TWIGLET #183 – WE ROMANTICS

Side-by-side,
we are two loving souls.
Sharing the moment;
basking in the glow
of our combined brilliance
of loving support. An intensity
is flooding our
soulful kisses
in this little shadowbox
of our life. Our caresses
on private display,
viewed by only us.
Uninhibited embraces
of daydreams of longing;
happy in the re-discovery
of a lifetime. We romantics
are shining with the blinding
radiance of our intimacy.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2020

 

Twiglet #183 -We Romantics

A POEM STARTING WITH AN END LINE FROM SHEL SILVERSTEIN

It’s rather dark in here,
but don’t go toward the light.
It would be the bright thing
at the end of the hall,
but, just feel along the wall
and you should find your way.
And if along the way you feel
something soft and gooey,
or misty and booey, run like hell.
Ghosts and goblins can tell when it’s dark.
It’s their “Home Field Advantage.”

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

The last line from “It’s Dark In Here” by Shel Silverstein

SHE LIKES THE MANY FACES OF CLOCKS

1.

She makes time
for the time she has,
should she run out
she’ll wind herself up,
minute by minute!

2.

How many faces can she see?
How much time will she need?
It isn’t continuum greed!
The lady loves clocks.
They knock her socks off!

3.

Digital is all I command.
I can’t stand analog any longer.
The time is stronger in the dark.

4.

Three in the bedroom,
five in the kitchen,
three in the living room,
and my daughter’s room,
and the computer room.
The bathroom has one
in the shape of a toilet seat.
A shower gift from an aunt.
She doesn’t have the heart
to part with it!

5.

Her internal clock
keeps me awake at night.
Right when I think
I’m on the brink of slumber,
she wakes up alarmed.
I sleep with one eye open.
I know it’s coming!

6.

Does anybody really know what time it is?
Does anybody really care?
~ Chicago

She cares about time.
Rarely ever late.
Great at punctuality.
Even with the fragility of life,
my wife is rarely late.
But, one day we will all be!

7.

Every hour on the hour,
our hours are ours.
Every waking minute
I’m taking stock in our
continuous clock.
Tick-Tock,
tick-tock,
tick

8.

Time is fleeting,
it is eating away our days.
If it stays in sync
I think we’ll be okay!

9.

Passing the time
in her company,
I’m finding my peace
in every numbered face I see.
Is it me or is number seventeen
running a bit slow?

10.

I make time
for the time she has,
should she run out
I’ll fall apart,
minute by minute!
There’s no disgrace
in losing face!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik

OF LEAVES OF GRASS AND SUCH

Of me!
Of Life!
Of these questions recurring;

Of the endless trains of the faithless
wondering about existence with persistence
and resolve, trying to solve the mysteries, failing;

Of myself,
mired in thoughts profound, that surround
in a confused fog, a lone dog chewing on life’s flavored bone. Alone;

Of eyes that crave the light
of each new day, of each new idea,
of every struggle, the brilliance of wisdom glowing;

Of every poor result left to fester,
of the sullied crowds plotting
allotting me to surrender without recourse;

Of the empty useless years, no rest
on this life quest when I acquiesce to this folly,
no jolly expression left unpunished, unfinished;

Of the terrible doubt
that lingers with words left to languish in these fingers
poetic verses worsen as time passes, thoughts amassed and sequestered;

Of the uncertainty of what life remains
to offer to fill the coffers of one left bankrupt of ideas,
of ideals, of the feeling of relevance and some semblance of honor;

Of day and night awash in memories lost
of doubtless apparitions holding answers to questions unasked
or pondered, wonders of the world we possess and caress with our words;

Of course, nothing comes from nothing
and should nothing become something, we will dream and fly,
an eye on future tomorrows, of joys and sorrows;

Of the visages of things that bring into focus
what hearts envision; of piercing through every heaven,
every hell and the ability to tell the difference;

Of the ugliness of men to cast aspersions one upon the other,
making sister and brother enemies of that hated state.
Return to the sacred plate of communion, a blessed union of souls;

Of me?
Of life recurring?
Of Leaves of Grass and such!

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2020

Inspiration drawn from Walt Whitman’s works – Leaves of Grass, O Me! Oh Life!, Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances, Of the Visage of Things

ELLE

Elle a certainement une certaine grâce en elle,
une aire qui la distingue des autres.
Rien de ce qu’elle dit ne me ferait douter d’elle,
le début et la fin de la quête de cet homme.
Elle a été le pouls qui bat dans ma poitrine,
mais comme mon esprit vacille, il est blâmé.
Elle est tellement aimante, elle me fait me sentir bénie,
mais parfois je ne me souviens pas de son nom.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2020

** Apropos for the French poetic form Huitain challenge at Poetic Asides, I suppose. Thank you, Google Translate.

Original Poem:

SHE

She sure has a certain grace about her,
an aire that sets her apart from the rest.
Nothing she says would cause me to doubt her,
the beginning and end of this man’s quest.
She has been the pulse that beats in my chest,
but as my mind falters, it gets the blame.
She is so loving, she makes me feel blessed,
yet sometimes I can’t remember her name.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2020

THEY GO ABOUT THEIR DAY

Don’t they remember?
They go about their day
as if nothing was wrong,
doing the same old song
and dance, as if perchance
it was all a dream.

But you cannot sleep
through such a fright.
It keeps me up at night
sometimes. Don’t they recall
at all how it happened?
They go about their day.

It’s not to say it’s an obsession,
but this confession is true.
What did you do when the twins fell?
Where were you when five sides
became four? When verdant pastures
claimed more? Don’t you remember?

It’s an indelible stain that remains,
a blotch upon all of humanity’s souls.
Yet, some go about their days, ignoring
and imploring we all do the same.
History forgotten is soon repeated,
and we will not be defeated.

It was no dream, this evil scheme,
it seems some would just as soon forget it.
And yet, it happened eighteen years ago today.
Without a thought, they go about their day.
What is there left to say? It happened.
Don’t you remember?

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

POETIC BLOOMINGS tribute to 911