OBLITERATING THE LIGHT OF DAY

Evening falls from the heights of darkness,
the starkness and contrast fast becoming apparent.
A day left languishing in the warmth of the sun,
the one thing I’ll miss when the transformation
is complete. My feet feel the dew, grass between
my toes and I know the stars will stretch infinity.
In the vicinity of midnight and morning,
storm warnings announced as the clouds pounce
obliterating the light of day!

Taken from my poem: UNDER THE VALANCE OF NIGHT

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Prompted by POETIC ASIDES – Day 29 – A line from your poem…

UNEARTHING NERDS

Protected pockets and momma’s
kiss goodbye on a freshly washed cheek.
Meek to mild, this internal child dreams
of rockets and exploration and all
the sex his nocturnal suspicion
can muster. Buster browns and eyeglasses,
round and magnified to hide his
insecurities and foibles. A boy in hiding
and chiding his lack of confidence
inhibitions exhibited and held close
well past high school. A fool who
could have had all he could handle
if he would expand his horizon. Despising
everything he had become. Solace in the words
he used and abused; a poet lost,
suspenders holding his muse.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

For MIZ QUICKLY’S IMPROMPTU POETRY Day 30 – Stereotypes

OLD POETS NEVER DIE

Expired expressions fester
and pester a weary poet’s soul,
needing to control the conversation.
And it is with elation that the wordsmith
strings words together like the pearls
of wisdom he imagines. Between neuron
spasms and fired synapses, the trap
has been bated. It is our fate to write
to the last, rhyme if there’s time,
And know each chosen word has meaning,
gleaning the exact definition from your words.
All other pursuits are for the birds.
May your words live on. You’re never done.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Prompted by POETIC ASIDES – Day 30 – Finished/Unfinished

DONE WITH IT

No reason to purge onward,
the urge to continue died
with each last breath buried
in the words written to please
others. Their quest for inner peace
came at a cost too great for me,
and it does not sate me to succeed.
So, I give up the ghost and seek a host
of other adventures before my chest
falls still. I will think of these things fondly,
but in all future endeavors, I’m done.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Suggested by POETIC ASIDES – Day 30 – Finished/Unfinished

VIBRANT HUES

I sat in a field one autumn night,
the moon, dark like the devil’s heart.
All the foliage remains high; a spectrum
painted with brush strokes vibrant and crisp.

Unseen and unnoticed
oblivious to the future’s conundrum.
Silently minds tossed ideas falling flat
the big winner unloved; unsavory.

Blank expressions offered hope and life,
yet weak to the looks you proffer; alive
from your passing, yet sad in how sweetly
you tucked in your wings and fell.

Every day now, the truths of solitude have dulled,
cutting and shredding like an un-sharpened blade; sculpting.
This dale, grass taller and moist, tears from eyes
gray, where living colors play, one autumn night.

With polar similarity to Neutral Tones by Thomas Hardy

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Written for NaPoWriMo 2013 – Day 30 – Opposite Words

THE BEAT GOES ONWARD

Like worms and grubs we suck
the marrow out of life to borrow
an existence thin and transparent.
If you never saw harrowing horrors,
you could guess such rare occurrences
are either fantasy or well-scripted.
We swear an oath to march to
our own drummer. That becomes our snare.

106

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #106

OFF THE HOOK

20130427-095433.jpg

Earl was a weird guy, he never did fit in. He was a fish out of water as far as life was concerned. He learned what he needed to succeed, but indeed he was on his own. It was the way he lived. It was the way that he died. Flopping around on the grass like a trout, he went out hook, line and sinker. Death lured him home.

On the grass, Earl left
leaving his family bereft,
fodder for the worms.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Written for MIZ QUICKLY’S IMPROMPTU POETRY – Day 27 – Alt
Shorpy Images

THE BREATH OF A SALESMAN

The sales staff tradition was a noon time thing.
based on weekly sales totals decided who was paying.

George was surely just the best, his passion and his hope,
quite an able salesman, he could sell condoms to the pope.

Phil had served his customers for nearly twenty years
soon to be retired, Phil would be changing gears.

But Willie was the low man, his acumen not good,
he couldn’t sell to go to hell (most times he wished he could)

Willie knew a restaurant, the cheapest he could find,
the quaintest little pizza joint, he was sure they wouldn’t mind.

The sauce was rather rancid; it almost made them sick,
and on that day they walked away smelling like garlic.

The customers would hold their noses; they didn’t buy a bit
and Willie didn’t blame them, their breaths all smelled like… garlic!

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Written for MIZ QUICKLY’S IMPROMPTU POETRY – Day 27 Salesman