Distant hearts do not grow fond of distance,
and our ability to embrace that joy
seems to slip from your hands as if those charms
become like road markers in your distorted side view
mirrors. Trying to milk human kindness
from the swollen teat of reality gets harder
as the lactate begins to dry up.
Joy seems so overrated in that moment
of ill-decision. Removing yourself
does not render a solution, yet
you walk away anyway. Maybe someday
you will come to know joy and rejoice,
even if it doesn’t smack you upside the head.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day 4: CASE______


The family is getting smaller, our numbers decrease.
Some because some had become deceased,
due to old age or other unrelated disease.
The kids have moved away and they stay in touch
but their absence is telling. It has me dwelling
on memories that bring a smile and a tear
and I sit here wondering when they had gotten older.
It gets a bit colder when I think about it.
I doubt it will ever be that warm again.
But then again, nothing lasts forever
except for unfortunate grudges that nudge at
your sensibilities. Neither side budges
and the chasm grows wider. Inside you
there’s a little bit of everyone who had gone
before us. It was for us that they existed
and persisted until Brother Death came to call.
We all fall down that abyss but sustain
that bit of brain that keep the family close.
A heavy dose of reality tells me we are all fated
to be ‘late-greated”, but until we are, I keep
the family that remains from getting very far.
It all starts in the heart.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides April Poem-a-Day Challenge – Day 4: Case______


The sun sets slowly,
growing in intensity and brilliance.
A waltz, a dance with the shoreline,
I find myself where the sky turns bolder.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come
to appreciate the gradations
from golden to molten,
to auburn to full burn.
To red sky at night,
this word sailor delights
in the sight of a blood red sky.

© Walter J Wojtanik

Poems of Garden Gnomes – April Poetry Month – Day 2



There she sleeps,
all grace & charm at rest.

I watch the rise & fall of her chest
breathing in peace; a sedate rate
at best. Snugged up, blanket to chin,
holding within all the love
that she keep boiling as she sleeps.

The day’s toil sent lumbering
as she lays slumbering deeply
in dreams.

A hint of a smile
graces her face; a pleasant R.E.M.
moment that fades as swiftly.
Softly she snores (it is for sure
that she does) because of the
blockage that plagues her.

A murmur.

The coo of a dove.

I love it when she peeks for an instant
checking to reassure that I’m still near her.
I hear her breathing change again
as she is sure she has been heard.

My gentle kiss does not awaken her,
it has taken her to another dream.

It seems a given as there she sleeps.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2018


“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


She walks in beauty, like the night,
dark and sultry, mysterious.
She is a curious blend of strength
and gentility with the ability
to melt my heart and soothe
a tired and battered soul.
With each metered step,
she treads in beauty, like the night.

She walks in symphony, like a song,
long and lilting, lifting spirits.
She is melodic as I hear it;
tempo and meter will not
defeat her confidence;
A sensuous affluence,
with each metered step,
she treads in symphony, like a song.

She walks in love. Like an angel,
she is ethereal and blessed.
She is an amorous heart
who will start to spark a lonely heart
with a beauty that exudes
a lyrical whisper laced with affection.
With each metered step,
she treads in beauty; in symphony; in love.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

“Meter” Poem


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.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

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

“Smell” Poem



Molten heat, flesh dripping
with the perspiration of passion’s fire.
Crimson patches with crusted edges;
blisters of the resistant strain of hearts
more to ignite and burn in sacrifice;
the stench of charred skin,
it is a blood offering to the gods who pander
to longing.
The pyre broils unbridled, arms out-
s  t  r  e  t  c  h  e  d and reaching to
breach the ford between
love and lust. A bridge.
It is what is, from the sanctuary
of solitary souls. Barren.
No one watches,
no one sees from whence the smoke rises.
becomes my affliction,
setting myself ablaze for adulation’s sake,
an implosion of inward emotions laid bare.
And there, where only ash remains
is a powdered stain where once hearts conjoined.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik


INSPIRED (by Seuss, Nash, Silverstein and Prelutsky)


A pest is a pest
(as if you haven’t guessed)
A pest is a bothersome thing.
You try to avoid them
the more you’re annoyed.
But by some other name,
a pest’s still a pain!


The old children’s rhyme about stepping on a crack,
will just break your concentration.
Your mother’s back will survive such attacks,
she’ll avoid spinal cord devastation!


A gambler will ramble,
you can bet if you gamble,
but he’ll be no more humbler
were he a rumbler or tumbler.
(But, he might be a mumbler
if he does not play his cards right!)


If you pick up
a hiccup
you’l be stuck up
with the hiccups.
And a hiccup stick up is a crime!
But don’t get turned off
if you get a hiccough.
Except for the name
(one sounds like you’re sick)
they both sound the same.
(hic), (hic), (hic), (hic)…


From whence, dear prince,
did you get your wince?
Your expression looks rather painful.
I think ever since
I ate those bad mints
I had gone from quite plain to disdainful!


Who’s the buffoon
that hung the festoon?
It looks like a loon went and hung it.

Besides, it’s too soon
to drape the festoon,
so I tore it down and I flung it!

So under the moon,
laid our frazzled festoon,
if we had a sad tune, we’d have sung it!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Use these words: Pest, Crack, Ramble Hiccup, Wince, Festoon.