Night had fallen,
and any sullen mood I might have fostered
had found its rest in the evening sands.
The warmth of the day lingered
as wanton fingers traced along the
titillated flesh of that beautiful and willing
(although scared and nervous) woman
who had held my fascination
and seized my heart. We began that
tactile meander with shaking hands
as they wandered and we explored one another.
Tender caresses that unharnessed
our sleeping libidos. In the heated throes
of passion, it was an uncharted course.
Navigating by the stars above,
love came home in the shiver
of a moonlit night. It felt so right,
just like the first time, every night.
And my hands still quiver from that sight,
the beginning of passion in the bright moonlight.

© Walter J. Wojtanik





Lifting into the sky,
a string of flickering light.
A random path to the stars,
as each pop and crackle
augments every pinprick
in the evening darkness.
The lake is still, reflecting
each fleck of every spark presented.
All sent heavenward
until the campfire finally dies.

© Walter J Wojtanik


Silence does befall this place,
and in the night I see your face.
Every feature haunts my mind
in the darkness of this room I find
your piercing eyes, your turned up nose…
these shadows offer no repose.

This stillness in my heart does ache
and I can tell, make no mistake
the love I carried, I carry still.
For surely I’ll carry you until
my own eyes finally close,
these shadows offer no repose.

But, until that fateful day
I’ll still have so much more to say
to fill the vacuum of this night
and keep your visage in my sight.
For in spite of how our ending goes,
these shadows offer no repose.

© Walter J. Wojtanik


Hear the crickets chirping across the field,
harmony to the cicada call. All is still
in the evening when the day ends.

You step out to the porch swing, bringing
a cup for you and one for me. A cup of tea
in the evening when the day ends,

steeped and steaming, it has me dreaming
of how mellow love is. It is the soft breath
in the evening when the day ends,

of a summer breeze, there is ease in your motion,
a notion that soft caresses will soothe each heart
in the evening when the day ends,

as it has from the start. Listening to night fall
not making a sound as it hits the ground,
in the evening when the day ends.

There is just me and you,
our teas and the summer breeze!
In the evening when the day ends.

© Walter J. Wojtanik




“I always had this certain contentment-
I wouldn’t call it happiness-
it was more of an inner balance
that settled for whatever was occurring”
~From Charles Bukowski’s “How is Your Heart?”

I never had to go far to find the peace that I’d seek.
It was in a reflective inward glance, perchance to sneak a peek
at a place within myself adrift on a sea of endless wonder,
never under the delusion that emotional confusion
could steer me off course and force my hand
to stand with vile resentment
facing a destination of which I was unsure.
I would not ask “where was I going?”
showing some lack of confidence. Yet in testament,
I always had this certain contentment  –

amused in my own skin and living within my means.
A man who always took strides to fulfill his dreams.
within a level headed demeanor, making choices
that were not swayed by the voices inside my head.
Instead, I choose to walk the road rarely traversed.
Not always the easy path, I must confess
but being blessed with words in abundance,
the things I utter get me by.
I’m just a guy longing for success,
I wouldn’t call it happiness –

only a warming peace that I felt,
Every night as I knelt
in prayer, I found it there,
as my heart beat in my chest
I knew my destiny was a self-driven fate
never too late to see; less of a challenge
when faced with truth and love,
and above all else a belief in one’s self.
Guided by your essence, not blinded by its brilliance;
it was more of an inner balance.

In the valance of existence
I found the futility of resistance,
the acceptance to move forward remained alluring.
Every day was a new start, a beginning –
an opportunity to right what wrongs we’ve done
in a very contrite way, ensuring
that the good we do can return to us someday.
We go, knowing where we are going, and showing
our unity as we walk along our pathways, true companions concurring
and in that, settled for whatever was occurring.

© Walter J Wojtanik



Buffalo’s New York Central Terminal still stands as a reminder of bygone days.

The end of the line.
Or the beginning. Bringing point A
to point B and all parts South.
From an era where the rails rarely failed
and Iron Horses sailed on wings of diesel.
And steam. It was a dream of mine
to have seen those bygone days,
in which architecture was considered art and
tile, leather and chrome found a home for it.
Built up when bottoms were about to fall out,
a bout of depression to serve as a lesson
and trains were the only way to go.
My favorite art deco stands as a remembrance
and offers a chance to recapture that feeling.
Stealing dreams in the high polished gleam of the time.
But, is the end of the line always

(C) Walter J Wojtanik



Starting from here;
going on from now.
A fresh start is at the heart
of all that is to come.
A brand new year
came to call, and all
that transpires grows
from the seeds planted
in those twelve month prior.
That fire in your belly
spurs you on, a prodding
giving the nod to better things.
A fresh start is at the heart
of perfecting your art.
It all up to you
to begin anew.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides PAD 2017 Day 4: Beginning/Ending