds obliterate the sun.

The air is cold; it chills,
winds stirring through the clearing.
Winds of change do not thrill.

How strangely still
the water is today.
Peaceful thoughts; I get my fill.

And then the clouds converge,
driven by gusts of icy breath;
a nasty dose of a late season surge.

Before the storm, it seemed quite warm.
How strangely still
the water was today. Such a rapid decay!


** Inspired by "Sea Calm", by Langston Hughes
 
 
Walt

CHAMPION ANGLER (MASTER BAITER)

He walks by night
flashlight at the ready,
he holds it steady
to keep his prey at bay.
Creepily, he slinks; fisher by day,
and by the way, he’s good at his craft.
You’d have to be daft
to walk in the shadows
in the dark moist night
they’re right under foot
as night owls hoot and they scoot.
Creepily, they slink, earthbound
and round, for now off the hook.
But as the day breaks
he’s got what it takes,
and anglers, they wait;
they always take the bait.
Just the earthworms he’s chosen.
Two bucks for a dozen.

Walt

...AND SPEAKING OF LAKE ERIE

FISHING AS A HOBBY:  STATISTICS IN HAIKU

Half like it. Half don't.
It all depends on which end
of the line you're on.

Marie Elena

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

HARBOR

Golden silence
Silver moon
Lake’s alliance
Souls in tune

Marie Elena

OFF DUTY

Crash of surf on sand,
gulls abound and flit around
in gangs of ten or twenty.

I'd have bet money
that the beach would be full
until we cleared the ridge to the shore.

Widely scattered blankets more
sand than flannel, to a (wo)man
the guards start to vacate. We're late

to get in the water, we ought to
have come earlier. But the atmosphere
is soothing. Two of us barefoot at Erie's edge.

Hedging that bet, I get a flash of memory,
back to the day when the girls were younger
and I didn't need sunscreen to protect my scalp.

No guard on duty. Service suspended.
But it didn't cause the end of a wonderful day.
Sunset burned into our eyes; in our hearts it stays.

Walt

CLEVELAND ROCKS!

Tutankhamen need not apply
to that "pyramid" by-the-by,
under a sunny Cleveland sky.
He's not the guy; he's not the guy.

Enough kings there to fill the role,
the best of R&B; soul,
the Kings of Pop and Rock and Roll,
tops of the poll; tops of the poll.

If you can wield your "axe" with pride,
if you may or may not have died,
your music will get you inside,
enjoy the ride; enjoy the ride.

As part of a group or solo,
your legend will shine at the show,
Rock & roll; the right way to go
to make your dough; to make your dough.

As Halls of Fame go, this one rocks!
The names inside will knock your socks
so hop, and rock around the clock.
Cleveland does rock; Cleveland does rock!

Walt