PRELUDE TO PROMISES

She embraced him with gentle caresses,
limbs surrounding hearts so cautiously
that their steps failed to leave prints.
Cheeks tinted with the flush of true love
seasoned by the prelude to promises.


His words flow in waves, drifts of foamy spray
offering vivid reminders that rest on the tip
of their tongues, where “I love you” repairs them,
echoing, never sounding tinny or hollow. Following

hearts that take their lead in the prelude to promises.

Eye to eye they fix their gaze;
in the nick of time they are mended.
Insidious intrusions of love’s determined dart
splitting hearts to be rejoined again as one,
heartbeats of passion in the prelude to promises.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides Prompt #394: Repair

THE FIX IS IN

Let me fix you up with some coffee
good and hot to jump start your heart .

Let me fix you some juice
freshly squeezed just to please.

Let me fix you an English muffin
or if you rather, toasted bread and jam instead.

Let me fix you some bacon,
(you always love when I’m makin’ bacon!)

Let me fix you some eggs,
sunny-side up or scrambled, and when you get up

Let me fix you up for a lifetime
of many more pleasing breakfasts such as these

Let me fix the bed and you
can rest your head beside mine.

We’ll be fine. Let me fix you.

 

© Walter J. Wojtanik

 

TO MEND A BROKEN HEART

Heartaches and confusion
lost in love’s illusion,
the fusion of pain and longing,
a deep burrow into a soul so burdened.

Learning that the end of loving liaisons
coincides with the death of that phase
of a life dedicated to an amorous fait accompli,
from your knees it looks insurmountable.

But, how to make the tables turn?
You learn that love never dies, it burns
smoldering internally for eternity,
a lingering and lurid ember aglow.

You come to know that every end begins
and every abandoned heart wins
another chance to dance unbridled, never idle;
always keeping lethargic feet in motion.

On the odd notion that love will never more
grace your open door; never soar to the heights
once aspired, and only be mired deep within,
choose to begin, find a common bond of which you’re fond

and reach out for the hand that helps and
heals heaped up hearts and sorry souls
tinkering with the broken and battered matter
until a distinct beat is discerned. It is then

you will have learned to love again.
So remain as a friend, open to the possibilities,
with the responsibilities to just repair;
a valued new direction for your heart waits there.

©  Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides Prompt # 394: Repair

LIFE IN BITS AND PIECES

We live in bits and pieces,
a junk drawer full of memories,
moments held close to heart
that start to fray on the ends
and sends you careening into fits
of rage and bits and pieces.

It never ceases these bits
and pieces of fleece that smell
like her perfume all these years
here after. Shards of laughter
stuck in the rafters of a mind
in which he would come to find

words and scraps of paper,
pieces upon which he had written
skits and bits of humorous falderal!
Post-its hosting numbers and names
gone up in the flames of a pathetic pyre,
a fire that was once desire and is now

not long for this world. A dervish of a girl
spinning in a whirl of dust and debris,
and me ready to steady the tumult,
a Walt at the ready to repair what was
laid bare, a life rife with a smattering
of tattered thoughts and ideas, pleas

for a quick end (please give me a quick end)
and a friend with which to trade barbs
and count carbs as the passage of time.
Lengthy rhymes that were once big hits now spread
as bits and left in pieces of peace
praying for a new lease on these bits and pieces,

or a bigger junk drawer to hold this shrapnel
well meant to be moments held close to the heart.
Always a good start. We live in bits and pieces.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides – Prompt #393: Piece

Offered at dVerse Poets Pub – OLN #196

COMMUNICATING LOVE

Small hand pressed against mother’s lips,
feeling vibrations of a sound not heard.
A sensation undisturbed. Leaning forward
to feel those same lips against a forehead.
A kiss to send a message of love.
Tiny lips against a worried cheek
mimic, “Mmm, mmm, mmm, mmm…
His hearty giggle; her silent tear.
Mother and son as one! Love is understood.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Poetics: Sensory Play

FOREVER

I stand on the edge of this field,
& I can sense his presence here.
Living is easy, but with eyes closed
he can misunderstand a lot.
He has not seen thing clearly
in nearly thirty-seven years.
Nothing is perceived as real,
& it’s hard to be someone else,
when the who you are is no longer a star.
I know it’s a dream; it’s not too bad
& we’ll remain sad for the loss of you.
No one was the boss of you.
It’s all wrong but it’s nothing.
Don’t get hung up, let me take you down.
Strawberry Fields.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik (with a little help from my friends!)

Poetic Asides – Prompt # 392: Forever

NEITHER COMMON SENSE NOR FEAR (NO PHOBIA PHOBIA LIST)

I profess and confess I am not afflicted by:

Bathophobia- Fear of depth.
Philophobia- Fear of falling in love.

Chiraptophobia- Fear of being touched.
Chirophobia- Fear of hands.

Dishabiliophobia- Fear of undressing in front of someone.
Gymnophobia- Fear of nudity.

Gynephobia – Fear of women.
Venustraphobia- Fear of beautiful women.

Hedonophobia- Fear of feeling pleasure.
Clinophobia- Fear of going to bed.

Phagophobia- Fear of being eaten.
Philemaphobia – Fear of kissing.

Pteronophobia- Fear of being tickled by feathers.
Verbophobia- Fear of words.

But I do have an innate fear of making lists!
Who’s idea was this anyway?
© Walter J. Wojtanik

Offered at dVerse Poets Pub – List Poetry

FIRST MOVEMENT: PASSION OF COMPOSITION

“Life is like music; it must be composed by ear, feeling and instinct, not by rule”. ~ Samuel Butler

Throw the handbook out the window,
it serves no good purpose. No rule can dictate
what lies buried deeply within. The symphony
of existence becomes a cacophony
of a metered and melodic meander
through the movements we affect;
a direct and didactic work of art.
No instinct can be denied, for inside
lies the masterwork of The Maestro,
every note ingrained and paced only
by a loving heart and a feeling soul.
The music of life plays sweetly
touching the strings that bind us together.
You can feel the passion swell,
there is no mistaking its melody.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

“Meter” Poem

POEM STARTING WITH A LINE BY HERSHE MOORE

Take a walk amongst the flowers.*
STOP! The roses smell.
You can taste their bitter thorn,
worn and forlorn,

the aroma invades, your nose
wrinkles at its dismayed bouquet
an array of acrimony,
feet ceasing their progress.
You regress, digress and obsess

and STOP! The roses smell
like loss. The cost of love gone wrong,
of anguished love songs,
of lives snuffed

like candles in the wind,
they reek.
You seek to eradicate its intrusion
but it offers only confusion.
Her beauty loses its air.
Take a walk, a better use of time
unless you are six feet recessed
then pay no mind.
But, the roses smell.
STOP!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

*Line from Hershe Moore’s “Stop and Smell the Roses”

“Smell” Poem