My heart envisions what my eyes refuse to see. ~Poet Walter J Wojtanik
“Try not. Do, or do not. There is no try!”
~ Jedi Master Yoda
Futile attempts are
when success comes not!
Become we do, what wish we,
but loss, arise it does, when
achievement flat on its face falls!
Satisfied be not, when accomplished
nothing is. Try not! Do
or do not. There is no try!
(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2020
She has spread her cheer every year
for twenty-seven. Pure heaven with
her heavily dimpled smile.
One of the sunshines of my life
and she, the sunflower of same.
Her name is Andrea, and her bloom
brightens every garden
she sees fit to visit.
(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2020
I was born the third child on the third day, the third Walter in the line of familial redundancy. Not a junior, not a numeral, and after my father’s funeral, the last Walter standing. No three-star General commanding multitudes of minions. Just a man with a penchant for poetry, be they tercets or haiku, I am true to the test of three.
A third birthday was ushered in by the death of three, rocking my world at an early age. Holly, Valens and Richardson – mother’s sons all, taking the fall in a stormy Iowa sky. I don’t remember if I cried, but the music died all the same. Later the same year we saw the first of three Walter’s perish and a cherished name was diminished by one, survived by two “sons”. Three seems to be my number, lucky or not, but it’s gotten me this far in the line of three.
The trinity guides
and provides me a purpose,
three steps onward
© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2020
Thoughts keep rattling in my brain
in a flow of unconsciousness kind of way.
I feel the schnook, with page after page
of irrelevant rhyme padding my pyre.
Words flee in an escape toward clear through,
breaking the block that every writer fears
from time to time. It keeps me sane,
(at least for show) and I look for the window
that offers a way out. I can’t see how holding me
here serves a purpose. It mocks me.
What I gain in solitude, I lose when I throw
it out the gape, neither rook nor pawn,
just a tool to be worn and discarded.
Yet, poems are key to my survival.
And my muse is on the clock!
© Walter J Wojtanik – 2020
It’s rather dark in here,
but don’t go toward the light.
It would be the bright thing
at the end of the hall,
but, just feel along the wall
and you should find your way.
And if along the way you feel
something soft and gooey,
or misty and booey, run like hell.
Ghosts and goblins can tell when it’s dark.
It’s their “Home Field Advantage.”
(C) Walter J. Wojtanik
Don’t they remember?
They go about their day
as if nothing was wrong,
doing the same old song
and dance, as if perchance
it was all a dream.
But you cannot sleep
through such a fright.
It keeps me up at night
sometimes. Don’t they recall
at all how it happened?
They go about their day.
It’s not to say it’s an obsession,
but this confession is true.
What did you do when the twins fell?
Where were you when five sides
became four? When verdant pastures
claimed more? Don’t you remember?
It’s an indelible stain that remains,
a blotch upon all of humanity’s souls.
Yet, some go about their days, ignoring
and imploring we all do the same.
History forgotten is soon repeated,
and we will not be defeated.
It was no dream, this evil scheme,
it seems some would just as soon forget it.
And yet, it happened eighteen years ago today.
Without a thought, they go about their day.
What is there left to say? It happened.
Don’t you remember?
(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2019
Evening descends like a hushed silence,
and tranquility is its marker.
Her song is a lilting lullaby
in the shadows of the night.
There’s no threat of violence
as the midnight sky grows much darker.
The constellations fill the sky
contradicting darkness, bringing light.
© Walter J Wojtanik -2019
Offered at:
Poetic Asides: Cyhydedd Naw Ban (Welsh Poetry Form)
and
dVerse Poets Pub: Quadrille – …and the most beautiful words are…
tranquility
A variation of the form written as a companion piece to “Comes the Morning”
Machismo, Bravado and Braggadocio met for drinks.
Each one thinks he’s the bigger man.
Looks can deceive and they all believe
their charms will have the ladies in their arms.
The first one played to the women, but
was shot down in flames. It seems
they’ve heard all his lines before.
The next was a pushy lout,
an incompetent boy scout, never prepared.
he never spared them from his conquests
and adventures, but had them scared at hello.
The loud mouth was harmless, all talk
but no game. It was a shame.
Lesson learned in three spurned.
Smoke and mirrors are great devices,
but just being you, truly suffices.
You should always live within your dreams,
Things always look bigger than they seem.
© Walter J Wojtanik -2019
I had lost my way. Mired in a jungle of thought, I found myself drifting away from my base – away from my mind’s center. Words, once an ally, have taken umbrage against a senseless ramble I had assumed. There’s no counting for intent, this descent was rapid. I could not stop my fall. When it began, I don’t recall… wrong, maybe I do. I think it started when I presumed people wanted to hear what I had to say. I wrote in a poetic way, a rapid-fire muse that would refuse to rest. It had gotten tired and old. I started to hate the direction I was headed, which was no direction at all. I had lost my way. Mumbling to myself, I found this quote, “You will love again the stranger who was yourself”. I started finding myself by loving who I was.
© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019
There it still stands,
abandoned and left
in the dust to rust and decay.
In its day, a trusty “steed”,
but it has needed much attention,
not to mention plenty of cash
to re-convert this piece of trash to the notion
that motion was once its function.
An open lot, overgrown; not mowed
in a long while. Weeds obscured
and amber waves of grain sustain
the field mice that find lodging there
dodging the elements and predators.
And thus, this bucket of rusted,
once trusted truck is stuck,
alone in a field that seems devoid
of dreams and schemes. Just a means
to dispose of a once valued ‘friend.’
© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019
My heart envisions what my eyes refuse to see. ~Poet Walter J Wojtanik
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