Hulking and broken, he sits and stares,
faint flashes of brilliance
invade. Muscles twitch
when he tries to make a fist.
A native son, punch drunk
and sullen, sunken into a state
no brotherly love can placate.
You hate to see him this way,
he should have quit when
he was ahead. Instead, he’s
stumbling and mumbling to himself.
He came back again and again.
The twenty-second reincarnation
of the franchise, you can’t disguise
his heavily swollen eyes.
“Cut me, Mick! Ya gotta cut me!”
© Walter J Wojtanik, 2015
Movie: “ROCKY” – Sylvester Stallone
Hidden in forbidden slumber
under the slew of snow and ice.
Merely weeks away the day that Spring
appears we’ll cheer and revel
in celebration, joy will be unbridled
when it decides to come. One-by-one
the days pass, slow not fast
and each in question. Any mention
of flurries and freezing leaves me
cold. I’m getting to old for this.
These are the waitings in which
we’ve been partaking. There’s no
mistaking, Spring is taking
it’s sweet old time!
© Walter J. Wojtanik, 2015
Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild – The Reason For Rhyme: Different Strokes; Different Folks