THROUGH THE WEEK WEAKLY

I.
Monday comes.
Wretched,
wicked
mess of morose,
a strong dose of reality.
A new week begins
draped in mundane banality.

II.
Tuesday’s child
is neither wild or mild,
she wears a slightly devious smile.
It supersedes her previous smile.

III.
Wednesday is a bump in the road,
a hump on a toad,
half the load of a full ride.
Tucked inside between
beginning and end.

IV.
Thursday.
Thor’s day.
Bring the hammer down.

V.
Friday Fish Fries
a Buffalo staple,
brought to the table
with slaw, and macaroni,
fries and a slice of rye.
Oh my!

VI.
Saturday’s a happy dance,
a chance to catch up
with things left hanging.
Banging away
in the workshop shed.
Peg board hooks and hangers,
Wallbanger is no stranger
than usual.

VII.
Sunday & I slip away,
no more work,
not much play.
Looking for just a quiet day,
not waiting for Godot,
no way!
A song of praise
for the past seven days.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Poetic Asides – 2017 November Chapbook Challenge – Day 7: Week/Weak

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DEEZ GUYS

Deez guys is putrid,
deez guys is bums,
deez guys ain’t got no brains, dey’s so dumb.

Deez guys got no class,
deez guys don’t know nuttin’,
deez guys ain’t got no lip dey should button.

Deez guy think dey’s funny,
deez guys don’t look tough,
deez guys jus’ don’t know when enuff is enuff.

Deez guys ain’t got no jobs,
deez guys jus’ hang in mobs,
deez guys is indubitably big fat slobs.

Deez guy don’t talk good,
dey’s got made up names.
Deez guys got the hots for dem lower east side dames.

Deez guys could dress up
but a woid to the wise.
If dey looks any better, it’s just a disguise.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides – 2017 November Chapbook Challenge – Day 2: Disguise

A POEM STARTING WITH A LAST LINE FROM E.A. POE

WISTFUL REST

By what eternal streams
doth thou seek thy rest?
By whose marker
doth thou keep time?
On mornings bright,
after long dark nights,
shalt thou find repose?
If thou hast chose to sleep
where He who giveth such rest
hast determined, wilst thou
yearn to slumber there in peace
amongst the heavenly chorus.
I pray thee rest in thus ways,
in verdant pastures,
near eternal streams
to dream in wistful dreams forever.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

The last line from “To One In Paradise” by Edgar Allan Poe

Written for Poems of Garden Gnomes prompt: End of the Line

AUTHOR

Awards and background information,
and contact information for contacts; affiliations.
Memberships are credentials of experience; an
expert in the field of media. Marketplace credibility of
media appearances, connections.

Personal anecdote platform. Professional organizations
and the promotion of proven track records.
Public speaking and published works,
a publishing experience showing demand for their book,
a writing track record.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Poetic Asides – Prompt #411 – Information

CHALLENGE EVERYTHING

Do you take everything for granted?
And does your truth live within you?
Are questions that are never asked
ever answered?
Is it right to set your own standards?
Or should you demand to know how to go?
Is the road less traveled a good choice?
Does your voice ever come unraveled?
Do you allow no to be a solution?
Can roadblocks bring you to some conclusion?

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2017

dVerse Poets Pub – Poetics: The Answer is 42

SEVENLING (OUR HEARTS GO OUT)

Our hearts go out to the victims of destruction
knowing reconstruction will be long and hard.
Our hearts are heavy for the losses they encounter.

We can offer our thoughts and prayers
We can give financial assistance.
but no amount of resistance will let us

ever forget, we are all in God’s hands

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Poems of Garden Gnomes – Form Friday: Sevenling

JOBS WEAR NO COLLARS

Eager to Create Blue-Collar Jobs, a Small Business Struggles

I love to work.
But, it is always work.
Hard, demeaning,
satisfying, trying,
seemingly endless.
Cutting like a hot knife
through spoiled cheese;
stinking to high heaven.
I’m thinking about how my father
would come home from his clerk
position at the steel plant roll shop.
Yet, I can’t recall if his collar was
white, or blue or chartreuse,
(there’s no use thinking too deeply)
All I knew is we were never without,
food, or clothing or shelter
from his sometimes helter-skelter inebriation.
This was our life station. Children
of a once-steel town. Not down on our luck,
just lucky to be. We could see up from there
and that became our fervent goal,
to leave my heart and soul to the hometown
and expecting to escape with the rest of me intact!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Quickly 9/5/17 – Write Hard

Poems of Garden Gnomes – Getting to Work

DRAWN TO THE WATER

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky  ~John Masefield from “Sea Fever”

I am drawn to the water,
a sanctuary dank and deep,
where Neptune’s sleep is unsullied
and tranquil. I will go there

where a sailor’s son should roam,
a second home for a weary traveler,
a reveler in life’s safe harbour.
Looking towards horizons and distant

places, of  foreign faces that grace these places
and dreams of adventure of which there are many.
Anyone who is so drawn is a son of the sea,
a welcomed one who is asked but one thing,

“What will you bring to the sea?”
for treasures that abound are found deep within,
and in their discovery we find ourselves.
I am ever-drawn to the water

a sanctuary dank and deep,
where the son of a sailor finds eternal sleep.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Poetic Asides – Prompt #408: Second Home

Sea Fever

 I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

SAPPHIC STANZA IN POLISH POETRY

Through my heritage I’ve come to find myself.
There is no book here that sits upon my shelf,
it was tradition through which I have been found.
It’s been handed down.

Many customs come from our Old Country home,
brought to bear here where my grandparents had come.
Assimilated and fated to be free
in their new country.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides – Prompt #408: Second Home

** I’ve been searching for a poetic form that could be considered “Polish” in nature. Apparently many classic Polish poets have adopted the Sapphic Stanza which contains four line with syllabic counts of 11(5+6), 11(5+6), 11(5+6), 5 and a rhyme scheme of a, a, b, b. Variations and further analysis can be found here.

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