MAJOR DETATCHMENT

A packed bag and a broken tin can left circling space
turning toward the sun, a face;
mirrored shield covering a mouth agape,
a hidden cave devoid of screams
and chants that mimic the drone
of a broken capsule pitching.
Switching from the crooked course offers little hope.
Major Tom sever your binding and shake your fist.
Floating, you vow, “my circuit’s dead, I can’t hear you
Planet Earth is blue; nothing I can do”.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

108

Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #108

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THIS JOINT TAKEN TO TASK

John Joseph was seen near the twin towers
when last he spoke to the waiter.
Ratlike he walks; there is her ink
on his inept heart. The town’s newest thespian
was shaken; the weakest titan worn,
they let these jerks rejoin the war.
What’s a joker to think?
No network wrote their tales,
Joseph the janitor takes a slow sweep
and the rest join in his trek to the top.
He wasn’t the one to stop, shake, joke or jest.
This poet knelt in pain,
he was written to his knees.
There were no pleas spoken.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Written to prompt for NaPoWriMo 2013 – Day 24: Words in words

Every word in this poem was culled from my name,

WALTER JOSEPH WOJTANIK

BATTLESTAR SCIATICA

Across the galaxy to the small of my back,
just below two cracked vertebrae.
A start just like any other day
in a week not unlike any other still.
A stabbing pain radiating; debilitating
and traveling southward, with an outward
expression of an excruciating grimace
across my face. Phasers set to numb
and extraterrestrial images come to mind.
Alien vs Predator, a battle to the death
in the small of my back; a sciatic attack.
Other missions scrubbed while my condition
doubles me over, a voodoo curse.
I wish it’d get better before I get worse.
Dark Side 1 – Poet 0.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

POETIC ASIDES Day 10 (Suffering)

THE STORM WE LIVE

Caught in the cross hairs of fate,
in the eye of the storm we live on.

Winds destroy and water washes,
in the eye of the storm we live on.

Danger in the swell of torrents,
in the eye of the storm we live. On

the gasp of collective breaths held,
in the eye of the storm we live on.

Semantics makes it no less severe
in the eye of the storm. We live on!

Copyright © – Walter J. Wojtanik 2012

UNITED

On the edge of reason, we watched and waited.
We hated being helpless, and I guess
we hated being the target of hate.
Many were functioning as they normally had,
but then every man, woman, mom and dad
had much to explain to minds that could not
comprehend. It had sent a strong message,
that we should be ever-vigilant and can’t
let down our guard. It is hard to preach trust
when the thrust of such extreme proportion
penetrates our collective spirit. They thought
they’d split it in two. It is true that we fight
amongst each other, like any “sister” and “brother”
but let another interfere and we’ll be here united
to fight it tooth and nail. We had stumbled, but did not fail.
May God continue to Bless America!

© – Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012

TRAFFIC JAM

I come to a complete halt.
Fifteen mile back-up and hours
in arrears.

Raleigh to Buffalo in eleven and a half,
that was the plan; designated and approved.
A noon departure, destined to render us home
near its midnight counterpart. My heart
wasn’t in for the drive, but I strive to follow
an itinerary that felt hollow and vacant.
Down the on-ramp to the highway,
I stay five mph above the limit making up
minutes; false victory in an age old story.
No glory on a Sunday afternoon. I swoon
as I watch the traffic thicken, and it sickens me
to see red brake lights illuminated,
making me irritated and disgusted.
I trusted my GPS to bring us home,
but I come to a complete halt.
Fifteen mile back-up and hours
in arrears. My greatest of fears
is realized. A desperate maneuver
from the center lane to find an exit.
Closer to “come from” than “near home”
we return to the accommodations to wait
for the early morning “night” to restart our flight
to the promise land and a warm familiar bed.
Can’t wait to rest my head. If I can only keep
my eyes from making me fall asleep.
A change of plans; not in my hands.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012

WORTH OVER BETRAYAL

All during the interview, she remained one of the cool customers,
keeping her thoughts private. Confidential.
The memories of that moment were a blur, but clarity
unmercifully came to lift her fog. Emotions washed over her
in waves; once again she felt violated, ransacked –
leaving her again to feel broken and isolated.
She sits weeping inconsolably, his hideous face revisits
her with all the charms of a tire iron to her purity.
Wishing she could trade that visage for a vision
of one more caring and compassionate, offering
a healing touch, a sensitive ear; a glue to mend her fractured self.
She felt the fool to think there was a man whose love could make her feel
whole and clean and mended. But there she was, cinched by his caring
arms wrapped around her heart like a belt holding up her psyche.
It made her feel brand new, like a sticker declaring her “Improved!”
Love heals all!

 

 

Written for The Sunday Whirl – Wordle #43

THE SUNDAY WHIRL – WORDLE #42

The Sunday Whirl - Wordle #42

AFTERMATH

 

The rebellion continues.

The warrior stands petulant, defiant;

reliant to emerge from his self-imposed exile.

Rising from the ruins;

billows of smoke amidst the staccato drone of distant sirens.

He has the dubious distinction of surviving the conflagration

with nothing more than a minor scar from a metallic dart.

It all starts with the turn of a latch and an igniting of fuses.

All hell breaks loose in blooms of fire; the resound of incendiary explosions.


THE SUNDAY WHIRL – WORDLE #42

THUMBS UP!

Henri remembered his mother’s admission.
“You do not have my permission
to suck your thumb! If I come
in again, my son, I will
wield knife to lop off your thumb.

Henri really was non-plussed,
for no matter how she cursed
and cussed; throughout her rant
and ballyhoo his mother
never followed through.

Why, he could bet his whole right hand
his mother would not take a stand.
She did not know, she did not see
Henri’s thumb was delicacy.
So his thumb went back to get all wet.

“YOU LITTLE BASTARD” came Mother’s yell
“Did your ears not hear me tell
the consequence of doing that?”
“Let’s see that thumb, you little brat!”
Down came her cleaver, and that was that.

Henri stared incredulous,
his mother’s deed, ridiculous!
She took up the digit to put away,
to return to Henri on the day
that he agreed to cease his sucking.

Henri’s wound took time to heal,
and his nine fingers made him feel
very much the lesser man
who could not count as high as ten.
He cursed the day his mother maimed him.

He grew older, a handsome man
With dark moustache and his hand
encased in leather to hide the void
where once his thumb had perched there sweet,
his moist and tasty, handy treat.

His mother, a woman of her word,
did rue the day she got absurd
by cutting off her baby’s thumb.
She knew someday that day would come
and Henri dear would have his thumb.

The day arrived, but her surprise
was something that disturbed her eyes.
Henri’s thumb was mortified.
No sign of life, she sadly cried.
Her young man’s anger boiled within.

Henri ranted. Henri raved.
Henri cursed the day she saved
the purloined digit in a baggy,
for now the skin was black and saggy.
Henri grasped his mother’s hand

and reaching for the very cleaver,
brought down the chopper soon to leave her
quite left-handed; marked for life
and underhanded. What he did next was hideous
for in his hand, he held her hand.

and hand-in-hand this messed up man,
raised her paw triumphantly,
making sure that she would see
what her Henri had in store;
her bloody stump dripped on the floor.

He closed her fingers to a fist,
with thumb aloft, which was the gist
of all this time that he had waited.
Now this day was celebrated.
His mother knew this day would come,

and watched in horror as her thumb
was inching closer to his mouth.
She prayed to God he’d keep it out.
But Madman Henri had other plans
again ignoring her commands.

Henri sucked his mother’s thumb,
she cringed, disgusted by her son.
Henri soothed his hunger’s itch,
for payback was a mouthy bitch.
His mother knew this day would come.

NOT SO SWEET SUCCESS

Fragrances waft, a gentle meander, floral or woodsy in nature. It soothes the nose and masks unsavory things. But stench stumbles in like an inebriate drunkard who had soiled himself and his reputation; a sad mutation of the upstanding bastard he once claimed to be. Sullied was the air when the seal had been broken. No words were spoken with hands clamped across nasal passages and the message purveyed was one they had seen on more occasions then they cared to account. The numbers mount while teams sans smiles and enthusiasm teem in. Within the home left abandoned and presumed vacant when the owner, Mrs. Beedle was lowered to her rest. The best attempts to contact any family proved to be a futile exercise.

A wise man would have considered the case closed, but their noses were reticent to relinquish the odiferous lingering. Gloved hands carefully fingering along the blood stained walls. The silence was interrupted by the calls from the group investigating the back rooms of this devoid domicile. Confident men and women strode toward the sounds, but found themselves reeling in disgust and horror. They were unprepared. Seasoned veterans stood and stared at the heap of former humanity foisted into the plush rocking chair.

There sat the problem. The decayed remains of a woman slumped clumsily into the furniture. The lavender tatter that was draped across her shoulder disintegrated into powdery residue. The scent was a clue. There was a hint of bouquet the closer the Detectives came to the undone body. Hard and callus men were starting To lose composure. The closure sought for this decrepit soul seemed a long time coming.

And then, the humming.

An almost cheerful tune from the direction of the cellar door. What’s more, the accompanying footsteps fell in syncopation on the creaky boards. Guns drawn and a warning shouted. “Come out with your hands showing!” the cliché came. Another unnamed face peeked through to grace the room. A mid-age gentleman, fifty-ish, stepped forward from the doorway. “Aunt Ginny? You have visitors?” he creepily questioned the lifeless chair dweller. The man from the cellar, hands raised; a surrender unsure, came to stand next to the shell of the woman. His Aunt Ginny. Genevieve Beedle.

“How rude, Auntie”, he leered, “You didn’t offer your guests a spot of tea? Allow me.” Soiled hands clutched for the knob on the old stove, amidst protests and commands to desist. Erwin Beedle couldn’t resist being the “congenial” host. At most, he wasn’t going down alone. The range did not ignite as such. It was much more like an explosion.

New teams were dispatched to investigate the scene. The first thing they noticed was the smell. Fragrances waft, a gentle meander floral or woodsy in nature. It soothes the nose and masks unsavory things. But stench of dead and burnt flesh stumbles in like a demented and feeble minded “caregiver”. The surviving officers shiver when the subject is breeched. Erwin finally reached his pinnacle, of course. The cynical brute took half the force with him.