ANGEL VOICES AT DAWNING

I hear it gently,
and I mentally
take note of the lilting song.
Angel voices sing
the soundtrack of Spring.
Their chorus is loud and strong.

Morning brings their sound,
and it is around
dawn’s first light that I hear it.
A poet’s heart sees
the living beauty
within euphonic spirit.

I begin each day
the exact same way.
I am thankful for this gift.
My whispered prayer
rises through the air;
as their harmonies uplift.

Copyright © 2011 Walt Wojtanik

NOT FADE AWAY

Cool it with the Charles noise,
I'm just one of Ella and Larry's three boys.
Call me Buddy, everyone does,
I don't know why; they tell me "Just because"

     I found my voice by the age of five,
     recorded songs from before I was alive.
     Music lived in me; it filled me, obsessed me,
     I'd even say that "demon" possessed me.

Along the way they screwed up my name,
yet in their mistake, I found my fame.
Finding my piece of pie in the American Dream,
when I gulped and hiccupped onto the scene.

     Rock and Roll was in its early stage,
     but I knew it would be the rage,
     I assembled a band, that was the ticket,
     and with me to lead, we were the Crickets.

Oh Boy, what a time! A thrill of my life,
It's so easy to get into this life.
The drums were the heartbeat, and I knew what to do,
If you love Rock and Roll, I'm gonna love you too.

     It's great to rave on with these words of love,
     Below it was blue days, black nights up above.
     But, something touched this brown eyed handsome man.
     If you saw her smile, maybe baby, you'd understand.

I found true love ways, in Maria Elena's smile,
she gave me my heart, it gave me my style.
Love at first sight, I asked "think it over",
she said "Yes". I was rolling in clover.

     I went on the road, she stayed home expecting,
     her sad Spanish eyes were surely reflecting
     the raining in her heart, she appeared to be coping,
     while she sat by the phone crying, waiting, hoping.

Clearlake was rocking, the music insane,
a late winter storm as we boarded the plane.
"I hope your plane crashes", Waylon Jennings would say,
In my bright Holly smile I said, "That'll be the day!"

     "And the three men I admire the most,
     the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost,
     well, they caught the last train for the coast,
     the day the music died." ~ Don McLean (American Pie)


Walt

MUSIC HATH CHARMS

Melodic memories, triggered by random turns

of phrase, a new page in your book of dreams.

It surely seems that a mind can be shaken or stirred

into a whirr of activity. You possess a proclivity for

drawing upon the past long enough gone

to notate upon the staff of your life;

it is a song composed with ethos and verve.

Steeling your nerve, thrown caution becomes windblown

and all are shown the power of your voice.

A flash-back to a day when music was an ally

to rely upon, a trigger for thoughts nurtured

in the womb of your fertile mind. Gestation,

born of elation for all your songs relate;

it is never too late to write your score.

The more you remember, more tender the melody.

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

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

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

And how does one sing
When it is Christmas Eve, and
You've just lost your wife?

Marie Elena
 
(In honor of Uncle Erwin, an artist and opera singer, who sang "Oh Holy Night" for Christmas Eve mass, after the passing of Aunt Marguerite on December 23, 1970.  Though I was only eleven, the memory of his voice remains fresh.  May they both rest in peace.)

CAKE WALKIN' JASS BAND FROM HOME

(To the tune of Cake Walkin’ Babies from Home, by Clarence Williams, Henry Troy, Chris Smith)


Cake walkers may come, and cake walkers may go
But I wanna tell you ‘bout Cake Walkers that I know.
Well, there they were at Tony Packo’s, playin’
Weekends, all. Still should be (I’m just sayin’...)
Talk-o-the-town. Always bringin’ em down,
Packin’ the joint and bringin’ it renown
‘Til Tony balked. What was he thinkin’
When he let them go? That business move’s still stinkin’.
They’d be embraced by the riverboat fleet,
Or in the heart of jazz on Bourbon Street,
But here, not so. Not in so-called Glass City
Wake up, my friends! C’mon now, it’s a pity
To waste this gem! Toledo, turn on your dome
And find those Cake Walkin’ babies a home!

Marie Elena


Check it out! The Cake Walking Jass Band performing Cake Walkin’ Babies From Home!  Go Dad, Go!

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kZR-X04Eio8&feature=PlayList&p=5A9A61B4295FD568&playnext_from=PL&index=0&playnext=1

AND THEN THERE WAS MUSIC

And then he wrote of his love for her.
Her beauty, now fragile, infused his words.
And I felt the depth of his love
In the passion of his written word.

And then he wrote of his love for her.
Her life, now silenced, inhabited his words.
And I grieved for this stranger
Who openly exposed his heart.

And he writes of his love for her.
Her memory, now vivid, permeates his being.
And I listen as words on the page
Sing in the absence of music.

Marie Elena

In honor of this day.

MEMORIES AND RECOLLECTIONS

I remember Uncle Joe, my father’s oldest brother.
A drummer in his own right; locally famous
with a penchant for kicking back the brew and food.
His heart a ticking time bomb; he couldn’t match it’s beat.
At a birthday party in our kitchen
he collapsed with a major coronary, going to drum for the angels.

I remember my Grandfather (my mother was his angel)
with his Polish dialect, telling stories of his brother.
In the old country, his sibling would not leave his kitchen,
wanting to devise a scheme that would make him famous.
But, my Grandfather had his brother beat,
this “New World” offered a better life and better food.

I remember the taste of my Grandmother’s food,
through the recipes she had handed down. Her angel
food cake was delicious, which no one could beat,
and living near her brother
she always made double, he thought her cakes were famous
(at least they were around her kitchen.)

I remember watching my mother in the kitchen.
She learned what her mother had taught, her food
mirrored all she did. Mom had no delusion of being famous,
she had her hands full raising her six angels.
Between her and my Uncle Harry, her brother,
there were twelve of us at the “kid’s table”. You had to beat

the others for the good seats. But, sitting down to eat
in that corner of my mother’s kitchen,
I remember always being sandwiched between my cousin and her brother
and becoming the middleman in the constant food
fight they would wage, though they pretended to be angels.
I knew better. But around our family, their battles were famous.

I remember writing at a young age, wanting to be famous
and be read by millions. But, I formed this strange habit. I liked to eat,
and I didn’t think my skills would have kept me from joining the angels
through starvation. So, I scribbled my song lyrics and poems at our kitchen
table, and kept myself close to mom’s inspirational cooking. But, food
for thought, I also shared the table with seven others.

So, now my siblings kid their famously studious brother
that his bountiful words are food for the soul. But, you couldn’t beat
that kitchen for the story or two that we all tell. We each have our own angle.

Walt

THE BLINDFOLDED BUBBLEBUTT BUNNY BLUES BAND

The Blindfolded Bubblebutt Bunny Blues Band,
made their debut, and are now in demand.
So purchase your tickets before they’re sold out,
and plan to come early to catch Tiny Trout,
who hooked this great gig as his opening act,
and reels in the crowds, as a matter of fact.

Tiny Trouts’ trumpet’s in tune with the times,
and that’s why his number of followers climbs.
He’ll soon not be opening … soon he will be
the main act that people are coming to see.
He’s taking the stage at a quarter of eight,
Don’t miss a split second; make sure you’re not late!

I’ll never forget the first time that I caught
those Bubblebutt Bunnies. Were they ever HOT!
I must say, Bo Diddley could not hold a candle
to Bubblebutt Bunnies … but, oh, what a scandal
that hit the stage after the Bubblebutt show!

You see, their lead singer, Fats Too Domino,
announced that this concert would be his swan song
(apparently something he’d planned all along,
but hadn’t informed fellow band members of).
Irate fellow Bunnies gave Fats Too a shove.
Fats Too shoved back hard, and then panic ensued,
as audience members took part in the feud.

Security broke up the crowd, and we scattered,
Leaving the venue a mess, if not tattered.
It’s been a year now since that fateful event,
and Bubblebutt prices rose fifty percent.
But the chance to see Bubblebutts AND Tiny Trout?
I’m willing to pay, and I’m going all out!

So, who’s in it with me? You coming along?
Who knows who’ll announce their Blues Bunnies swan song?
It may be the last chance to catch this great band
of bunnies “as is,” and in such great demand.
This hare-alded band will be rockin’ the joint.
Come with me! I promise they’ll not disappoint!

Marie Elena

1969

My voice changed.
That fact defined the year which brought me
to the precipice of adulthood.
Unsure of foot and teetering
on the weak knees of youthful thought.

All of thirteen, a bit green
and ignorant to a changing world.
I found myself transforming into
someone I barely knew, realizing
I would find myself soon enough

as long as I tuned in, turned on
and dropped out of the norms of a
distilled upbringing, wringing my hand
at authority and standing up to the "man",
still yielding to my mother to take out the trash.

Short on cash and stature, and the nature
of the beast was the least of my concerns.
The females in my realm of thought
made funny things happen to me.
My hands shook, my stomach churned,

and I learned that they were the cause
of my voice fracturing every time they came near.
I had a fear of the war lasting forever,
and having to learn to speak Vietnamese
or Canadian, knowing I'd look bad in fatigues.

Why is it we could put men on the moon,
but couldn't keep guys like John
and Martin and Bobby safe from hatred.
Isn't anything sacred anymore? Did we even know the score?
But one thing always delivered the goods. Music.

Music did it for me. I know that now.
We were lighting fires for Morrison,
while Hendrix did fine all by himself.
Mick was gathering no moss, and the cost
for freedom was very high, but worth every penny.

And if anyone would tell me that the Beatles
would argue and break up over an avant-garde Ono,
I would tell them the were crazy. I stopped being lazy
in '69, ever since I found this thing called "muse",
and how expressing it, gave me and those around me

joy and peace, a good release in a lyrical sense
under the false pretense of ever really being
in love, above all else, music and words lived in me
but I was just too ignorant to get that clue.
Besides, my voice changed.


Walt

LET'S DANCE

The foyer is small. Manageable. The décor -- lovely. I linger a bit, as I assemble courage. Hesitantly, I enter the Great Hall. I find it grand and immense, accommodating a multitude. I am wholly overwhelmed. Surrounded by the beautiful, the finely adorned.

My modest cotton sheath is clearly inappropriate. Heart pounding, I want to flee. Yet spellbound, I linger. I watch. I eavesdrop. I cannot tear myself away.

Then, one notices my glances. Again, my heart pounds, as he offers a warm smile and nod. Is it genuine? A tender seed is planted.

Another catches my eye. She is altogether lovely, as she waltzes with ease and grace. I cannot take my eyes off her. She notices my stares, and responds with … a grateful smile? Can this be? The tender seed is watered.

Another whom I’d admired from afar takes my hand, and leads me to a moonlit window, clearly spotlighting me momentarily. The unexpected attention it brings makes me simultaneously ill at ease, and awkwardly grateful. The blush in my cheeks lingers, yet the tender seed takes root.

Others offer approving glances, gracious smiles. A young woman compliments my faux pearls; herself, adorned with genuine pearls of the highest quality, which she has been gleaning and stringing herself for many years. Yet her compliment is sincere, and the tender seed begins to sprout.

All at once, I feel myself being guided onto the dance floor. It’s him. He takes my left hand, and rests it in on his shoulder. He clasps my right, and places his hand gently on the small of my back. He guides effortlessly, teaching steps along the way. The tender seed begins to bud.

Marie Elena

ACROSS THE LAKE

Across the lake, muse comes alive,

beauty comes to roost,

life comes to words so expressed.

Across the lake, a heart paces

the pulse of inspiration,

a contagious rendering of existence.

Across the lake, a woman accepts

the mantle she has been destined

to take up to claim her position as poet.

Across the lake, a man struggles

under the mire of muse, refusing

to silence a voice found over time.

Across the lake, the music 

of a collaboration of like souls

composes the symphony of poetic thought.

Across the lake, I find that jointly

this woman and man, kindred strangers,

embrace friendship for a common cause.

Across the lake, confidently,

friends who have never met

stand abreast in the celebration of words. 

Across the lake. Eerily. 

Walt 

THE LAKE

Cyclical and symphonic,
     hypnotic in its insistence,
          rolling, surging, persistent
               by the moon's urging.
         Crashing, thrashing,
     ever-splashing is the lake.
The sound of power,
     hour after hour
          amidst sea bird calls,
               a summer evening falls;
          the sun’s rapid retreat
     burrowing under the horizon
with a vibrant auburn radiance.
     The warmth beneath our feet
          transfers from the soft sand
               straight to our hearts,
          you and I locked in love’s
     all-encompassing embrace,
soulful kisses burn with
     unquenchable fire
          beneath the canopy of
               starlit wonder with
          only the sound of the waves
     for our view. Lapping the
shore, seeking its nourishment
     from the abandoned beach but
          finding nothing to feed upon.
               Where this evening finds us, there is
          just you, just me and this blanket.
     The tide creeps closer as my words,
poetic and symphonic, hypnotic
     in their insistence, roll and surge
          by love’s urging, and are clutched
               closely to your chest, held to your heart.
          Words that warm, words that heal,
     words that save as the tide struggles
to take us out. You find comfort
     it their buoyancy, for in case of emergency,
          this poem can be used as a flotation device.


Walt 

THE BEAT GOES ON!

My Father played the drums as well

a Polka beat, he kept.

And all the Polish ladies

at the church just sat and wept.

The style he played, his masquerade,

was pure as far as I know,

Old Country sounds they heard around

the Polka Halls of Chicago.

Dad's motto spelled his sad dissent, 

his music would unseat them,

since he believed you drum, not dance,

                                                     "For if you can't join them, beat them."

Walt                                                                                                            Photo: Wojtanik Family Archive

IT HAPPENS EVERY TIME

My dad is a drummer.

He plays with pizzazz

With a band by the name of

The Cakewalkin’ Jass.

“I’m going to work,”

To my mother, he’ll say.

My mother responds,

“No, you’re going to play.”

Raymond A. Heitger's

Cakewalkin' Jass Band

Maumee River 4th of July Celebration, 

2008

Marie Elena

Photo by Keith Good