DON’T TOUCH MY TOOLS / PUT MY TOOLS AWAY

I couldn’t get it through my head
that Dad’s tools were his trade and it made him mad
when I had used his implements.
He’d get bent out of shape and went ape
sure as I tell you. But he knew…

As sure as I tell you, he knew
that I had an affinity for fixing things
just as he had all his life. So the new rule became this:
If you use it, put it where you found it!
A lesson ground into my head from the start.

A lesson ground into my head from the start.
It didn’t take me long to take it to heart.
Leaving a hammer out didn’t bring the wrath of Thor.
He was more disappointed than mad.
He had a way of teaching me his trade.

Dad had a way of teaching me his trade,
and it made me more well equipped to handle
any problem that came along.
Put your tools where they belong.
That message has always resonated loud and clear.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

POETIC ASIDES with Robert Lee Brewer – Prompt #457: Disobedience

DON’T TALK BACK TO YOUR MOTHER

Respect came in various lessons,
and messin’ with Ma was one learned early.
The old man went squirrelly when we dissed
his missus. He truly went nuts,
no ifs, ands or buts.

No ifs, ands or butts
would not be spared if we dared sass back.
A swift smack on the behind
would find you and remind you,
“Don’t talk back to your Mother!”

Don’t talk back to your Mother.
But, giving Dad the lip with a slip of the tongue
would have also “brung” the wrath of Dad.
He wasn’t bad, but he had a fuse you needed not light.
We had to fight the urge disobey.

We had to fight the urge to disobey.
We’d say what he wanted to hear,
and wait until we were clear of earshot
before we got our frustrations out.
It wasn’t about what we said.

It wasn’t about what we said.
Instead, it was how we said it.
I’d live to regret it that my last words to mom
came from a dark place. The hurt on her face.
stays with me to this day.
It was too late to watch what I say.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

POETIC ASIDES with Robert Lee Brewer – Prompt #457: Disobedience

WHAT DID I TELL YOU?

 

“What did I tell you?” my father said.
Swimming in the creek was dangerous.
He made a fuss about how the steel mill
would dump slag and waste (you could taste it
in the water.) “I ought let you suffer.”
He continued his tirade as he swabbed
my left eye. I’d cry if it didn’t hurt so much
to his gentle, but angry touch. I swam
in the creek with some friends.
It is all fun and games until someone
throws a handful of creek bed silt
in someone’s eye. My eye. Disobedience
is a teachable moment. It sent me to bed
early, eye patched and irritated.
I was elated that I hadn’t lost sight in it.
It had more fight in it than I’d have thought.
I ought not swim in the creek again.
I didn’t. A great decision!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

POETIC ASIDES with Robert Lee Brewer – Prompt #457: Disobedience

I SAW MY FATHER

I saw my father this morning.
It caught me off guard,
without warning, without any
precognition. The man’s been dead.

Over ten years gone, and though
I long for one moment more,
it underscores my dilemma.
I saw my father this morning.

His craggy morning beard
clearly heard when he’d scratch his chin.
Internal debate whether to shave it,
or save it another day, who’s to say?

The wrinkles around his eyes
that grew greater when pater smiled.
He had a great smile, and while he was alive
would strive to flash it at every turn.

I’d learn his way and his charm came
along with his name, my grandfather
bore both, so I am told. Too old
to remember him, but dad was clear.

I saw my father this morning.
He of the wise old face and cleft chin,
he of the exuberant grin, carpenter hands
the texture of leather caused by weather and life.

Hard knocks smart, an old fart with humor
and the aplomb to use it, sometimes abuse it
along with us and my mother. A man of another
time and age, sage with advice and super nice

when the smoky brown bottle stayed away.
Not to say it was right, but it might explain
some of his apparent flaws. It gnaws at me.
I saw my father this morning.

The man’s been dead, that has been said.
But as I look in the mirror and scratch my craggy chin
in debate and count my crow’s feet framed eyes, I have to smile.
I saw my father this morning. I see him every morning.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides 2017 April PAD – Day 13: Family

 

UNCLE FRANK HAD A LIMP

I knew him in his later years,
amidst fears of this craggy old-man
with the pronounced limp.
I had no knock against the man,
even though he tried prodding me into it.
“Knock on my leg!” he’d harass me,
and it would embarrass me to shy away.
He’d rap his knuckles against his shin.
The sound stayed with me. Knock on wood!
***
Old photographs of my grandmother
and her siblings emerge and a surge of
a phantom spasm rose up my right leg.
Uncle Frank and his dog in frame,
five legs and a wooden pole.
Legends find their truth; even in family re-telling.
Frank always explored the railroad tracks
that ran behind the house. Against all warning,
one morning they found a delirious Frank pleading,
bleeding profusely from his severed appendage.
On the flatbed of the family truck he was carted,
as he started begging his father not to punish.
My great-grandfather asked one question:
“After disobeying me, will you do it again?”
A lesson learned at a great price.
The resounding of knuckles against
a wooden prosthetic was punishment enough.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides 2017 April PAD – Day 13: Family

IMPORTANT THINGS MY FATHER SAID

HOT! DON’T TOUCH!

Every child learns the rule,
and at least once by painful hands on
experience. So un-cool.
But yes, we came to know that hot
was extremely un-cool. I still have a scar to prove it!

DON’T TALK BACK TO YOUR MOTHER

Respect came in various lessons,
and messin’ with Ma was one learned early.
The old man went squirrelly when we dissed
his missus. He truly went nuts,
no ifs ands or buts.

BE NICE TO GIRLS

Another respect in the same regard.
Sometimes it was hard to ignore
a sassy kid sister. But our Father mister,
would forget his rule when fueled by shots
and beers. My greatest childhood fear.

I DON’T KNOW WHY I CALL YOU SONNY

He called me sonny and it was funny
when he’s follow up with this admission.
“You’re not that bright!” he’d tease
although it pleased me to know I was
what he called the “sharpest tool in his shed”

DON’T TOUCH MY TOOLS

Speaking of tools, I couldn’t get it through my head
that his tools were his trade and it made him mad
when I had used his implements.
He’d get bent out of shape and went ape
sure as I tell you. But he knew…

PUT MY TOOLS AWAY

…that I had an affinity for fixing things
just as he had all his life. So the new rule was this:
If you use it, put it where you found it!
A lesson ground into my head from the start.
It didn’t take long to take it to heart.

MEASURE TWICE, CUT ONCE

As my skills sharpened he showed me
the power of his power tools. Respect.
And when using his table saw, his bromide
was remembered with pride. Measure it twice
and cut once. Or was that…?

I DRANK TOO MUCH

Cirrhosis of the liver came with much sadness.
And regret. Too many angry tirades on payday,
always a way to display his dominance.
But the prominence of that disease did not please.
The truthful answer was it had developed into liver cancer.

I WASN’T A GOOD ROLE MODEL

Tuesday afternoon lunch with Dad was an hour
in his confessional. His lament sent pangs deep
and I’d keep quite as he said his litany of faults.
Two Walts in contemplation; a revelation in the same
name. He wasn’t as bad as he’d claim

I WAS A LOUSY HUSBAND (I MISS YOUR MOTHER)

When Mom had passed, his was the last name she called.
It galled him that at the end there was nothing he could do.
He knew he could have been more attentive, even if it meant
he had to bury his machismo deeper. He’d say, “Mom was a keeper”
But he wished he did enough to prove it.

I COULD’VE BEEN A BETTER FATHER

We never wanted for anything knowing
if we didn’t have it, we probably didn’t need it.
We had stylish clothes and kept our noses clean.
Food on the table, a roof over our heads,
warm beds… he did ok by us, he couldn’t be any better.

I’M SORRY

They say the test of a man is in knowing his limitations
and admitting when he was wrong. His apology to us
was as heartfelt as any rule or lesson he could have taught.
And by doing so, brought us to understand.
our Father was one hell of a man!

I’M DYING

Another Tuesday, he in the throes of chemo.
“How are you doing, Pop?”
“Sonny, I’m dying!” The reality slap.
“But, you know what?” he say,
“I don’t know why I call you Sonny!”

I LOVE YOU

Here was a good man with admitted faults
and a vault full of knowledge he had passed
to my five siblings and me. And when all
was said and done, he had just one more thing to say.
“I love you”. And that was the most important thing!

…and then he didn’t say anything more.
He didn’t need to.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day #28: “Important ___________”

IN MY FATHER’S FOOTSTEPS

My father had a warped sense of fashion. Wild plaids, and Hawaiian patterns. Neither in bad taste, just too damn loud sometimes. And he loved to accessorize! Usually color coordinated, but some ill-fated outfits just didn’t cut the muster. And shoes! My father had a shoe fetish. Garish loafers in Black/white, or red/white, or blue/white, or whatever color and white that matched his costume. I put my foot down when he tried to offer fashion tips. I’d need quite a few nips of booze before I’d even consider wearing his shoes. Thankfully I have big feet. I followed him in many regards, but that one was not in the cards!

Walk in a man’s shoes
to know the plight of his flight,
sharing his journey

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day #23 : “Footwear”

 

I CAN HEAR HOME

My earliest recollection was a connection with my mother. Soft, nurturing sounds that calmed and soothed. What did I know from words? There was something there that made me think…I like this sound. Humming. Singing. A language I would come to know as Polish, spoken from my parents to her immigrant father to communicate. No translation came; all the same it seemed strange all those years ago.

The static hum of something… shrill and powerful sounding, surrounding that little room in the basement where Dad carried in wooden boards and removed the most beautiful wooden things. A carpenter by skill, I learned the thrill of his obsession by the sounds his tools emitted. I came equipped with siblings, and they came with secrets whispered and demands shouted. Tearful emissions and admissions of fear and longing, the same as I had!

There were calls of “Hey Walleee!” at the back door of the house. Neighborhood kids spending childhood running wild, every child a brother or sister. As every one was someone’s daughter or son. And every mother was mom! Each connected to the other. A father’s whistle piercing and urgent. We all went running when that alarm went off! Or when the street lamps came on! Met by the sound of an open hand cutting air when we didn’t.

Alcohol laden tirades invaded on payday. A shot –and-a-beer mentality with all the vitality of a rampant bull in the china shop that was my adolescence. We waged battles and rebellions to save my mother’s psyche and my sanity. The vanity of thinking I could save the world. And iron rails, tracks bringing from there and taking from here and clear across the country, encircled my world. The sound of some steam and much diesel was pleasing to my ear. That clackety-clack brings me back every time I hear it. It was clear I had a passion for trains.

We welcomed the clank of pots and pans when my mother began to prepare our evening fare. It was there that the issues of the day played out. We were never without that blessing until that one Christmas Eve when her self-fulfilling prophecy came true. “One of these Christmases I’m going on a long trip and I’m NOT coming back!” The house was much quieter after that.

The neighborhood was as well. I can tell you when we had all grown and gone and Dad was left behind, I find my saddest memory lingers. Swollen fingers and legs and a cancer that begged for finality came at another Christmas time. Dad would soon follow mom and from then on, silence prevailed. The sound of the tumbler the last time the door was locked is my final recollection. Home became just a noisy memory then.

we hear sounds of love
wafting through our hearts and minds,
memories of home.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

NaPoWriMo 2016 – Day #18: “The Sounds of Home”

LAST DAYS OF POMPEII

The days of him erupting were drawing to a close. Everybody knows that “death stare” hidden in every gasp and wheeze. It would have been easy to go out quickly than to have his candle flicker well into the afternoon. But the man had no quit. It was as if he were perpetual. Everlasting. More mountain than volcano. He was the rock upon which our family was founded. Strong, resilient, well-grounded. When his rumble finally ceased our number was decreased by one. But we lost so much more! One mighty volcano silenced. The last days of Pompeii.

Strength, solid and strong.
A long and storied legend
not lost in silence.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge 2016 – Day 12: “Last (Blank)

BATTLING DEMONS

Michelangelo’s First Painting

 

We wage this war all our lives, from the day we’re born until we die. And try as we might, the fight for right tends to have the upper hand. We can stand toe-to-toe and know we gave it our all and yet still fall prey to our temptations or afflictions or addictions.

The greatest warrior I had ever known had shown me how to attack the “demons” in life. Unfortunately wielding the brown bottle, my role model had fallen deep into the alcohol abyss scratching and clawing to extricate his soul for his well being and that of his family. His flank unprotected, Dad was subjected to a counter attack. Cirrhosis of the liver sacked him while his back was turned. Then we came the fatal blow as we learned that cancer joined the barrage bringing a larger than life hero to his knees. No pleas of mercy could save him.

We fight our wars
knowing survival falls short.
We win by living well

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Inspired by Michelangelo’s First Painting

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge 2016 – Day 6: Ekphrastic Poem