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.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #106

HEADROOM TO THE M-M-M-MAX

CGI guy
spoke with a glitch,
always ready with a pitch

Edison Carter’s
all a-flutter;
alter ego with a stutter.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Poetic Asides – Day 27 – Mechanical Poem

SUNDAY

Sunday comes.
The best day of rest,
not a care,
worked all week,
checking my eyelids for leaks.
How I love Sundays.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Suggested by POETIC ASIDES – Day 28 Prompt – Shadorma

OFF THE HOOK

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