BURN NOT THY FINGERS

“Burn not thy fingers to snuff another man’s candle.”

~ James Howell

What purpose does it serve to extinguish another man’s flame?
Why would you deny another woman’s light?
When the world needs the brilliance of many, how could any candle
be allowed to go silent? A dark mind will find nothing but violence
and a desire to burn uncontrolled to destroy all in its path.
No bold declaration of one’s own self
can provide the conflagration that many a candle
can offer. One candle will augment all other candles
when used to ignite their glow. A single match
can light a multitude of candles. Know there is truth in light.
Know that it is darkness that lies.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

POETIC BLOOMINGS Autumnal Poem-A-Day Exercise – Day 13: Candles

Advertisements

BE THE BEACON, BRIGHT

There are two ways of spreading light:
to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.” ~Edith Wharton

We are surrounded by the brilliance of others
who shine their light unto the world.
They become the candle that illuminates our darkness,
the glow of humanity in the flicker of flame.
We warm our hands on their fire,
we warm our hearts on their glow.
We know that by adding our light, we allow theirs
to burn more bright in the cold, dark night.
We can choose to be a reflection of their light,
or we can be the beacon of the right light.
A bright light so shared.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

POETIC BLOOMINGS – AUTUMNAL P.A.D. Day 13: CANDLES

THOU SHALT NOT

You know you shouldn’t, so don’t.
Some things just aren’t right.
There are commands to guide you,
but they won’t hide you from
doing the wrong thing.
It rings of disobedience if your
expedience gets you in dutch.
It’s much to much to chance.
So thou shalt not dance on the edge.
And don’t hedge you bets.
Go the straight and narrow,
or it’s straight to hell you get!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

POETIC ASIDES with Robert Lee Brewer – Prompt #457: Disobedience

THE TRUE NORTH

by Walter J Wojtanik

I grew up very near the border with Canada,
and at times I feel Canadian by osmosis.
The influences of their media
had a profound affect on my upbringing.

I remember singing “O Canada” at hockey games
(I grew up very near the border with Canada.)
Or when the games were televised on Saturday night.
At the end of day, I sang both anthems when they’d play.

Many shows would entertain and remain to,
long after I had grown. You would have known
I grew up very near the border with Canada,
by the True North knowledge I would amass.

Now, my attraction is due to my daughter.
She married a Canadian gent and went
to live in Ottawa in the Great True North.
She grew up very near the border with Canada.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

DOGWOOD

Trees rustle and sway
and make a day of it.
Leaves, cut by the winds of change
rearrange, only to rediscover
home again. Nestled and rested,
the best place to recline.
But I find it annoying,
a noise toying with me.
It is there, somewhere
near the patch of saplings,
rapping an echo as of rabid canines.
It’s fine, but it hearkens to me,
this bark of the dogwood trees
unleashed. Their bite’s not so bad!

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Bloomings Prompt #213: You Come To My Senses

IF YOU CAN DODGE A WRENCH…

I grew up a stooge.
I had Moe’s haircut
but I got into trouble
when I’d double-up my fingers
to poke my brother’s eyes.
I learned the trick watching
slapstick comedy. Aim for the brows
and hope he doesn’t flinch.
After the first time, he never did.
I hid my love for being a physical joker,
faux eye poker for years. But my greatest
fears were exposed when I chose to watch
“Dodgeball”. A madman throwing wrenches
as a training tool? The only fool
was the guy that didn’t duck.
“If you can dodge a wrench,
you can dodge a dodgeball!”
An involuntary belly laugh every time
I heard it chime off of the man’s head.
You’d think he’d learn after the first time.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides Prompt #452: Game

I WILL RUN NO MORE FOREVER

I wasn’t a very fast lad, but I wasn’t too bad,
I had a gait that I would hate all my life.
I liked to run, but only to get places quickly.
I was built thickly as a boy and the joy I took
when I shook a leg was all I needed.
I had exceeded expectations.
There was elation.

But, reality came in this revelation. I got caught
up in aging, and staging a race to a finish line
took on a whole new view. And I would eschew
a harried pace, just in case I would fail.
No more high-tailing it. Now I mail it in.
My knees can’t take the beating. It bears repeating,
I will run no more forever.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Miz Quickly’s MuhwufSS: Goodbye To All That!

ON THE OCCASION OF THE POET’S BEING CHALLENGED

My muse was defenseless,
a senseless ramble that was
slower than half-fast, as I’ve discovered.
But it’s Friday and I’m tired, uninspired
and the desire to poem has been sold
down the river of dreams, so it seems.
I have uncovered my flaw.
It gnaws at my words.
Such challenges should be left unheard.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

USE FIVE OF THESE WORDS AND CHOOSE ANOTHER
FOR TWO VARIANTS OF SAME

cover
defenseless
desire
flower
over
quality
river
slower
stone
tired

Miz Quickly’s MuhwufSS: Free Day of Sorts

VALDEMAR’S LAST EPISTLE TO POE

My Dearest Edgar:

It has been hard to reach you.
I beseech you to hear me out,
you imp of the perverse!
The power of words is in your court.

Do I need to resort to retorts
and provocations? Is your station such
that you no longer care much
for the world as it has become?

Remember that night we had that fight
after polishing off that cask of Amontillado?
The vintage was weak, I must say,
yet the musty bouquet had a kick like opium!

I had seen Annabel Lee, and she
had no nice things to say of the way
your pipe dictated your muse. I refuse
to believe your descent into the maelstrom

of clear thought was wrought with whatever high
your pipe would provide. You can’t hide forever!
That fall at the House of Usher should have
weaned you from such addiction, but your dereliction

was surely remorse filled. Of course
your sadness over Lenore was understandable.
It was the premature burial they gave her
that troubles me to this day. We could have saved her.

The oval portrait that hangs in your study
is ruddy red from whatever substance
you rendered. But your love for her was well known;
your heart was tell-tale – you never failed to wail

and lament that what had sent her to the grave.
I read the narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym.
It was him who should have cast
the proper verdict. The good doctor and professor

would surely have been tarred and feathered.
It was that purloined letter that convinced me.
Since we hardly speak now, how do I reach you?
Again, I beseech you. Is the city in the seas

the place where your haunted palace spreads?
Or do you consider me dead to you as well?
Do tell. Stop living this dream within a dream.
You seem lost to those who wish you none but well!

That is truly a predicament. I’ve sent
three score letters, all returned unopened.
I suspect the same fate from this hand.
I remember what you had said in the years

when our youth plagued us. “Trust your heart.
Never bet the devil your head. The oblong box
will wait for your fill!” Your words are still
in demand. You are the man!

These streets are in an upheaval, although I long
for a tamer lane than what exists now!
You remain an enigma, Edgar! I’ve been ravin’ of your wile
for a while. But left unanswered, I will write nevermore!

Sincerely yours.

M. Valdemar
Red Death Mask Company
Baltimore, Maryland

THE WRONG PART OF MY OTHER (WRITE) SELF

He was a poet and hated the approximate.
Rainer Maria Rilke
from “The Journal of My Other Self”

This Walt, quite precise to a fault,
drifted away from his passion with words.
His darkness preceded him and he conceded
that his craft to him, felt combative.

Drifted away from his passion with words,
he found what he said had been said before.
That his craft to him, felt combative
is a testament to the utility of his poetic futility.

He found what he said had been said before,
he felt like a repetitive bore and what’s more,
his testament to the utility of his poetic futility
was an admission to his failing at maintaining his pace.

He felt like a repetitive bore and what’s more,
writing the glut of emotions he had felt and feels
was an admission to his failing at maintaining his pace.
Prolific was terrific for a while, but it wears on one’s soul.

Writing the glut of emotions he has felt and feels
dealt with his life of love and anger and despair and loss.
Prolific was terrific for a while, but it wears on one’s soul,
and losing control of your muse was like verbal abuse!

Having dealt with his life of love and anger and despair and loss,
exposed the truth about his other self; made words seem wrong!
And losing control of your muse was like verbal abuse!
Lately he tended to struggle with the words he’d use!

Exposed, the truth about his other self made words seem wrong!
His darkness preceded him and he conceded
that he tended to struggle with the words he’d use!
This Walt is quite precise to a fault!

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides Prompt #450: Something goes wrong