IT'S JUST ANOTHER DAY

A blog about a life awakened and rejuvenated around Western New York.


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POET ONLY WHEN I NEED TO BE

The time to rhyme comes and goes, and God knows I’ve served my nickel in that regard. It has gotten harder to concentrate on pentameter when I know the meter is running. So I guess it’s time to log into the blog again and work at a pace that won’t misplace my thoughts. That’s not to say I won’t find my verse in rhythmic muse from time to time, but my time (and following) has seen better days. So for now, it will be just another day dawning and I’ll find myself fawning over what tickles my fancy. Reading this over, it seems it will take some doing to leave the rhyme behind. Oh (Brother! Why) Bother!

 


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SPEAKING OF IMAGES

So expanding into other areas of poetics I finally read my poems live before an audience of art patrons. I had performed before audiences in my Ed Sullivan days (working with local Buffalo Beatles tribute band, Beatlemagic), but this was me speaking in my voice… in my own words, written in interpretation of extraordinary photographic images by Paula Sciuk.

Pausa Art House 19 Wadsworth St. Buffalo, NY

Pausa Art House
19 Wadsworth St.
Buffalo, NY

The venue was a quaint art house in the Allentown (famous for its Art Festival) neighborhood, in the shadow of Kleinhan’s Music Hall. Pausa Art House hosted Paula’s collection and I was honored with an invitation to “perform” my works based on selected images.

I had butterflies for sure, but being presented with the last set which featured my work, I had time to find my composure and focus on the task at hand. My intent was to shine a light on Paula’s vision without detracting from it. From her reaction, I believe I did exactly that. When my last words left my mouth and I heard the patrons applaud, I felt validated. People who came to see wonderful works of art, hear fine musical interludes and fits of poetic madness (not to mention the wine and cheese) were treated to a sensory feast.

I certainly had a long overdue experience in presenting my words to people who had not heard them before. They didn’t know me from a baggett, but they enjoyed (or appeared to) the merger of sight and sound in the cause of celebrating Paula Sciuk’s artistic endeavors. Hopefully, after having a taste of public exposure (I kept my shirt on – not THAT public exposure) I get another chance share my poems.  

For a further glimpse at my night and the image and poems combinations, see SPEAKING ABOUT IMAGES at Through the Eyes of a Poets Heart


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MAKING MY WAY BACK “HOME”

It’s been a while since I posted here. Situations and circumstances put life clearly on my doorstep. But we persevere. It’s what life is about.

So here I sit, less than two weeks to Christmas 2013. The tree’s up (the SECOND thing that gets my spirit right – the Christmas music that begins on Halloween not withstanding). That sight and those sounds brings the feeling closer to home. Those who know, understand. Losing both parents at Christmas time (mom on Christmas Eve ’86) it takes some doing every year to find my Christmas. It comes around eventually, but it is still a struggle. The girls are grown and all the magic of their wide-eyed Christmases lingers in the shadows. They “will” my spirit to come our and play!

So I am slowly coming home to Christmas. The decorations that have laced our traditions are being put into place. I will be ready.

A little known secret. Every year for twenty-six years, after all have retired to bed, I put on the suit to dress under the tree. All gifts wrapped and brightly adorned are placed beneath by me in the guise of the Jolly Old Guy! They believe because I believe. Even if only for ten minutes once a year on Christmas Eve, I AM the spirit of the Season. I am Santa Claus. We are all Santa Claus.

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For a journey through my Walter-ego, visit my poetry blog, I AM SANTA CLAUS ( iamsantaclaus.wordpress.com )


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TRYING TO CUT THE MUSTARD PLAYING CATCH-UP

I’m a poet mostly. I dabble in musical composition and short fiction. Screenplays and scripts for stage become the rage on occasion. And juggling all those balls is an eventual losing proposition.

Getting the word out (or multitude of words out) is akin to reaching into the haystack without a glove. Sooner or later, you’re going to get stuck. And on more than one happenstance. Chances are you fall far enough behind that you give up the ghost and recoup, starting somewhere in the middle.

So I fiddle around with my muse, choosing to saturate my poetry places with pieces of verse and curse the day I discovered like sounding words. Time constraints (and those of a more physical nature) have handcuffed me somewhat, keeping the glut of work I am apt to pen to a manageable minimum.

As of this moment, I think I am at par with the rest of the jackbooted poets, at least on the sites I have chosen to frequent. Keeping up with the Jones and Whitmans and Wordsworths takes some effort. I relish the opportunity, cutting the mustard playing catch-up and being dog tired.

I think it’s lunch time. I just made myself hungry!


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PLANTING THE SEEDS OF FUTURE BLOOMS

It became a decent day to complete the chore of planting the remainder of the flowers in the various beds around the house. Frail and small in proportion to their soon to be abundant color and size. It is pleasing to the eyes.

Gardening relaxes me, much as it quelled my mother’s nerves back in the day. When she had her small spade in hand, she was transported to a more serene place and time. Those mindful adventures helped her. They probably kept her alive longer, with all the ailments she tended to keep private.

So, I come by my love of dirt naturally. And like I said, gardening relaxes me. Which I think is why when my writing partner, Marie Elena Good (from Maumee, Ohio) and I decided to branch out from “Across the Lake” the idea of a verbal garden appealed to me greatly. It was a thought I had held sequestered in the dark recesses of my mind (sometimes a very scary place) which was just waiting for the right time and place. A poetry place with a whole plot full of other like poetic minds planting seed. Seeds of thought that grow into “works of worded wonder”. The best of the best grows into “Beautiful Blooms”. All from a little spark of an idea; a nudge into rhyme. POETIC BLOOMINGS – the name of the place.

It is truly a joint effort. A communal garden. It eases my mind. While my botanical flowers take root and grow, I’ll watch them sprout until the poetry breaks ground and blooms.

Gardening relaxes me.