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


I found my true voice years ago, an accidental discovery due to a poetic heart and musical bent. Beatles, Chicago and ol’ Blue Eyes. I could harmonize to “Love Me Do”, and “Do-Be-Do-Be-Do” like The Chairman. Unfortunately, I could never nail the trumpet trills or trombone slides. On occasion, I would display my vocals while in flight on the Thruway with my rendition of “Come Fly With Me”, or breaking my vocal cords with a Helter-Skelter scream. I always dreamed of being up on stage, but at this stage of life, I’d be happy to just keep on driving. Lead vocals not included!

silence falls and breaks
calls to pierce the solitude
songbirds find their voice

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Haibun Monday: Tramps Like Us…


Pete Best Beatles Original Drummer
Pete Best
Beatles Original Drummer Photo by Walter J. Wojtanik

He remains Best of the Beatles.
He was Best before them.
He will still be Best when he dies.

Usurped by the ringed one,
all for a back-beating drum,
while the other “Beat Brothers” strum.

The first was alway Best!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Written for: dVerse Poets Pub – Sevenling: Music – Poetry and Painting Embrace: We Can’t Forget Claudia Schoenfeld


Eldon Bridgewater was a broken man,
wings clipped and his horn bent; eyes
as blind as the moment he could no longer
see the light in his soulful noise. The boys in the band
would stand in ovation each night, homage
to the blackbird within longing to be free
of this tired and darkened life. As long as he could
arise to the levels of Parker and Coltrane,
he knew he was not dead. Dread the man
who would silence his muse!

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014





In the dead of night you sing,
wings spread but broken and your flight is dead.
A blackbird lost; tossed
into a life with sunken eyes, it’s no surprise
you’ve never learned to see your way free
of the darkness and into the light.
You are hinged on the moment
when your broken appendages lift you. Arise,
your waiting is over.

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014