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FRONT PORCH: EMPTY NEST

The winds have calmed.
The rains have ceased
and now there’s peace.
Two vacant chairs reside
and inside the rooms seem vacuous.

You’ve done your very best
to build this cozy nest and now,
you have earned a needed rest
to reap the fruits of loves labors.

Just you and mother hen,
and a chick who will return
now and again. The walls that bind
confine in the vibrant hues

you choose. Peaches and cream,
lemon yellow and mellow shades
of beige and blue. When through,
there will be little left to do.

The street is rambunctious
with silence. Across the way
the creatures in the field play
and skitter; quite lively critters.

And the birds clutching their branch
sing a sweet sparrow sonata.
Just two facing the world.
They’ve surrendered their nest,
the best is yet to come.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik, 2015

one son’s shine

a father’s pride and joy,
learned in woods, compliant in his words.
the skill witnessed in one; the other
missed, though blessed by the verses he wove.

the final exhale came at his death
and his name, the last bequeath to the boy
left to find his own way in that same name,
a glowing example of all that love

can do to nurture long connected souls.
his goal now to shine until his last breath
in homage to the Dad long passed,
seated in silent vigil from his lofty place above.

a sailor Father’s last ahoy,
sailing in one son’s shine, in love and faith.

Walt

 

a mother missed and cherished

near your stone in the mourning mist,
whispers of a voice ne’er forgotten
still echo in wisdom, a generation
since we stood at Christmas on your frozen ground.

photos of you splayed in memory, kept
close to heart and the soul of you penetrates
all of us left to recall and to be kissed
by your love long after your passing. the sound

of your lost lullaby fills our sad eyes;
tears in torrents to drown our aching, wept
jointly as these visions we shared through you
dissipate over the course of years. Still the joy of you abounds.

a mother long held cherished,
in heart and mind and soul you have crept.

Walt

A MOTHER LOST

I come to these grounds of your rest;
the best I can do to be with you today.
The sky is unsettled, and dreams long
since dreamed land clumsily shattering
like glass. I rub your stone; an image
of your name in charcoal remains,
stains of a heart broken, this small token
of the life you gave me. I listen and murmurs
blown though barren tree branches
whisper, waiting for the axe to fall.
And all at once it vanishes. Memories
of a mother departed still close to heart.

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014

THE SUNDAY WHIRL – WORDLE  #160

160

HOME AGAIN

Belmont Avenue

26 Belmont

“May I help you?”
I don’t recognize the stranger addressing me
From the porch
Where I used to color with my cousins
Swing in my pajamas
Play with paper dolls.

I respond with an apology
For walking into the backyard
Where I used to play tag with my cousins
Catch summernight fireflies
Lay in the grass, spotting castles
In the clouds.

I tell her this is my
Used to be
My home.

“Would you like to come in?”
My heart pounds.  I decline,
Then quickly change my mind.
Yes.  Yes, please.

As I walk in, I’m overcome with emotion.
Much is the same.
Some is different.
Everything seems smaller –
Everything but the love.
The love looms large,
Reaching through the decades
To embrace,
Remind,
Confirm.

© copyright Marie Elena Good – 2013

LAST CHANCE TO CELEBRATE

Happy Birthday.
Holding “home” close one last time.
Candles are lit and wishes
for a healthy return burn bright.
But tonight you blow the candles
and we’ll handle life one day
at a time. Your gift you say
would be one more day to raise
a glass and cheer being here
for another year. Until you hear
Happy Birthday once more!

Walt

SHIFTING SANDS

Little one, your journey
has taken a turn and you
yearn for your course to
remain unchanged. But
by some deranged act of nature,
your stature has been diminished.
You’re finished with holding on
and your tragic song is a cry.
You’re losing your grip and any
slip of the tongue sends you
reeling and feeling less than
zero. And it appears I am no
longer your hero. I have few
answers that make sense to you.
Your sink hole is drawing you down
in a profound shift in your footing.
Usually the hard and strong one,
you’ve done little to show your flair.
You sit and stare blankly; angry
at your world and your mother and me.
All you see is a destructive path,
a road less traveled well. Tell me
what you need! Mr. Fix-it can’t
do his job if you don’t tell me
where it hurts. Stop your brashness
and please don’t trash the life you love.
Don’t panic and flail in the shifting sand.

Walt