Symptoms came to the fore
knocking me to the floor. A knee
and a supplicant plea
were all that made me see the pain
wasn’t just in my brain,
but it did leave me drained and scared.
If I had only dared,
then I might have been spared this fate.
And it’s never too late
(or so they say). I wait for word,
but so far all I’ve heard’s
something a little bird told me.
Right now it’s wait and see
what this next biopsy will show.
The process is so slow
as far as these things go. Can’t wait
(I hope we’re not too late).


Sadness, like a great weight
draws downward and your fate, although
not sealed, feels so.
And when you fall so low, nothing
can make your sad heart sing;
there’s no gladness to bring you hope,
only that downward slope.
No ambition; you mope around
clutching to this profound
sensation which confounds your mind
and it is then you find
just one way to unwind. You sleep.
The only way to keep
from going off the deep end, friend.
It’s in the very end
Your brain chooses to send a test.
Accept and do your best,
Or resign to deep rest, depressed.


She stands in silhouette
in the rain, and she’s wet and cold,
it’s as if she’s been told
it would wash away old feelings
with which she’s been dealing.
Each day passing, stealing desire –
quenching passion’s fire;
the unbridled pyre of love.
She’s never been above
giving herself a shove forward,
head over feet. It’s hard
to think that her reward was tin,
for she held gold within,
a prize no man could win, nor get;
she stands in silhouette.


Against the muted sky
shades of gray fill my eye and show
all that I need to know.
The lesson makes me grow surer
that all I ask from her
are thoughts that are as pure as she,
and all she asks from me
is the wisdom to see her soul.
Oh, Learned One, control
every step towards the goal I seek,
for I am truly meek,
and I pray for this weak moment
to show me I am bent
on becoming the gent whose heart,
although miles apart,
can offer just the start it needs.
It has planted the seeds
that will grow through the weeds and fly
against the muted sky.

© Walt Wojtanik 2012


The SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #61

He walked a fine line;
a blend between temper and tenderness.
A battle scar of life running down his chest
to his umbilicus; he was as good at his racket
as a father ought be. He was unfinished,
a draft of who he could’ve been.
A man that could string good days together
like strikes in a perfect game. Spare me the
denigration, any crack in his foundation
was merely a trace at best. Nothing could
augment my current state or make me
refrain from exulting the man. He would
latch onto his family and hold on for dear life.
And so it had been with my father!

Written for the SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #61



Corona came to rest in the shadows of the bluffs.
She trembled, having to crawl,
her feet carrying the stain of broken blood vessels
caused by the jagged stones and mud.
Weeping like a willow, she felt triumphant.
Her prison breached, having reached the shore.
Corona wished to brush away the ache of her savaged love,
but she chose instead to nail her shattered heart to the cross she bore.

The SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #60

Written for The SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #60


It’s back! I have decided to re-establish a separate blog

Everything old is new again!

for the posting of my short stories and flash fiction. The feeling was that I wasn’t paying my poetry the respect it had earned, and that the new audience for the prose and flash fiction would have easier access to it.

I am enjoying this new venture and look forward to presenting these works for you. So I’ll ask you to come over, bookmark the page, follow my progress and enjoy the stories. And thanks for stopping by!



The slab of marble held the glow of life.
With chisel in hand Antoine continued
to crouch before the edge of solid stone.
He looked for the spot where he would pierce
its flinty hardness. The wrong position
and the swirled stone would split and crumble
or even worse, burst sending useless pieces
to crash to the hardwood floor.
Such thoughts served to bruise his confidence.
Antoine would draw on the spirits
of the grand masters to beat his sculpture to life.

Inspired by THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #59