Roses smell sweet, and their beauty
is their sworn duty to nature.
In any nomenclature, their stature blooms
filling every room with their fragrant fare.
Shall I call a woman a rose?
By any other name she would be as
sweet and beautiful, a dutiful inspiration
in any nomenclature. A flower amongst thorns.
Well worn on a well-worn sleeve, she leaves
an impression, that says her heart, the blush
of a rose, has chosen you to be her gardener.
And you are blessed to hold her bloom.
Her perfume, like the rose, flows to your nostrils,
filling you with her heavenly scent, for she was
heaven sent. She was meant to be nurtured
and cared for, and what’s more, to be admired
and loved. Above all else, she will grace your life
brightening your days as long as she stays in view.
Just like roses too, a women is most beautiful.
A woman is a rose. What’s in a name?
Your journey has ended, by your hand and much too soon. You, the buffoon, the clown, the genius bringing joy to the world. But, for what it’s worth, who gave you mirth? Your torment was an illness, your illness was your privacy. In the shadows of a mind so sharp, that spark of madness run amok. You had been stuck for a while and the smile you wore tore your heart to shreds. We laughed at your brand, and demanded more of you but, you had given enough. It is tough that you didn’t save some for yourself. We took you seriously when your dramatics gripped us. It ripped us as well, your living hell of which you would tell, of powders and pills and rivulets of distilled potions, notions of answers left un-questioned; too many to mention. You’ve gone back to the egg. You have been silenced like Ellen James. Long did you stand as the grown-up Pan. You have sucked the marrow out of this life. There is no Doubt (the) fire has gone out. It makes us want to shout, Oh Captain, My Captain! Thank you for your gift, we’ve enjoyed it while it lasted. And in our hearts you will live within a smile. What dreams may come, you will greet us. You will meet us with a joke in tow. We know your journey has ended. The Genie has been freed. The Buffoon. The Clown. The Genius indeed. Oh, Captain, Bon Voyage!
“Tarnished and dented; a bauble from a bygone day”
Tarnished and dented; a bauble of a bygone day. In a wooden cigar box; keepsakes both, with little more function than that. The stem fused to the casing, the workings have retired. But,
it has inspired me to find the link. The contents of the box play like a road map; clues to unravel the mystery that is my history. The key, worn and encrusted with years of dirt and oils from feeble fingers.
It lingers in my hand for a moment, its uncertainty secured. Papers, folded and bound with a frail rubber band line the bottom of the box. A visa document, possibly a first issue wrapped in a tissue to protect
what it meant to an old Polish immigrant determined to become all that America had to offer. Naturalization documents, meant to pronounce his acceptance of a lifestyle long sought, and their acceptance of him
as one of the free and brave. The camera buried amongst the treasures, bellows cracked and torn, a forlorn instrument with which a part of his life had been preserved. It all deserved a better fate, but it is too late to shed
a single tear from your eyes for its demise. The puzzle is splayed before you, the detective of your past. A torn swatch of a fabric, hues faded but shades of blue and red and white pressed between pages.
Finally, one last piece remains. A photograph. a dark and handsome young man; heavy jacket and a fedora pulled down across the brow. Intermingled with other similar folk unconcerned for their purpose.
But the subject stands tall. Proud. Posed to save this moment in memory, and upon this daguerreotype for long after. In the background, Lady Liberty stands strong. In his hand an American flag clutched to his chest.
A chain from buttonhole to vest pockets and a key as a fob, a cinch to keep his pride from bursting. It insinuates the only part missing was the watch that sat tucked close to his left hand. A trinket; a remembrance
of the father he had left behind in Igolomia, Poland to claim his dream. It remains strong in your own heart as the box that holds your Great-Grandfather’s declaration secure. You are sure the timepiece marked his life as well as your own.
Gone are the days where we played for hours and hours, skinning knees and trampling flowers, thinking our futures were an eternity away.
Not steeped in naivete, I’d say we lived in the moment, and a moment lasted a lifetime back then. We made our friends (lost a few)
and you knew they had your back when it was up against the wall. All-in-all a great situation passed down through generations.
We never noticed we were aging, staging ourselves for our parent’s roles, loving souls who supported and protected and never rejected any idea as bad.
They had their flaws, but they were ours, and that mantle came faster than we expected. People passed; we were blessed to have been in their realm of love. And above all that,
we were given the opportunity to grow in unity and share life’s pleasures. And sorrows. All our tomorrows are borrowed; gone too fast. The death knell for a bat out of hell!
On the edge of reason, we watched and waited. We hated being helpless, and I guess we hated being the target of hate. Many were functioning as they normally had, but then every man, woman, mom and dad had much to explain to minds that could not comprehend. It had sent a strong message, that we should be ever-vigilant and can’t let down our guard. It is hard to preach trust when the thrust of such extreme proportion penetrates our collective spirit. They thought they’d split it in two. It is true that we fight amongst each other, like any “sister” and “brother” but let another interfere and we’ll be here united to fight it tooth and nail. We had stumbled, but did not fail. May God continue to Bless America!
A daughter born; a daughter torn.
Life coming and going in an instant.
One daughter coming into the world;
my mother born into the “comfort”
of their hearth and home,
two doors down from where her grandmother
had passed away on the same day.
A sadness unparalleled, a living hell.
My mother, the infant cleaved to
my grandmother’s breast in the upper window,
watching my Great-grandmother’s funeral
process past them in silence to the church
up the street. Victory and defeat fleeting.
A daughter born; a daughter torn.
Life coming and going in an instant.
He was Walt as I am Walt,
and his father was before him.
We shared so much, our ways
and such, as I carry on today.
He, a man quite good with wood
but didn’t say a lot.
Me, a man quite good with words,
but as with wood, quite not.
He taught me things,
he bought me things,
he wrought me with his demons.
And I was swell,
and I rebelled
and inherited his demons.
But, there was a man, despite his flaws
loved his family just because
we gave him joy. Every girl,
every boy, and Mom the glue
that mended us, nurtured and befriended us
and protected us ’til we knew better,
she’d make him a saint if we had let her.
But, Dad was rather quite assured
that mistakes he made would not be cured,
we learned to live within his world
until he up and left it. And now,
bereft it we hold onto all he gave.
I got his eyes, artistic style,
I got mom’s nose, her sighs, her smile,
I got his skill and sad addiction,
I embrace her warmth, his dereliction.
But all-in-all, one helluva guy
in his workshop in the sky.
I have his name, I have his fun,
100% my father’s son.
THROUGH THE EYES OF A POET'S HEART 
Roses smell sweet, and their beauty
is their sworn duty to nature.
In any nomenclature, their stature blooms
filling every room with their fragrant fare.
Shall I call a woman a rose?
By any other name she would be as
sweet and beautiful, a dutiful inspiration
in any nomenclature. A flower amongst thorns.
Well worn on a well-worn sleeve, she leaves
an impression, that says her heart, the blush
of a rose, has chosen you to be her gardener.
And you are blessed to hold her bloom.
Her perfume, like the rose, flows to your nostrils,
filling you with her heavenly scent, for she was
heaven sent. She was meant to be nurtured
and cared for, and what’s more, to be admired
and loved. Above all else, she will grace your life
brightening your days as long as she stays in view.
Just like roses too, a women is most beautiful.
A woman is a rose. What’s in a name?
© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017
QKJ #15 – A Plant With Thorns