A twiglet is a short phrase. Or a word. Its aim is to “prompt” a flow. A thought. A memory. If something comes to mind, write. A polished piece isn’t the goal; creativity is. Leave a link, if you’d like your work read, but comments should not be expected. Twiglets are posted on Tuesdays.

The sun flashes in bright glimpses
between misted clouds
and tendrils of barren tree branches.
The slash of rain cuts deeply,
seeping into serenity’s slumber.

WJW – 2018



A twiglet is a short phrase. Or a word. Its aim is to “prompt” a flow. A thought. A memory. If something comes to mind, write. A polished piece isn’t the goal; creativity is. Leave a link, if you’d like your work read, but comments should not be expected. Twiglets are posted on Tuesdays.

Words rumble like an avalanche of thought. Warn the villagers!

WJW – 2018


My cranium, once cavernous, is filled with such minutia, with words that flatter, my grey matter has turned the boldest fuchsia. And life events have taken space reserved for all my musing, I hate when they get in my face, and not through my own choosing. Those grand ideas that haven’t hatched will find a way to haunt me, they all look good on paper, but in action, are just daunting.

Events that hold a special spot, retained through repetition, birthdays, anniversaries, and the lot; to forget one is sedition. My head’s all clogged from writing blogs, my thoughts are one big jumble, if I would speak my mind out loud, I’d probably only mumble. Clarity has flown the coop, my logic’s hard to follow,
I get so flustered I could spit, but you’ll find that hard to swallow.

And TV is a mindless task, I’m not the biggest viewer, I’d put my mind up on e-bay and find me something newer. I think out loud, an endless drone, the humming starts to bug me, I wish that I could find a way, for someone to unplug me.

Grey silhouette stands
against the barren tree branch
thoughts take flight like birds

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2018

dVerse Poets Pub – Beauty/Misery of Grey Haibun


It was cold, darn cold.
And the Snows of Kilimanjaro
found Buffalo at home.
Everyone dressed to the nines
and tens and then it hit me,
today the training wheels
come off for real. Here’s the deal –
my daughter was getting married.
I had carried her when she was small,
but all down the long aisle I couldn’t help
but smile (and shed a tear or a hundred)
and we “carried” each other in our walk
that I wished lasted longer. A last kiss
and this Miss became a wife.
I’ve awaited/dreaded this moment
all my life and now this boy sheds tears
of joy. My beauty and her handsome man
stand astride and cannot hide their love.
Blessed from above in a married swoon,
we will not soon touch ground for a while.
And we continue to smile.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides – Prompt #420: Elevated poem


It’s rather dark in here,
but don’t go toward the light.
It would be a bright thing
at the end of the hall,
but, just feel along the wall
and you find your way.
And if along the way you feel
something soft and gooey,
or misty and booey, run like hell.
Ghosts and goblins love when it’s dark.
It’s their “Home Field Advantage.”

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

The last line from “It’s Dark In Here” by Shel Silverstein



By what eternal streams
doth thou seek thy rest?
By whose marker
doth thou keep time?
On mornings bright,
after long dark nights,
shalt thou find repose?
If thou hast chose to sleep
where He who giveth such rest
hast determined, wilst thou
yearn to slumber there in peace
amongst the heavenly chorus.
I pray thee rest in thus ways,
in verdant pastures,
near eternal streams
to dream in wistful dreams forever.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

The last line from “To One In Paradise” by Edgar Allan Poe

Written for Poems of Garden Gnomes prompt: End of the Line


Aromatic and sweet,
Purely a treat when
Pumpkins are prevalent.
Liquid love in abundance
Every sip makes taste buds dance.

Crushed and filtered,
In quarts or gallons,
Doughnuts come in tandem
Even apple pies will suffice,
Respite ripe for the pickin’.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

dVerse Poets Pub – Tuesday Poetics: The Smell of Chrysanthemums


You’ve been dispatched,
snatched from the jaws of romantic victory.
But you could see the writing on the wall,
you’ve taken a fall most precarious,
and she was serious with her missive.
You’ve been dismissed,
given the big kiss-off. You scoff
but know your indignation was born
of your stagnation. You floundered,
rounded third and were thrown out at home.
You saw it coming, it had been drumming
on your nerves and that curve ball blew past you.
You’re finished. You’re through. She’s moved on,
so should you! Send packing, lacking any reason.
Her love’s been recanted, dear John.
You’re no longer wanted.
Hit the road, Jack!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Quickly – Make it easy on yourself

Based on:


The fruit fly population grows.
It knows the bananas are going bad.
It’s sad that this source of potassium
and carbohydrates suffers such a fate.
The skins are slimy and necromantic,
it is usually automatic they are trash.
But, too much cash goes into their
procurement. And those damn flies
are lured to their fragrance.
A microscopic happy dance.
Oh boy. I think that blast of banana
has gone to my head. I dread…
Hey, wait a minute. That’s half-baked.
There’s bread where those buggers breed.
From mush to batter to bread.
A trifle better instead! Blackened bananas
make me grin. It’s a sin to let them waste.
They’d be much, much better around my waist!

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2017

Quickly – Whoop-ti-do


Silvery pizzicato, strings in vibration, a concerto composed with the chill of viola trills. A hibernation beneath the blank cover shrouding the silence in winter’s prelude. It exudes a gentle whisper. Over near the rivulet, crystals form, there is no warmth to keep her dance nimble. This symbols her station encased, faces rosy and ruddy, frosted and firm.

Wind blown and silent
whispers falling on deaf ears
fears of winter’s blast

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

dVerse Poets Pub – Haibun Monday–Shimo No Koe–First Frost’s Voice