OUT IN FRONT

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

AS LONG AS…

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 _____

 

AS POETIC AS I WANT TO BE

I choose my words carefully
and I choose where I want to say them.
I say them in a way then, that will convey
everything I want, on any day I want them to.

This expressive fool
has chosen to drool over poetic verse
in the worst way, be they his words
or the things that others think to say.

I have found my authentic voice
in my choice of verbiage. No sage
with wise words can unschool me,
for my quirks and strange habits rule me

and I gaze with my poetic heart
at all that its eyes can see. To me,
that is what all poets might see in ways
that make sense to them. And then,

I will come to understand all that our craft
will demand of us. I will choose
the level of my commitment and be admittedly
as poetic as I want to be!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Poetic Asides Prompt #388 – As _____ as _____