My heart envisions what my eyes refuse to see. ~Poet Walter J Wojtanik
The memory of her father was a blur.
She recalled him being flinty and austere;
to even get close to him, she felt as if she’d
have to scrape the barnacles from his rough keel.
So Prudence retreated into her sterile cocoon,
an attempt to bolster her burnished and brittle heart.
But her torrent of tears drenched her bodice,
leaving a taste like chalk on her tongue.
Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL – WORDLE #58
Her grief overwhelmed her;
sucking the marrow from her bones;
removing the blush from her cheeks.
Perhaps the colors of the flower she held in her gentle hand;
one of the many crocuses
plucked from the window box
would purvey her stillness
in the clatter of everyday life.
Not a wife nor a mother,
her hips are heavy
from the massive burden
she shoulders; the secret she keeps.
Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL -Wordle #57
An elephant’s loyal one-hundred percent, but a hippopotamus
Not so much, and as such Herschel the Hippo kept
To himself and dreamed of returning to
Israel to plant a tree and wail at the wall.
Some of the other animals knew his
Elephant cousin (who talked to dust), but they never
Minded Herschel. They thought him different.
Instead of welcoming the hippopotamus,
They looked askance at the thick-skinned mammal
Inciting remarks of the cruel and hurtful kind.
Certainly, they knew that a Hebrew Hippo meant no harm.
Regardless of what Mel Gibson spewed
Everyone knew Herschel, though not loyal, was still a
Mensch. It did not matter to Herschel.
After all, he had heard that kind to hate speech before.
Remarkably, he did not go mashuga and rampage,
Killing the anti-Semites. He donned his yarmulke; boarded his flight.
Upon her pedestal she stood; a goddess,
sacred in the eyes of all who paid homage
to her. It was a long string of such women
who could exorcise all demons that would visit
in the night. The indigenous savages would halt
their elaborated rituals; laying down
their flags with all intention of lifting her
to the summit for all to honor and praise her.
The name given spoke of her significance.
They called her: Mother!
Written for The Sunday Whirl – Wordle #56
Fighting my muse
as an exercise? Frustrating.
Fighting my muse;
a self-abuse which I refuse;
This writer’s block, I am hating.
I think this prompt is frustrating
Fighting my muse
Copyright © 2012 Walt Wojtanik
Written for IMAGINARY GARDEN WITH REAL TOADS – RONDELET
A boy;
crippled, debilitated.
Easily forgotten, getting help
Injured joints; kinked legs.
Medically nurtured,
Overcoming physical quirks
Restored strength totally.
Undisputed verity.
Walt, xenophobe,
yin/yang zealot!
Written for WE WRITE POEMS – PROMPT #105 – Old Beginnings
It’s all around the hen house,
the roosters read it first,
the poulets get their fill of it,
so much they’ll almost burst
it’s a good read when hens are down
it bolsters up their spirit
it makes the coop smell rather foul
(or that’s the way I hear it!)
The book is full of these vignettes
one ladel at a time,
but all this methane makes me reel
I think I’ll stick to rhyme.
The fleecy pile
makes me smile
the way they’re cushioning my feet
keeps them dry and smelling sweet,
I like them short
I like them long
on my ‘dogs’
where they belong.
Be they crew or be they tube,
without them I feel like a rube.
My feet no longer perspirate
Your toe fetish will have to wait.
She sets herself; a life raft for wayward
sailors navigating life on a tumultuous sea.
Her beacon shines brightly,
a nightly sweep with eyes searching
and a smile that provides great light.
Lost souls find comfort there.
Every heart beats more sure;
no hazard is too great to bear.
Far and away she stands,
a gentle lady of a kind and nurturing soul.
Her goal remains within reach,
nature’s friend and confidant.
A mother’s caress never so sweet,
nor guiding hand so tender,
making a mental effort to present
her precious gift; melancholy’s true mender.
For she becomes the friend in which you place your trust,
the “embrace” in which you find comfort.
She is a beautiful soul,
a manifestation of every good thing.
She brings her smile to soothe your heart
and you start to believe in all of her charm;
a shield protecting and projecting
is the sanctuary disguised as her arms.
Secure in the shadows
miles from your eyes, you are wise
to rely on her heart being your rudder.
For the heavens give her direction
and her faith gives her solace.
Her face, an angel’s desire
and the smile she burns throughout,
with love’s unquenchable fire.
© 2012 – Walt Wojtanik
I had the extreme pleasure of being interviewed by Claudette Young on her webspace, CLAUDSY’S BLOG. In it we discuss life, poetry and other journeys into worded wonder. Thanks Claudette for this opportunity.
http://claudsy.wordpress.com/2012/05/07/interview-with-poet-walt-wojtanik
My heart envisions what my eyes refuse to see. ~Poet Walter J Wojtanik
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