Sancho Panza

I remain a servant to my liege,
a right hand man at his command.
My name Panza means “Belly”,
and I ride with my fat ass
astride my donkey, Dapple.
I give him an apple daily.
Wisdom of words is not mine,
but I find my narrative
gives master some direction,
misguided as he is. We crave
“adventura” and I ride
at his side. Don Quixote
is strange but he manages
to keep me interested.
I haven’t rested since
he’s defeated the giants
with the sweeping arms
and all the charms of the
tilted windmills that they are.
That was by far a great episode.
I am every man, though I do not
share my master’s delusional
visions, I remain his ever-faithful
companion, a realist,
and the clever sidekick.
Keeping his dreams alive
impossible as they may seem!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

NaPoWriMo 2016 – Day# 21: “Write from a minor character’s point of view”


I cannot open my throat,
My words have ceased.
I have been left to decay
like some dying thing
singing a dirge of my
own making. There is
no mistaking my meaning,
every sigh is listed, double-
fisted battles to be heard.
He said words,
and I said nothing.
He said please,
but my pleas fell on deaf ears.
He said thank you.
I could not speak.
My words have ceased.
I cannot open my coffin!
Their condolences fail!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

from The Translator, by Sandra Beasley

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day 21: “Respond or continue a Poem”



The incendiary incidents escalate, too late
      for Sister Mary Should’ve Told All.
           The snow and ash and shrapnel fall

It’s beginning to look a lot like…
Someone will pay for her insolence,

the innocence assumed will not be exhumed
or extracted. The fact is that death does not allow …peace on earth.

                                     Goodwill… will be buried! It is scary

for the children to see this carnage at such an early age.
           It does not matter. They have no concept of god to which
                     to run.

                          Gunfire mires the remnants of civility
                                           to a smoking heap of nothingness,

As the nun’s hands remain clenched
          unsaid prayers will not help her now.

                                     How can it help anyone?

I’ll be home for… a short while longer if I feel stronger or am ready to die!

                            Deafening explosions erase all memories
of a father’ voice…
           of a mother’s touch…
                     so much fordreaming of a white…

Milkflower petals mimic snowfall. The black dog’s in need of a

                    shroud covering, a blanket to hide all that remains.

Open, he declares.

                              No one dares.
                                         No one cares.

Do not open until…in the air there’s a feeling…

                                                              No one survives!

         And so this is Christmas, and what have you done?

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

for Aubade With Burning City, by Ocean Vuong

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day# 21: “Response or Continued” Poem