“Life is like music; it must be composed by ear, feeling and instinct, not by rule”. ~ Samuel Butler

Throw the handbook out the window,
it serves no good purpose. No rule can dictate
what lies buried deeply within. The symphony
of existence becomes a cacophony
of a metered and melodic meander
through the movements we affect;
a direct and didactic work of art.
No instinct can be denied, for inside
lies the masterwork of The Maestro,
every note ingrained and paced only
by a loving heart and a feeling soul.
The music of life plays sweetly
touching the strings that bind us together.
You can feel the passion swell,
there is no mistaking its melody.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

“Meter” Poem


She walks in beauty, like the night,
dark and sultry, mysterious.
She is a curious blend of strength
and gentility with the ability
to melt my heart and soothe
a tired and battered soul.
With each metered step,
she treads in beauty, like the night.

She walks in symphony, like a song,
long and lilting, lifting spirits.
She is melodic as I hear it;
tempo and meter will not
defeat her confidence;
A sensuous affluence,
with each metered step,
she treads in symphony, like a song.

She walks in love. Like an angel,
she is ethereal and blessed.
She is an amorous heart
who will start to spark a lonely heart
with a beauty that exudes
a lyrical whisper laced with affection.
With each metered step,
she treads in beauty; in symphony; in love.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

“Meter” Poem


Take a walk amongst the flowers.*
STOP! The roses smell.
You can taste their bitter thorn,
worn and forlorn,

the aroma invades, your nose
wrinkles at its dismayed bouquet
an array of acrimony,
feet ceasing their progress.
You regress, digress and obsess

and STOP! The roses smell
like loss. The cost of love gone wrong,
of anguished love songs,
of lives snuffed

like candles in the wind,
they reek.
You seek to eradicate its intrusion
but it offers only confusion.
Her beauty loses its air.
Take a walk, a better use of time
unless you are six feet recessed
then pay no mind.
But, the roses smell.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

*Line from Hershe Moore’s “Stop and Smell the Roses”

“Smell” Poem



Molten heat, flesh dripping
with the perspiration of passion’s fire.
Crimson patches with crusted edges;
blisters of the resistant strain of hearts
more to ignite and burn in sacrifice;
the stench of charred skin,
it is a blood offering to the gods who pander
to longing.
The pyre broils unbridled, arms out-
s  t  r  e  t  c  h  e  d and reaching to
breach the ford between
love and lust. A bridge.
It is what is, from the sanctuary
of solitary souls. Barren.
No one watches,
no one sees from whence the smoke rises.
becomes my affliction,
setting myself ablaze for adulation’s sake,
an implosion of inward emotions laid bare.
And there, where only ash remains
is a powdered stain where once hearts conjoined.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik


INSPIRED (by Seuss, Nash, Silverstein and Prelutsky)


A pest is a pest
(as if you haven’t guessed)
A pest is a bothersome thing.
You try to avoid them
the more you’re annoyed.
But by some other name,
a pest’s still a pain!


The old children’s rhyme about stepping on a crack,
will just break your concentration.
Your mother’s back will survive such attacks,
she’ll avoid spinal cord devastation!


A gambler will ramble,
you can bet if you gamble,
but he’ll be no more humbler
were he a rumbler or tumbler.
(But, he might be a mumbler
if he does not play his cards right!)


If you pick up
a hiccup
you’l be stuck up
with the hiccups.
And a hiccup stick up is a crime!
But don’t get turned off
if you get a hiccough.
Except for the name
(one sounds like you’re sick)
they both sound the same.
(hic), (hic), (hic), (hic)…


From whence, dear prince,
did you get your wince?
Your expression looks rather painful.
I think ever since
I ate those bad mints
I had gone from quite plain to disdainful!


Who’s the buffoon
that hung the festoon?
It looks like a loon went and hung it.

Besides, it’s too soon
to drape the festoon,
so I tore it down and I flung it!

So under the moon,
laid our frazzled festoon,
if we had a sad tune, we’d have sung it!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Use these words: Pest, Crack, Ramble Hiccup, Wince, Festoon.


We live with our mistakes,
our regrets,
and it get daunting sometimes.
It haunts me sometimes
that a guy that can fix almost anything,
has a hard time fixing broken folks.
Sometimes I’ll make some jokes to hide
the pain that is draining my resolve
as I try to salve the next kerfuffle.
But, I muff it more times than not,
I’ve got these fickle fingers sometimes
and my rhymes are all that saves me.
Sometimes. I try not to show my weakness,
the bleakness of which drives me to think.
I do all I can and pray that is enough.
It has been rough, but we deal with it.
Stealing from it every moment of joy,
trimming the sails in these prevailing winds.
But my greatest of fears is one day not being able
to wipe the harsh trails of her gentle tears.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

“Regret” Poem

Offered at dVerse Poets Pub – Open Link Night #195


Someone up there likes me,
someone down there knows me.

I’m just not sure how I feel
      having to choose –
           to be liked… to be known?

To be shown the difference
in deference to myself,
the reflection of a million mirrors.

It is on this plain that I am divided,
           someone down there knows me.

They’re just not sure how they feel!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik


He felt it,
going around in circles
and never seeing an end to it.

Every new sunrise
offered little in the way of surprise.
Mundane. Ordinary. A fear held deeply

settling into a mind
left muddled. Choices and decisions
made more difficult by the unknowns presented.

He steps out
cautiously treading; steel runners
on a suspect and slippery surface.

Around and around,
the noise of blades cutting,
wearing thin the depth once sound.

Praying for it to break
free to devour him and surround him.
Never seeing an end to it.

Around and around
on the thin ice of a new day!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik


A creature of the night.
My cloak hides my ugliness,
it protects me from nothing.
No light will shine through.
But I function despite my flaws.
It is because I wish to stay
focused on earning this edifice,
no longer comfortable in this false facade.
Someday, I will shed this skin;
a rebirth worth wearing.
But for now, I remain

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik


Distant hearts do not grow fond of distance,
and the ability to embrace that joy
seems to slip from your arms as if those charms
become like road markers in your distorted side-view
mirrors. Trying to milk human kindness
from the swollen teat of reality gets harder
as days go by and the lactate begins to dry up.
Joy seems so overrated in that moment
of ill-decision. Trying to remove yourself
from the equation does not render a solution,
yet you choose to walk away anyway. Maybe someday
you will get re-acquainted with joy and rejoice,
even if it doesn’t just up and smack you in the head.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik