PAT-A-CAKE

Elfin folk play pat-a-cake,
a tradition passed down
from small hands to small hands.
Passing time with elfin rhyme
sing-a-song of sixpence
and used as a self-defense,
they play. They never stray
from their merriment,
these scary men of minuscule means.
Caught in a blur, an inky stain
where the stinky little buggers
fester. They are sequestered
in their hovel homes,
pat-a-caking til the cows come.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Quickly – Visual

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TMI

How’m I doing?
I’m glad you asked!
My lower back is killing me,
sciatica and something
internal, I think. And this
infernal pain in my right shoulder
feels like a boulder
landed on it ,
it’s giving me fits.
And my left is starting to ache,
doesn’t take much over-compensating
to relay that pain across to there.
This weight loss may not
be the result of good eating
after all. Not sure what to call it,
and hope I can stall it until
after December.
I don’t remember things like I used to,
and I could use two Aleve to relieve
what ails me. It never fails me.
Once I figure out how to relate
to my prostate’s insolence…
you know, I should cut the violins
and quit complaining.
I’m serving up too much information.
How’re you doing?
Oh, I’m glad you asked…

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Poetic Asides – Prompt #411: Information

CHANGE OF HABIT

They had dinner on TV trays.
They have been doing that for days.
It sort of plays with their order
but they didn’t care. It just felt right.
Every night, place settings for two
on separate platforms flying in the face
of familial norms and old habits.
Their kitchen table had become
a fable of decorum; they had one.
But, it had become their biggest shelf
upon which fragments of their lives rested.
Who’d have guessed it would be so?
The Wormwoods come to Buffalo!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Red Wolf Journal – Prompt #330: Change

 

SNOWBIRD IN FLIGHT

The svelte owl flew upwind, it didn’t want to squander
the chance to wander above the generator for warmth.
Trying to abscond with bits of straw buried,
a harried attempt to begin nesting. A miraculous
skill of survival readying for the arrival of winter’s
biting breath. Squinting one eye into the bluster,
a feathered Cyclops circling the willowy branches
left barren; exposed to the world. The wisest of birds
mercurial, a nonpareil in avian wonder. Under
the rodomontade that December’s artillery could be
buffeted with a curled wing. Elusive and unobtrusive,
twice observed and followed, never allowed to land
all the sand, snow covered hiding his blankness;
a ghost bird, wings stroking the wind and its
ego, usurping cheese for a salty seaweed
and a truffle with quahog salad.
A bunch of clove evergreens, the hide-away
for the bilious dunderhead hawks stalking and preying;
vespers for the vultures. Cowbird eggs left to fester,
trenched and guttered, fluttered and fine.
Winter approaches to encroach on her flight.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides – Prompt #410 – Weather

 

SHE, QUICKLY, SAID CHAIR

I had become chair.
Not a chair,
not the chair,
just chair.
Anybody can chair
if they’re in the mood,
Even if you dare,
how now brown chair?
I have longed to come to chair
for it is there
where a bit of sit
will fit my time
as I rhyme there about
chair. For it has been
second chair on the right
and straight on into the foyer.
Boy, oh boy how can anyone bear
to not need to chair,
I swear it’s a far, far better chair
than I’ve ever dared to care.
So in the corner I will sit
forthwith and forsooth
and give a hoot for
(as long as I’m chairished)

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Quickly – Schedule Revision: Chair

OF FREEDOM

Courage allows for our ethics to remain strong;
an idealism that is the antithesis
of what the common perception is.
A sense of decency and decorum.
A truth based in knowledge,
of good will, not bad faith.
Our punishment is the loss of freedom.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Quadrille #40: FREE

RED SAILS AND SUNSETS

Broad brush strokes of Alizarin Crimson and amaranth, American Beauty Rose is a miss that lusters like a ruby in the noonday sun. Auburn tinted leaves leave little to imagine, but the grin that spreads from ear to ear is clear. Brick and mortar are not built for speed, indeed they are solid; a structured foundation upon which lives are constructed. We’ve tucked our collars up and the skies remain changeable. Unstable weather not withstanding, Fall is handing us a sneak peek at the peak of the season. There is no reason to stay sequestered, it has festered for as long as you’ve been marooned. Soon the Cardinal will perch on barren branches and the chances are slim that Winter will delay.

All fruited hints of a tint so rusty; ruddy and bloody replacing candy apple and cherry, (although grapes make great claret; burgundy) and we see the sun diminish at the finish of day. Unfurled, our canvas sways and stays billowed like a skyward pillow capturing the breath of Him. Scarlet spinnaker shadowed in silhouette, you have yet to pull anchor, thankful for this moment.

A descending sun
back-lighting the horizon,
transitions to fall.

© Walter J Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Haibun Monday: Komorebi

DRAWN TO THE WATER

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky  ~John Masefield from “Sea Fever”

I am drawn to the water,
a sanctuary dank and deep,
where Neptune’s sleep is unsullied
and tranquil. I will go there

where a sailor’s son should roam,
a second home for a weary traveler,
a reveler in life’s safe harbour.
Looking towards horizons and distant

places, of  foreign faces that grace these places
and dreams of adventure of which there are many.
Anyone who is so drawn is a son of the sea,
a welcomed one who is asked but one thing,

“What will you bring to the sea?”
for treasures that abound are found deep within,
and in their discovery we find ourselves.
I am ever-drawn to the water

a sanctuary dank and deep,
where the son of a sailor finds eternal sleep.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Poetic Asides – Prompt #408: Second Home

Sea Fever

 I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

LOVE COMES HOME

He felt the weight of life’s chain,
each link forged from his misdeeds.
It was a sure sign of his humility
as the gravity of his actions
mirrored the draw it had upon
each metal link, pulling both downward.

The constant refrain in his life repeated,
it greeted his ears and heart
whenever he would start to forget
where it was both belonged. Home had a claim
upon his presence; a place to plant his roots to grow
tall and strong, invariably to stand alone.

But the weight of his despair played heavily
on each tenuous branch; every creak and crack
triggers a spray of memory to reign down.
He relishes the opportunity to make a new home,
feeling how her love swells within him
to grittle his passion; to flick his stubbornness.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Poetic Asides – Prompt #408: Second Home

 

CRAZY LOVE

Crazy love.
It will turn your head
and leave you for dead.
It will lay in your bed
and toss and turn
while you yearn
for a gentle touch
that you need so much
to nurture and such.
But crazy love is a crutch.
you rely on its support
from cohort to cohort,
and it is a last resort
for a crippled heart.
You start to stumble,
feel less humble
and you stammer and mumble
familiar words she had heard
that are sour like curds
of rotten cheese.
Puts you to your knees
begging pretty please,
as you cough and wheeze
(and whine and sneeze)
thinking her bees knees
will shake your trees.
I’ve heard it said
we’d be out of our head,
or that’s what I read
(or just what you dread!)
But, you think I’m too lazy
and this is crazy.
Crazy love.
It will give a thrill,
then make you ill
(and there is no pill
to kill this bug)
No kiss, no hug,
nor roll on the rug,
just a steady tug
on your heart strings,
a true heart attack
It will always bring you back.
Crazy love!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Poems of Garden Gnomes – Put a Little Love in Your Heart