SKY IN CONTRAST

The sun shines in the early morning sky,
to dry the pouring rains that had fallen.
Lake-effect rain is in the air again.
Over the lake the sky is charcoal gray,
the clouds are miserable and sullen
and fill me with a comparable disdain.
A counter-point that paints a violent scene,
both bright and dark combatants throw all-in.
The winds antagonize, they have free rein
to prod the skies once placid and serene.
Hard rain.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides Curtal Sonnet Challenge

Offered at dVerse Poets Pub – Open Link #199

 

LIFE IN BITS AND PIECES

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

LA PRIMAVERA

Le nuvole partono e il sole offre una fanfara per la grazia del mondo. Incastonati in un’alcova brillantemente illuminata, due anticipano l’arrivo di aromi e trattamenti freschi per la tavolozza, la gustosa pietanza servita nel loro nascosto santuario del prato. Bouquet dolci e entusiasmanti fragranti, biologici e terrestri. Non considerano degni di essere seduti al tavolo ma apprezzano l’invito a partecipare al suo splendore. Sautéed in bounty della terra, l’inverno a riposo e la promessa di estate nell’attesa, loro gustano le deliziose offerte della vita.

Le stagioni vengono in vita
Più robusto, fresco e ricco
Sorgente di risveglio

***

PRIMAVERA

The clouds depart and the sun offers a fanfare to grace the world. Tucked into a brilliantly lit alcove, two anticipate the arrival of fresh aromas and treats for the palette, the savory fare served in their hidden meadow sanctuary. Sweet bouquets and fragrant enticements, organic and earthy. They deem themselves not worthy to be seated at the table, but appreciate the invitation to partake in its splendor. Sautéed in earth’s bounty, winter long at rest and summer’s promise in waiting, they taste the delicious offerings of life.

seasons come to life
more robust, fresh and hearty
awakening spring

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Haibun Monday: From The Kitchen of Poets

 

**In the Romance Language, La Primavera mean “Spring”

THE WARRIOR: THE END OF AGE

We stood on the cusp of victory,
and I, The Warrior, with the last charge in hand
had come to fulfill my destiny
as the last and only man to stand.

A soldier of a fashion, a rebellious cohort
of an ideal, and I feel every pang of pain
suffered by our legions, I could not abort
and allow such losses to be in vain.

Light and dark. Good vs. evil. Neither
mattered in this battle. There was only right.
And now, even that felt wrong. Either
I march off triumphantly or continue the fight.

Once, dreams of glory filled me, a hero
self-proclaimed and named after a fallen star
which appear on the day of my birth. A zero
destined for greatness. I could’ve gone far.

But as I look out on the devastation
I sense that this smoldering heap of despair
could have fared better if we had let our nations
flourish. Now only I, Wao Kinat-Jo am there

to defend this ‘prize’. A sad sight for eyes
that had once envisioned remarkable things,
but now seeing through this broken resolve to despise
the remnants of the empirical Order that still clings

to their own desolation. One man stands there as well
each of us in our living hell, each with a choice
to make. To take the next step and end with tales to tell,
or to both die in a flourish, and silence each others voice.

One hell of a decision; not much of a choice!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Dramatic Monologues

 

Other Warrior material can be found at wallegories.wordpress.com

FIRST MOVEMENT: PASSION OF COMPOSITION

“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

IN THE SHADOW OF THE MOON AN ANGEL TREADS

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

POEM STARTING WITH A LINE BY HERSHE MOORE

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.
STOP!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

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

“Smell” Poem

 

CONFLAGRATION

Molten heat, flesh dripping
with the perspiration of passion’s fire.
Crimson patches with crusted edges;
blisters of the resistant strain of hearts
wanting
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.
Immolation
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

“Smell”Poem

SMELLS LIKE TEEN FLANNEL

Soft.
Caressing.
Messing with my grunge.
Hard edged music has no place
surfaced in flannel.
But I love
the warmth;
the comfort,
but something’s not right!
I stay up half the night
writing songs. Is it wrong to fill
“Love songs” with bitter angst, while
plaid and staid flannel is against my skin?
How can I win?
Find nirvana?
Do I wanna?
Can Cobain be channeled
sans the flannel? I can’t tell
but it sure as hell smells like it!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

“Smell” Poem