Not being one to boast,
and no, I’m not a cop.
But when you see the light,
it will be the end of life’s caper.
Never a chicken, not given to fowl play,
your final days will just whittle away.

© Walter J Wojtanik, 2014

The provided words from Poetic Asides were altered to be “off by one” or at least one letter. I incorporated them into my poem. The words:

  • toast
  • pop
  • right
  • paper
  • howl
  • little

POETIC ASIDES with Robert Lee Brewer – Prompt #268


In a clay bowl, a vessel shaped by love’s hands,
a flame burns brightly –
an eternal  cycle glinting in the memory of grace.
A face in brilliance; this dalliance – incarnated
in the fervor of desire; a fire shared,
not fueled by wood but awakened by the moon.
This space, this island, this planet for two, dressed
like natives exposed to one another
making life so grand. Mother would frown upon us
if she looked down upon us. But I trust that
what she’s not around to see would usually be for the best.
Your soul follows my lead, a celebratory dance; a chance
to make magic by pushing two hearts
into the border of a single space the shape of one.
This place. Our island alone.

© Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014




Childhood dreams live in my memories of youth.
And love abides in the memories of youth.

Imaginations unbridled; the desires of hearts and minds
find a dwelling in the memories of youth.

Amidst the number of a family, large and vibrant,
a loving mother and father tyrant in the memories of youth.

All in perspective of a young child, point of view lower
and slower to process the responsibilities in the memories of youth.

But love did abide in the memories of days long gone,
parents long gone, but alive in the memories of youth.

Lessons were a way of life; the learning curve was in force
in the course of the memories of youth.

Success came in the learnings of life, rife with knowledge
and the fuel to power the memories of youth.

I learned at my father’s knee; me and a pouch full of nails,
the trials of an apprentice in the memories of youth.

Surrounded by brothers and sisters; a rambunctious bunch
of misses and misters in the memories of youth.

Surrounded still in the decline of numbers,
victims all in the memories of youth.

Hearts full and overflowing with the thoughts so inspired
never to be retired in the memories of youth.

The tragic part of Walt going back to the place where I was raised,
is finding myself as one of my own memories of youth.

But, they keep me grounded; they strengthen my resolve
with more of life’s mysteries to solve through the memories of youth.

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Meeting the Bar – Repetition


FrankMake shift monsters come together nicely,
like grandma’s random recipes // bits of this,
handfuls of that. A brain from the guy down the lane.
Who needs a top hat and cane to dance?
Give a ghoul a whirl and he’ll surely prance.
Sometimes, even agile monsters tend to rip their pants.
They’ll even rip in their pants, if you must know.
And it goes to show, from generation
to regeneration, born-again monsters aren’t too mean
until you give them a belly full of beans.

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – MTB – Connecting the unconnectable


Living a Baker’s Dozen in years, I noticed a change.
Genetics seemed to rearrange my wiring,
and I was firing like wild synapses in a manic fashion.
My passion for words found its grounding, sounding
mildly poetic in a lyrical sense. My voice
kept cracking, stacking the cards against me.
Acne was the cruelest joke, poking through;
epidermal eruptions stealing what little appeal
I may have had. It was a bad year to be
so unclear about my future, life sutured together.
I crushed on the girl next door but couldn’t get her
to know I was alive. All that jive was not too keen.
God, no one knew how I hated being thirteen!

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014
Poets United – Midweek Motif: The Number Thirteen


No small sip of water
this little berg in the
Poland countryside. A home
to my predecessors, Igolomia.

Blossoms placed their fragrant blooms
on public display near an array of quaint
cottage style abodes and farm houses
where the proprietors and their spouses

toiled in the fertile soil of Krakow.
Past that community where unity is a proud
by-product of their fabled heritage, I found
the remains of my ancestral home.JozefKura

A residence of modest size that housed
my Grandfather and his siblings raised
by the old cavalry officer, Marcin,
and his lovely bride, Joanna. What stands

of the old homestead is rooted into the
the ground partially buried but left to serve
as a retaining wall, corralling memories
of her storied prominence. The march through

Poland left the house a shambles and the stable in ruins.
By then, my Grandfather and the rest of the brood
had vacated, but not before leaving behind something
that would serve the test of time. A foundation solid and strong

lasting through the years. A testament to
my upbringing. Steeped in the traditions
of my heritage and beliefs; a foundation solid
and strong. A souvenir of my past remains,

a reminder of the history that has built this presentIMG_1047
and a hopeful future. A stone, the tangible part of the
life that courses through me. A piece of that wall;
my discovery in Poland in Spring of 1980. A foundation.


(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014


dVerse Poets Pub – Poetics: Your Family hiSTORY



Meeting your maker take a lot out of a bloke.
You used to joke that heaven wasn’t real,
and now you feel what it would be like if you were right.

Bigger than Jesus you claimed and your fame
was crucified in a less meaningful way, apologies come,
it was a dumb thing to say in that way.

The papers said, “GOD IS DEAD!” and in your head
you saw your fabularity picking up the slack.
And then you wished you could take it back.

You didn’t need the weed to succeed, only John.
Acid turned you into an ass head for a short while,
but your Liverpudlian smile always toted charm.

You chose her to be your Yoko Ono, and with her on your arm
your were living your fantasy two fold. You thought things
that would bring discussions to the table. Deportation was a fable

ill conceived, and we believed all you would imagine,
if given the chance peace would find a way and today
you may still be dreaming. It seems surreal. I feel you here!

You may say I’m a dreamer.
Can you imagine?


(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014




Come forward all you who have come before me.
I find you fascinating and am celebrating your being.
I’m seeing so many of you for the first time
years after your passing, I am amassing information
about location and occupation, offspring and things
that have made you exclusively you; exclusive to me.
A Great-Grandfather emerges and his DNA surges through me.
His brother is uncovered near where I grew,
I knew nothing of his existence; there was a certain
resistance to speak of the past, lest we cast aspersions
in a hearsay sort of way. A decorated veteran buried
without fanfare there under thick mossy overgrowth.
All without leaving my living room. I’m giving room for them
to congregate. I can’t wait to see who I might meet next!


(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014



POET’S NOTES: Every story about my Great-Grandfather has him identified as “Martin” which in Polish is “Marcin”. I’m finding “Maciej” being the Polish for “Matthew” (variation – as Matthias) There was a pronunciation error in Immigration and Martin was listed as the given name. As a coincidental twist, my Great-Grandfather “James” on my mother’s side also has “Maciej” engraved on his headstone. Both of my Great-Grandfather’s actually share the same name.


WWojIt is always a pleasure to help promote and advance the creative process. It is a great thrill to be feted in the same way. This poetic world we share is an ongoing “mutual admiration society”.

In that, I was honored to be asked by my friend, Laurie Kolp, to be one of her selections in this virtual blog tour. The mission is to introduce gifted bloggers and their blogs and have them share the work behind their writing and creative processes. You can visit her tour post at Laurie Kolp Poetry


Laurie Kolp lives in Southeast Texas with her husband of 15 years, three kids and two dogs. She claims her native tongue is poetry. It must be true; she “speaks” it fluently. Laurie has recently had her first full-length poetry collection, Upon the Blue Couch(Winter Goose Publishing) , published in April .

Learn more at her website


1. What am I working on?
Currently, I am finishing the editing for my own first full length poetry collection. The theme lends itself to a series of books, but I’ll be happy to get this first one off the launch pad. My frantic pace to write poetry has given me much from which to choose, albeit driving me crazy at times. With several chapbooks under my belt, I figured it’s time I worked the “big tent” for a bit. Taking advice and encouragement from my poetic friends keeps me well in the loop.


2. How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I’m not sure what “genre” I am ensconced in. I am also a lyricist, so that comes through. I have been told I write tender love poems and steamy passionate pieces. I have a skewed vision of my world and the humor of that comes to the fore as well. Satirist, journalist, you call me what you will. Read my words and you can decide how I differ. I suspect we never really do vary from each other.

3. Why do I write/create what I do?

It’s this innate fear that if I do not create/ write/ release what I do, I will explode with nothing left than words strewn about my living room floor. My writing stemmed from my debilitating shyness as a young boy. I was very introverted. I was invisible. And expressing in words became the voice on paper that I wished I could vocalize freely. Even after beginning this process, I was reticent to let my poetry see the light of day. It’s a good guess I’ve stepped clear of that!

Poetry Reading at Pausa Art House Photo by Paula Sciuk (C) 2014
Poetry Reading at Pausa Art House
Photo by Paula Sciuk (C) 2014

4. How does my writing/creating process work?

I have no set routine. The spirit of my muse grips me at strange moments sometimes. My belief is that inspiration is found wherever you look for it. I do have certain subjects that just flow freely and have offered some of my best work, in my opinion. My parents and family, lost loves, and a fascination with the Neverland and the wizard of Oz. Lost boys and witches, the story of my life!
All my work is considered “in progress” I’ve never learned to “leave the painting alone” after a while. Every draft a First Draft. Every revision is a first draft. I treat them all the same.

I have selected three creative souls to continue this virtual tour. Next week, they will guide you through the same questions about how and why they tick! Please visit their sites!

Soul of a poet and writer stuck with the body and mind of a soccer player. That is Rob Halpin. On occasion, something worth reading finds its way out. To see if you agree, you can check out his blogs:

Lorwynd’s Thoughts




(Dr.) Pearl Ketover Prilik is a writer/psychoanalyst living on the South Shore of LI. She has had three non-fiction books published, was editor of a post-doc psychoanalytic newsletter and editor/contributor of two poetry anthologies –She has been delighted to have poetry and micro-fiction published in a number of online and print literary journals and is currently and still successfully avoiding editing two completed novels. Although she is known alternately as pkp, Dr. Pearl, drpkp and a few other alias she claims to have committed no crime outside the purview of the grammatical.

Visit her blog at IMAGINE