For years he’s waited, half sedated
by the memory of her face.
There is an empty space
where she once sat. It is that
place that he preserves.
Lost in the promise of a return,
it’s been a while since
her smile had blessed him.
It tests him and his resolve.
She has been gone for years
and his tears force him to sit
and wait, to contemplate his loss.
The personal cross he bears.
He sits on their bench and stares
into the night hoping
to catch sight of her smile.
He waits. He knows he will join her soon.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

For Red Wolf Prompts #424: Ekphrastic Poetry – Night


Chilled to the bone,
Houdini searches for a break,
for whatever it takes
for this illusion to mesmerize,
he tries. His eyes are blinded,
he is lucky if he can find it.
Beneath the ice he founders,
listening for sound of the astounded
rubes. He’d much prefer cubes
thrilling him that river water chilling him.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

Written for The Twiglets #115: Beneath The Ice



He bakes from early dawn,
the promise of “bread” from his bread.
He needs to get a rise,
for it’s no surprise he gets up
for bread. His kitchen is clean,
and so he kneads to get a rise.
Through the open door of his shop
among the myriad of stairs,
one cannot help but stare
at him folding his ware.
It is there where his
money is made. And his bread.
It is said if you enjoy what you do
you never work a day in your life.
But, he knows the side upon which
his bread is buttered.
It is utterly ridiculous to think
what he kneads is not a means
to a delicious end. He will defend
what he does because he bakes.
From early dawn – the promise of bread.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

Written for Red Wolf Prompts – Prompt 425: Ekphrastic Poetry–Kitchen


He saw the error of his ways, a colossal
faux pas that left him broke and flat,
(but hardly fat) just a rather husky
guy with an eye for words, his absurd muse
would dream of any half-hatched scheme
to fill his verse, and desire to transfer

each expanded volume to shelf; to transfer
all bound tomes to a home of colossal
proportions. His thoughts held a static schem-
atic of his longings – his belongings, and fat-
tened coffers would always offer to amuse
long after they had turned rancid and musky.

Age had turned his eyes half blind and dusky,
riddled his rattled bones like a cancer,
the answer to which he could not choose.
Yet he stood straddling life and death, a Colossus
who could level Rhodes and the world flat
(if that was his verdant scheme.)

But he would lie awake and dream
in visions languid and lusty,
and heap faint flattery
in a rather obvious and obnoxious transfer
of sarcastic barbs. A slight of colossal
malfeasance, a pointed muse.

This was the route which he’d choose to amuse
himself. He couldn’t help but scheme
of new ways of throwing his poetic weight, his colossal
posterior, his inferior brand which was no longer trusted,
a man so disgusted of words and would transfer
all his angst against all odds to fall flat

and to find unrest on his laurels. So that was that.
He had made many mistakes, laced with verbal abuse
and chose to trade tirades, a torrid transfer
of distortions and schemes,
dreams of a self-effacing vision of one less husky
and dialed way back from colossal.

Yet his rented flat was colossal
and his muscled muse came across as husky.
He only wished he could transfer schemes for dreams.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

Poetic Asides – Prompt #473 – Six Words (colossal, flat, husky, muse, scheme, transfer)