This week, I get the opportunity to answer the question, “Why I Write Poetry.” Robert Lee Brewer of Writer’s Digest.Com’s Poetic Asides posed this query to poetic masses. The link to the site is listed below:







Again, thank you to Robert for his guidance and support and to the many poets who make this site a great place to play poet! 


I had received a reiki treatment recently for some various aches and ailments I have been experiencing. Reiki is a therapy often described as palm healing or hands-on-body healing in which a practitioner places hands lightly on or over a patient’s body to facilitate the patient’s process of healing. Reiki combines the Japanese and Chinese word-characters of “rei” (spiritual or supernatural) and “ki” (vital energy). A basic idea held by those who practice Reiki is that this vital energy can be channeled to support the body’s natural ability to heal itself. However, there is no scientific support to these claims that this so-called vital energy actually exists, or that there is conclusive evidence Reiki is useful for any health-related purpose. That doesn’t mean it’s a harmful practice.

As Ann Baldwin, (a professor of physiology at the University of Arizona and a trained Reiki master, or practitioner) states “Reiki can do no harm — the worst thing it can do is nothing.”

In spite of all that, I felt better after my treatment. Relaxed. I felt no stress and no anxiety so for me, that “nothing” was something.


Reiki as a poetic form? In homage to the haiku, I envision the Reikiku in that vein – a seventeen syllable channeling of energy or spirit to ease one’s heart, stress anxiety or emotion. Untitled,  is written in four lines with a 5,5,4,3-syllable count. Any rhyme incorporated is purely discretionary. It begins with the trouble you look to ease and works toward that end.

My example of Reikiku:

Weariness of heart
Finds its peace through love
Within oneself
Peace will come.

© Walter J. Wojtanik



If I lived in another land, it would be something Seussian,
then I’d have an excuse again for being so strange.
I could rearrange words as if they were furniture,
and I would yearn for sure to hear the who
what Horton heard. It would be absurd I’m sure if
I could bring Thing 1 and Thing 2
into my crew and eschew (or bally-hoo)
any Lorax attacks that smacks of tom-foolery
and wear my drool like it was drool joolery!
That would be way too cool, you see!
(But that’s just me!) I’d enter every poetry slam
equipped with a pan of green eggs
and ham it up with my eyes quite shut
and a pocketful of wockets
(that sounds more Fuddian than Seussian!)
and I’ll be very amussian in my humor rume!
I would make a wish for just two fish,
one red and one blue (I’ve no need
for two blue! Do you?) I think
what I think and I know
what I know and I’m very familiar
with the places I’ll go.
I’m only old once (or maybe twice
if the weather’s not nice)
and have bunches of hunches
about sneetches with leeches
or foxes with sockes (hidden inside
of brightly wrapped boxes.)
So, say what you want and say what you say,
I’d be luckier by far to live right where I are!

© Walter J Wojtanik



As the dense smoke of ill decision lifts,
it becomes clear that a heavy heart is cumbersome.
Where once it danced lightly and entranced,

it now serves to be too clumsy and immense,
it pelts the senses like a wet sack of cement.
Heartbeats are reduced to a murmur,

they are reluctant to answer love’s call.
You can guess that all stray thoughts travel
to hell and back without a GPS.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides – Prompt #395: Snap Decision




The ties that bind have released,
and a piece of your past floats
mindlessly, aimlessly into
the atmosphere. Your decisions
are a snap and as vacuous
as the stratosphere of late,
but the great thing about it,
is once you set things free
you are able to start fresh.
Step free of the mess you had
a hand in and begin again.
The first step is admitting
you were a part of the problem.
Your umbilical has been cut;
you are Major Tom, a satellite on this
star-filled night. Freedom is just
another word for not giving a flying starship!
No anchor will secure you once the tether
has been snipped. Release your grip and drift.
No matter what you decide, consider yourself


© Walter J. Wojtanik


Visions secured in
heart tattoos of Technicolor.
Kodachrome kept
in the vault of your mind;
mega-pixels held for posterity,
photographs with a memory.
Bringing joys long festered,
sequestered deeply within.
Sorrows of many lost
tomorrows preserved
in faces and places
of loves long gone.
And somewhere, there is
a flash of brilliance
illuminating the shadows.
You choose this moment to
preserve. It deserves a revered space.
Your snap decision is precise.
These memories will live in photographs.

© Walter J. Wojtanik


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


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



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


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