A case of the “I can’t hold on any longer”.,
The stronger the grip is on me
I seem to be losing my own grip,
a slip of whatever I’ve in hand.
The thing can stand on whatever
surface it will occupy, but when I try
to take hold of it, it slips.
The hand that grips loosely play
loosey-goosey with possession.
It’s an obsession of mine. I’ve come to find
I am the dip that keeps on dropping!

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019


“When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.” ~Audre Lord

Thunder, rumbling
stumbling over oppressive clouds
with loud crashes, smashes against
pavement and abode. It has turned cold.
Lightning flashes between crashes
interval intrusions, illusions
in the shadows cast. Playing hard
and fast with reality.
Children cower, as hour after hour
persists, insisting it rules the night.
Their fright steals their innocence.
Counting the seconds between
crash and flash, it is hunkered down.
The storm can do no harm
in the safety of arms that protect.
You reject the notion that bumps
in the night are frightening.
You know there is nothing in the dark
that isn’t there in the lightning.

© Walter J Wojtanik, 2019



A heart so true,
you can’t help but believe
for it will leave you in awe.
Every flaw becomes invisible,
becomes indivisible to your character.
An honest admittance that
costs a pittance but has great worth.
Where else on earth can trust and a faith
in purity offer surety of a connection
fair and true. It is up to you to believe,
I will not deceive. It comes straight from ♥ here.
In your heart I hope you know I’m sincere.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019


Brooklyn Ariel

The bond we’ve made was instant
and permanent, this haggard poet gent
and you, my darling granddaughter.
I sparkle when I am in your light,
a bright beacon in a world in need
of your luminescence. I get the chance
to hold you close. You look intently
as I gently tell you how much you’ve
given in the short time we’ve been together.
Your skin is so soft, mine the coarseness of leather
yet we complement each other sweetly.
Wrapped neatly in a swaddle, you flutter
and coo, you blink and explore, and what’s more
you smile, a contented little lass
(proving it’s not gas), and I melt.
I haven’t felt this joy since your mother
and aunt were born. But on this morn,
it is you, Brooklyn, who has brought beauty
into this tired life. You’ve so much to learn,
and I yearn to teach you all I can. Until then,
I will revel in something so beautiful!

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

Written to Poetic Asides Prompt # 484 – On ______


So, here’s the plan!
We’re going over the wall.
Or under it. I’m not quite sure.
We’re doing it Tuesday night!
Or maybe Thursday morning
if the weather cooperates.
If it doesn’t then the following
Sunday. Meet us near the rear
of the guard shack.
Or the back of the garage,
I’m still not sure.
We’ll need a code word
easy to remember, like…
um, um, I forgot but I’ll
get back to you on it.
Our signal will be a whistle,
the Brandenburg Concerto.
Or we can shout, “Hey, over here!”
It’s not quite clear.
Ok, got it?
That’s the plan!

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

Quickly’s Imprompt Poetry – tuesday_june_4


Welcome to our Bistro!
We hope you will enjoy
the menu Ira has prepared.
We’ve spared no expense…
Aw, who are we kidding?
Ira’s just learning to cook.
Her soups are like spackle
it makes Mrs. Wilton cackle.
There she is staring
at the coffee pot on the counter.
12 hours old, I’m told.
But our “chef” can screw up
a ham sandwich on rye.
And while you’re at it,
Do not try the BLT!
Don’t ask why, just don’t.
It won’t kill you, but it might
make your stomach rumble.
You say you’re feeling brave?
You want to know what
Ira’s Lunch looks like.
See for yourself. It’s over there,
and over there, and some
over there on Mrs. Wilton’s shoe.
Thanks for stopping anyway!

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

Quickly’s Imprompt Poetry – june_2_tasty-sunday/


I hide in the shadow
Along the moor
The way I have many times before.

I lay in wait and debate
The honesty I’m lacking.
Tracking the carriage along the trail.

I hardly ever fail,
I mostly prevail.
But my conscience does not convince me.

I am the thief in the night,
I am the charming brigand who strikes.
I am the Highwayman.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

Quickly’s Imprompt Poetry – everyday-may-1_saturday_2/