OUR LADY OF MT. CARMEL ANNUAL CHURCH FESTIVAL

I am resurrecting an old piece of mine, because this happens to be the weekend of this festival.  I envy my relatives who still live in the area, and can attend at will.  Save some cheese puffs for me, guys!  And thanks to Chris for helping me with a few of the details.

OUR LADY OF MT. CARMEL ANNUAL CHURCH FESTIVAL

I’m scorching hot. My clothes cling to me in the smothering humidity. Add to that the people-laden, sticky black tar church parking lot without a shade tree in sight. Ugh.


Yet, the air is saturated with inviting aromas: potent garlic; sweet onion; roasted peppers; spicy Italian sausage; yeast bread rolls; sweet dough twists with cinnamon sugar; cotton candy … and cheese puffs. My cousin Tom and I make a beeline for the deep-fried sweet dough filled with ooey gooey cheese. Yummmmm!

We race toward the Ferris wheel, dodging through the crammed masses and attractions. My nostrils are suddenly assaulted with the fishy stench of smelt. Eew. This booth boasts a line of cuffed pants; brimmed hats; men’s black shoes; and long-sleeved shirts soaked with sweat, each revealing the standard white muscle T beneath. These older Italian men puff cigars (again, eew!) and pass the time in line playing the loud, fast-paced game of Morra.

“Quatro!” (four!)

“Sette!” (seven!)

“Otto di fuoco!” (eights on fire!)

Roars of laughter rise with the cigar smoke above the cacophony of festival sounds.

From a game booth, a hoarse female voice hails, “Roll down, roll down! Six tries for a dollar!”

Various carnival rides summon as well: Creeeek … screeeeeech … tic, tic … whoooosh!

A button accordion pumps out a Polka, accompanied by the “oom pah” of a tuba. We pause to watch smiling couples bob as they step, quick-step, step, hold their way around a make-shift dance floor.

We spot Nonna at the Bingo Tent with an array of cards spread before her, fervently trying to win an “Infant of Prague.” This uniquely Catholic carnival prize is a plaster figure of the jewel-crowned infant Jesus, clothed magnificently in a robe of rich red, royal blue, or gold. Game booths and tents flaunt eye-catching displays of the satiny fabrics, glistening jewels, and outstretched arms of the holy infant. I feel the contrast of Nonna's satiny cheeks and stiffly sprayed hair as she pulls us close, and presses a quarter into each of our palms.

Continuing to the Ferris wheel, a small stand topped with a six-foot twirling glass of yellow lemonade beckons. Soon soothing icy lemon slush slides down the back of my throat.

I nurse my treat while in line for our ride. Cold sweat drips off the cup into my sandals, and squishes between my toes. A silvery car grinds its way to the bottom of the giant spoked wheel. We hop on, my bare legs sticking to the hot metal seat. Tom slams the safety bar shut, and we rock precariously forward and back.

The car jerks and jolts as we inch up a notch so the one below us can load, and so on -

one

car

at

a

time.

Stuck at the peak, we get a birds-eye view. The setting sun creates peach, mauve, and midnight blue hues. Glistening stringed lights of sapphire, emerald, ruby, and gold crisscross the grounds. Suddenly, my hair flies up and my stomach drops, then settles back in as it grows accustomed to the whirling sensation. For just a moment, I close my eyes and relish the breeze.

Marie Elena

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

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

HAIKU

Eerily flaming

Rising into Earth’s night sky

Rare parigee moon

 

Marie Elena

Photos by Keith R. Good

Keith captured these vastly different photos of the March 19, 2011 "supermoon" above the Maumee River.   

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

NOT WELL OFF, BETTER OFF

So, a few less dollars grace my pockets,
and no sky rocket celebrations in the offing.
And maybe my offspring don't inherit any more
than their mother's good looks
and their father's well turned phrases.
At this phase in my life, my wife and I,
though preferring a lifestyle upgrade,
have decided that our pride and upbringing,
could have us singing in the rain,
instead of preying on that rainy day pittance.
Our daughters have learned well, and it tells
in the way they carry their grace and name,
and although they are not the same by any stretch
of my over-active imagination, they know their staion.
It might seem that we have no ambition to position
ourselves on the ladder of success, but I guess
raising these beauties with an eye towards
bettering themselves and the world around them,
is worth its weight in a life well lived.
We're not well off, but are much better off in the long run.

Walt

KENNING'S WALT

Beatles-mad
  Polish lad
    Friday’s child
      Smidgen wild

        Stuff fixer
          Rhyme mixer
            Beach walker
              Ed talker

                Hard worker
                   P.A. lurker
                    Bills fan
                      Buckeye man

                        Poem writer
                          Sleep fighter
                            Word gifter
                              Mood lifter

                                Lake dweller
                                  Funny feller
                                    Smile bearer
                                      Blog sharer

Marie Elena

There.  I KNEW I'd seen a photo from your BeatleMagic Ed Sullivan gig.  Hope you don't mind that I snooped through your FB photos and snatched your Ed Sullivan impersonation pic, Partner. Too fun! Now maybe my "Ed talker" line will make a little more sense to people, eh? ;)  

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

POETRY MAN (by Phoebe Snow)

It's in my head, I can't escape it,
for within it lies my truth.
These thoughts and words become my song,
a melodic twist of poetic justice.
Every step of every day becomes
a lively dance; a prance through
the obstacles we all face. But,
in its place is a rhyme that fuels me;
it won't refuse me when I call.
Its all in a well turned phrase.
It makes my days fly by with a glint
in my eye and emotion to express my soul.
I'm in control. I'm the Poetry Man.

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

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

HAIKU

Twenty Ten has scraped

like fingernails on chalkboard.

Time for a clean slate.

Marie Elena

LYRIC WATER REJOICES AT SEASIDE

The happy dead are in its voice.

Majestic Poet! Might I be as full of song.
Melodies of seafarers past

haunt each true and measured step.

Lilting, ever-lifting; a gift

from the weary mariner to Neptune’s ear.

Accompanied in breath and beat,

symphonic sound of a lunar baton.

Maestro of the night, unwavering.

Building to crescendo, euphonic.

Tympani, cacophonous crash;

an introduction to the score

so written. And hidden within

languishes its familiar song,

lyrical expressions of heart and soul,

left to wash away traces of the moment.

Never ending refrain, sing again!

**Derived from “On Seeing A Train Start For the Seaside” by English poet, Norman Rowland Gale

 

 

Walt

WHISPERS

It's a tranquil lake that licks the shoreline,

a gentle taste; longing for the familiar flavor

of a summer sent packing. Lacking much
in the way of seasoning, but anxious for the season
that approaches. It can be heard in soft sounds.
Not rambunctious and raucous; more tip-toey

and cautious. Secretive. Seductive. Luring

and alluring. Stirring the paint pot with
a broad brush, coloring the landscape to offer

a grand escape from the hum-drum. Some

certainly envision the splay of oranges and golds,

crimsons and whatever else nature holds for our viewing.

Autumn is brewing. Not with an extravagant entrance,
but with a warm nuzzle; a comfortable caress.

Hushed words expressing what a heart can feel.

Hear it in the whistle of wind. Listen to the rustle of the leaves.
See it in the palette of the Grand Master's artful stroke.
Embrace the whispers of a serene and assuring nature.

Walt

LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON

I was drawn to their son.

The kind blue eyes

That softened, and crinkled in the corners

When they dared make contact with mine.

The broad shoulders,

That beckoned me to lay my head

Against the chest they framed.

The unassuming demeanor

That spoke volumes to me

Of how he was raised.

But my heart had been wounded.

My trust had been broken.

My spirit was guarded.

Until I met them.

And I saw

The kind blue eyes

That softened, and crinkled in the corners

When they made contact with hers.

The kiss placed tenderly on her head.

The hand that gently stroked her cheek.

The whispered prayer that honored her.

The heart that took in

Every word she spoke,

Every breath she drew.

And I knew

Their son,
Who was stealing my heart,

Could be trusted.

Marie Elena

Photo by Ron Gries

To Mom and Dad Good, with much love and great respect.

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

IN THE SPOTLIGHT

All the heat of a million suns
baking; no mistaking your influence.
For in the confluence of words,
the only thing heard is the sound
of a heart beating, greeting the stares
and glares with a clear head
and a passionate fire. It has been your desire,
to progress in talent and scope,
a sincere hope that success comes
with all the trimmings. Skimming your heart,
stepping out of your comfort zone, alone.
Taking your place on stage finally,
tempering your sanity and fighting
off your critics not ready to release you.
It pleases you that they hold you tightly,
but rightly, you have more stages to grace
in search of your rightful place.
Taking the world by storm and being warm.
In the spotlight, never let them see you sweat.

Walt

EARLY FALL IN O-HI-O

Throw off comforter

Rise and shine

Chill in air

Don fluffy robe

Sip hot coffee

Take hot shower

Dress in layers

Heat the car

Go to work

Strip top layer

Work, work, work

Strip second layer

Work, work, work
Clock back out
Head to car
Strip to tanktop

Cook and eat

Throw on sweater

Go for walk

Take hot shower

Don fluffy robe

Sip hot tea

Throw on comforter

Repeat next day

Marie Elena

*THE MANY VOICES OF WALTER WOJTANIK

The title beguiles -- implies many styles,
and begs him the question, “Am I in possession
of voices, innumerous: poignant to humorous,
heartrending, moving, inane?”

He ponders the thought, as his mind becomes wrought
with the pieces he’s fashioned, from lax to impassioned,
from terse to soul-baring, enticing, or daring,
outlandish, bizarre, or mundane.

His voices are many, approaches aplenty,
inducing emotions while conjuring notions
of various kinds that may play with our minds
to divert, stir, or just entertain.
 
Marie Elena
 
*Originally titled "The Many Voices of Lauren Hill," in response to a Poetic Asides prompt; written to honor my PArtner.