You come and stay for hours,
amidst the psychedelic flowers
and impossible scenarios.
Running past streets and barrios
with Joses and Marios, looking
for solace in a nightful of frightful
turns and plot twists. You’ve wished you
can finish a complete thought,
but your REM cycle keeps running out of gas.
In the foggy distance, a wail. It never fails.
It seems just when you get
to the good part of your dreams you have to depart,
trying to restart every nine minutes for an hour
until your snooze alarm comes back to call.


Float and soar just like a balloon,
to rise right before our eyes
as we watch your grand ascent.
You were meant to reach
new heights. Your flight
will take you far. You are
what we all aspire to be.
We are all balloons!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Quadrille #29: Balloon


Przez moje dziedzictwo przyszedłem się znaleźć.
Nie ma tu książki, która siedzi na mojej półce,
To była tradycja, przez którą zostałem znaleziony.
Został przekazany.

Wiele zwyczajów pochodzi z naszego starego kraju,
Przynosiło to miejsce, gdzie przychodzili moi dziadkowie.
Oswojona i przeznaczona do wolności
W nowym kraju.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

An attempt at the Polish translation of my “Sapphic Stanza In Polish Poetry”


In a melancholy mood…
The brood is dwindling
and what remains is kindling
for my mind. Among a myriad
of minutia I find memories,
things my daughters possessed
and left behind. Our nest will rest
on “E”, and come December,
I will be hard pressed to remember
whose toys were whose. I choose to recall
all the joy my children had,
and they seemed glad to have
what they did. No longer kids
but adults on the cusp of their own dreams.
It seems I get laced in nostalgia
as neuralgia settles in. It would be a sin
to let these things go to waste.
It’s time for other young ones
to taste the joy of each of these toys
my daughters left behind. I find
the memories take up less space
and yet fill my heart so much more.

© Walter J. Wojtanik


Eating jambalaya with a fork,
nobody fed the dog.
I wished it were already Friday,
my shoes feel a bit tight.
You’d think I would’ve learned something in school.
How about a back rub?

Somewhere out there a guy has a flat
tired of being used as a guinea pig,
the clock ticks away,
but ours is a sizable some!

In winter the snow reaches up to my
assumption that the grass is always greener.

Can I offer you a drink?
Pass the crushed pepper flakes.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides – Descort Poetic Form

PIEBUN (A Pie Haibun)

Here’s the thing! If you’re kept away, or worse yet having a bad day, it’s easy to say that there is a great way to ease your soul. You need to take control, take a stroll down to the nearest coffee knoll and name your poison. Spy to see what catches your eye.

Give in to the urge, and be that guy that takes his leave from “something” pie! Comfort food the way mom made it, never a need to go and berate it, for a good piece of pie will keep me sedated! It would be well worth the wait to give my karma an instant hit; as I savor every bite I’ve bit, a la mode, for the hell of it. I’ll be in nirvana (or just South of it).

The wonders of pie will never cease. Apple or cherry gives me release. From the glass rotisserie, it will tease but that’s really how pie is. So give me some please.

Foisted with whipped cream,
pie looks great and gives me peace.
So, just leave the plate!

© Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Haibun Monday: Yummy!


I’m doing great!
I’ve lost some weight
and of late I’m finding my mojo again.
It hasn’t been easy (but then)
nobody said it would be.
I’m still the same old me,
only better. I’m back
to not sweating the small stuff.
It’s enough that I sweat
at all. Everything is small stuff.
I’m far from buff, but don’t
slough me off for trying.
I’m relying on my health
to be the wealth of me.
I am firmly in the groove,
not so new, but improved!

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides Prompt #389 – Improvement


And it goes on and on, oh, watching the river run,
Further and further from things that we’ve done,
Leaving them one by one.
And we have just begun watching the river run.
Listening and learning and yearning.
Run, river, run.

~ “Watching the River Run” –  Lyric by Kenny Loggins

Life is a river.
Cut into the world
swirled through valley
and dale; pastures
and disasters; ever-flowing.
Going along between the banks,
charted. Finding a fissure,
it branches and chances
to break free, new adventures
to explore. Going on and on.
Leaving our past on a fast
current; leaving memories
in our wake. Forsaking all else,
Watch how it goes.
Watch how it flows. Listening
and yearning to learn all we can.
Life goes on
Run, river, run!

© Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Poetics: The River



Out in front
there’s a rickety porch,
rough hewn timbers with tree bark
still clinging to their fibrous skeletons.
Rocking chairs and a stump table;
shavings from a whittled branch
strewn about the weathered floor boards.

Out in front
there’s a tree; tall and stately,
a monument to the longevity apparent
since it was planted, a feeble sapling
much like himself – thin, gangly and weak.
It speaks of perseverance and dedication –
fulfilling its station to mark time and grow.

Out in front
near the tree, there’s a lake…
a pond, really. Reeds and lily pads
defining its edge. Sounds of crickets and croaks
of bullfrogs, cicada whines reverberate in the late
afternoon. Soon their sounds will be silenced
as the seasonal change lumbers into the valley.

Out in front
is a tire dangling, a rope looped over a branch
of the stately tree. Dirt dug out, a furrow where feet
dragging and kicking kept sticking the ground
with a new found ferocity. Gaining in height and velocity,
the children take turns launching, airborne to land
in a heap with a thud; sometimes blood appears, the poor dears.

Out in front
a wagon waits; flatbed secured, a hitch holding tightly.
On a brightly hued morning, and without much in the way
of a warning, grandfather had passed. The town folk amassed
in respect; paying forward what had come around on occasion.
Sadly in procession, he was carried from the house – a finality.
Placed upon the caisson, a solemn silence ensued.

Out in front
the porch remained; rockers swaying in the stiffness of a late breeze.
Birds nested in the tree and the pond continued with activity
and the sounds of life. No one sat on the pendulous tire as it
swung hypnotic. The front door was ajar, but it was in exit,
not as an invitation to enter. Out in back the fields had grown
unruly and left to sit fallow. But, out in front a good fellow has gone.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Offered at dVerse Poets Pub – MTB: Impressionism


My Music:
Give me a song with a beat,
make my feet move
to a groove I can dance to;
take a chance to find
romance too, if I’ve a mind to.
Melody matters; lyrics flatter,
I can’t carry a tune for shit,
but if it’s a hit I can fake it
as long as you can take it.
Give me a song with a beat.

My Teams,
are nightmares, dressed as dreams,
conforming to sports passion
with the team’s current fashion.
Anything for a buck,
and it’s just my luck –
we’re always in contention
for dishonorable mention.
I swallow my pride,
don my paper bag and hide.
Give out a cheer, “As long as there’s next year!”

My Meter Is Running.
This muse of mine
works just fine.
But I laugh and I scoff
because I can’t turn it off.
I can fill any form
and make my words swarm
but, a terse verse
keeps repeating on me.
It can only get worse,
as long as I’m hooked on poetry.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides Prompt #388 – As _____ as _____