A stone
marks your presence,
yet the essence of you
lives within me.

Memories and heart felt emotions
fill the corners of my rapturous soul.
Amidst these rows and rows of monuments,
of marble and granite.

You are both remembered
long since you departed with pieces of my heart,
buried with you, as much as pieces of your lives
live within me.

I come to celebrate you,
feting each life as a part of me,
a solid foundation
upon which I was built.
The only guilt I bear
is not being there to tell you,
“I love you” often enough.

Of granite and stone your time has been marked,
a stark reality to the soft and caring souls you were
in this life of love and wonder. Under this marker you lie;
deep within my heart you remain, an eternal blessing.

Rest comes shrouded in stone,
shadows of death left to languish,
grounded in seclusion; isolation.
Marked in granite,
planet Earth receives all that remains.
Spoils for the soil.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

dVerse Poets Pub – MTB: As a Cubist Poet


I go to bed exhausted, bleary eyed,
teary eyed before long and a strong sense
that all is lost if this lack of slumber
costs me any more grief.
The sandman is a thief in the night,
stealing the light in my eyes
and casting a pall on my wishes
for sweet dreams. It seems my affliction
is a dereliction of somnambulist seclusion.
Insomnia plays like a raucous rumba with my R.E.M.
Narcoleptic fits are every bit as annoying,
toying with my sleep patterns; a smattering of
But the Apnea sleep Nazi screams, “NO SLEEP FOR YOU!!!”
So it’s true, I lay in a heap and finally feel the heaviness greet
my eyelids. The ensuing headache breaks and
takes what small packet of napping it can.
I’m not even sure I dream anymore, or if my subconscious
mind can find the root causes for these nightly pauses.
My legs twitch, as if an unscratched itch is festering,
pestering me to no end. And without warning, I buck
and lurch, a search for a solution. A new sensation,
I am falling while asleep; falling, asleep.
The bottom comes too soon, jolting me to a new
stage of awake with the ache that pulses around my eye.
Off the floor to rise, flipping the pillow and trying
to find an exit from this never-ending horror story.
I go back to bed exhausted, bleary eyed;
like I’ve always tried, expecting things to go differently.
In any book, that’s insane.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides – Wednesday Prompt #369: Patterns


He reverts back to where he started,
now a ghost of his former self.
A crack had developed in his resolve,
and solving cryptic word puzzles
never allowed him to free his mind
in the ways he was used to.
His poetic hand was worn and tired
and he had retired from poemic pursuits.
But the new recruits didn’t know enough
to check his myriad of work.
A once “big deal” had gotten sick of lurking
in the shadows; he thought
he ought to get back to expressing
what his heart wrongly guessed was best left unsaid!
It was better to come back from the dead!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides Prompt #368: Six Little Words (ghost, crack, free,
hand, check, know)


Strung and tied
woven into the fabric
of a fool’s folly.
Sol beckons him
he commits, Wings fit
and affixed on his back.
Waxed and molded, feathers
flocked together, climbing.
To the sun he ascends.
the heat rendering his apparatus
useless. Icarus falls
“landing” before the last feather
flits to earth.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016


Great Horned Owl
Great Horned Owl

Who? Who knows? Who knows who?
Wide-eyed wisdom perched
in the late-summer’s night.
Calling to see who would respond,
who would find answers to the questions.
Who? If you knew would you care,
would you dare question the what,
the why, the where? Who are you to challenge
the wisdom which took years to amass.
No tome bound in leather could contain
what weathered wisdom resides in feathers.
No matter how wise the owl, it can run a-fowl
of what we’ve learned; what we’ve earned.
Who? Who knows? Who knows who?

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2016

For dVerse Poets Pub – Come Fly With Me: Poetics


Smooth sailing on an azure lake, tides and time waiting for no one reason to change the course we manipulate. We are the captains of logic, charting the stars for the safe route home. But as the swell begins to toss your weary hull, an instance comes to fore that all that seems tranquil, is now turbulent and unrelenting, preventing you from the completion of your journey. In your thinking you order the lifeboats, not giving up the ship, and not going down with out a fight, tonight and every night. You stand determined, hand on the rudder and tacking a hard starboard course angling directly into the storm that batters your horizon. Catching your sail, it turns you to your heart’s safe harbor, a lifeline tethered and strong, sailing right along to the sanctuary of your soul.

rolling and churning
turbulent waters seek peace
adrift in the storm

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

dVerse Poets Pub – Haibun Monday: Winds of Change



Before I sleep,
I have miles to go.
stopping by woods.

Ponder weak; weary,
so quoth the raven.

How do I love thee
let me count
depth, breadth, height, purely.

The sidewalk ends.
The grass grows soft; white.
The children know.

i carry your heart
in my heart.
never without it.

In a yellow wood,
I will take
the road less traveled.

Tree and moss you are;
Folly to the world.

Life is fine.
You may hear me holler.
Fine as wine.

Lonely as a cloud,
I wander;
Dance with daffodils.

Love costs all we are
only love.
That which sets us free.

Into that good night
the light dies.
Rage, rage against it.

Your tempest of love,
deaf and blind
my senses leave me.

All the world’s a stage,
we all play,
some play many parts.

Captain, my captain.
Trip is done.
Fallen cold and dead.

My luve’s a red rose,
sprung in June.
Fare the weel awhile.

The chestnut tree spreads.
Smithy stands;
owes not any man.

I dreamed of chickens.
On waking,
there were eggs on me.

A swig in hell from
Gunga Din,
better man than I.

Jug of wine,
a loaf of bread, Thou.
Wilderness is Paradise.

© Walter J. Wojtanik


The Black Lagoon produced the Creature,
often seen in double-features
with the bolt-necked Frankendude,
as manners go, both rather rude.

Lamont Cranston cast his Shadow,
without light, as far as I know.
Who knows in which men’s hearts evil lurks?
I hope this gumshoe catches these jerks.

Now, consider the films of old Lon Chaney,
black and white, and rather grainy.
The many faces Chaney’d wear
would give his fans a frightful scare.

Clap for the Wolf-man,
he’s no vegetarian,
The more he got hairy,
the more he got scary.

Mummy, mummy,
you’re no dummy.
Quite Egyptian from the womb,
Fright Egyptian from your tomb.

They shot Freddie Kruger
with a German Luger.
But that attempt will always fail,
just get that creep to cut his nails.

And that Voorhees kid called Jason,
he was always out there chasin’
hot and horny, hormonal teenies
to chop them into smithereenies.

WTF, Michael Myers?
(Not SNL Michael Myers)
The latter made a ton of money,
what the former did was not so funny.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

dVerse Poets Pub – Form For All: Clerihew


Uncle Harry was a sailor; a submariner with tales to tell. Our families would alternate visits from one summer to the next. Dad’s blue Plymouth Belvedere wagon was the magic carpet that swept the eight of us (Mom, Dad and six kids) up to Kittery, Maine every other year. The following summer Harry and my Aunt Marianne would bring their six kids home to Lackawanna. Sixteen of us cramped into whichever house served as accommodations.  Sometimes relations would strain toward the end of even the happiest of visits, but it was what it was. The cousins paired up closely in age and we played, fought, talked, shared, loved and cried when the time came to return home. Did I mention Harry lived on Love Street? No matter how our visits had gone, we always hated to leave Love behind.

My brother Ken was a sailor; a submariner with tales to tell. Serving at the same base, the place brought back memories and afforded us a chance to return to Love once more in our adulthood. It is equally heartwarming and sad to be one of your own memories.

Embers of love live
in the hearth of kith and kin;
always glows within.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016