I hover high above the promenade.
It is odd I hadn’t thought this
before. A Peace Tower bore
a gift of miles for me to view.

The sky was bright.
A bit of a chill but I was alright
to view this Ottawa city
on this August morn.

I was not born here,
but it is clear I could belong here.
An international capital
of great expanse,

I am in a trance, mesmerized;
beauty and tradition mark her
and sparks her allure.
I am sure I could belong here.

Allegiance is strong here,
Canadian seat replete
with history’s retelling,
pride swelling deeply for this place,

genteel and as real as I can tell,
a nice place to dwell as well
as visit. Is it the True North beckoning?
I am reckoning that this is

The start of another great foreign affair.
My daughter will soon be there
to take up a life as a wife.
And between us two, it is true.

I could belong here.

(c) Walter J Wojtanik


Here he stands, a broken man,
a victim of his failure.
The surface presents a deep well,
a font of love and emotion.
But a broken man is a fissure,
 eventually exposing his
inadequacies and incompetence,
in any circumstance he enters.
A heart renter, not a giving soul,
(don’t tell a living soul he has flaws)
Where others stand in awe,
one hides in the shadow
of his mangled and miserable life.
She, a friend, who offered all,
a lover who gave all,
a holder of secrets kept
to the breakage of all hearts.
It starts with a seductive word,
it ends in despair with the truth
being heard and hurting, skirting
the root cause of his flaws.
Her beauty not-withstanding,
no glue can fix a broken man.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides November Chapbook Challenge – Day 20: Popular Saying


He comes bearing gifts,
peace offerings and coffers
full of symbolism of little value.
His robes, are a tattered hoodie
and torn denim jeans,
coffee stained and remains of color
where splashes of bleach had landed.
A backpack slung, not well hung
and perched precariously carrying
various swatches of torn pages
and different stages of half chewed Wrigley’s
wrapped in the business end of a soiled tissue.
But it is you that he seeks, speaking your name
in mumbled tones. Written in unpublished
tomes and journals, kernals of truth
and little else. The rabble travel in packs
and stacks of wooden pallets stagger
through these darkened alleys of despair.
But what do they care? Weathered
and nailed to the crosswalk; talk of their
demise is greatly exaggerated. Following closely
as a car rises in the East; a feast for tired eyes.
His legs will carry him just so far, and it mars
any taint of reputation. Concerning his situation:
The stuff in the gold foil needed refrigeration.
It’s merely spoiled and exudes the foul smell.
And why the hell is Frank incensed anyway?
His hovel isn’t much, but it’s home
I suppose. Don’t mind his clothes.
I offer my spare change; He’ll take the bus.
Merry Christmas!

For dVerse poets Tuesday Poetics – Character Study


No small sip of water
this little berg in the
Poland countryside. A home
to my predecessors, Igolomia.

Blossoms placed their fragrant blooms
on public display near an array of quaint
cottage style abodes and farm houses
where the proprietors and their spouses

toiled in the fertile soil of Krakow.
Past that community where unity is a proud
by-product of their fabled heritage, I found
the remains of my ancestral home.JozefKura

A residence of modest size that housed
my Grandfather and his siblings raised
by the old cavalry officer, Marcin,
and his lovely bride, Joanna. What stands

of the old homestead is rooted into the
the ground partially buried but left to serve
as a retaining wall, corralling memories
of her storied prominence. The march through

Poland left the house a shambles and the stable in ruins.
By then, my Grandfather and the rest of the brood
had vacated, but not before leaving behind something
that would serve the test of time. A foundation solid and strong

lasting through the years. A testament to
my upbringing. Steeped in the traditions
of my heritage and beliefs; a foundation solid
and strong. A souvenir of my past remains,

a reminder of the history that has built this presentIMG_1047
and a hopeful future. A stone, the tangible part of the
life that courses through me. A piece of that wall;
my discovery in Poland in Spring of 1980. A foundation.


(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014


dVerse Poets Pub – Poetics: Your Family hiSTORY


Darkness surrounds and the sound of night
frightened early man. He began scratching
his Cro-Magnon noggin, trying to find a way
for the bright light of day to fill his nights
and keep his cave dwelling less cellar-like.
Mrs. Magnon and the little Magnettes held
his fears and the missus hears grunts about
this new method of preparing Stegosaurus.
They called it “cooking”. The Cro-Mags
were looking for a proper way to do this.
He thought and thought (he had bought
into the idea) scratching his Cro-Magnon
head with his club. The harder he rubbed
the “warmer” his thoughts became. It was then
his “light bulb” moment came. Actually,
he had started his hair ablaze. He yelled
to his neighbor, Grog to get his attention.
“FYAHHHRRRRRR!” came the refrain.
“FIRE?” Grog repeated as he held
his Stego-Steak above Cro-Mag’s
hot head. Mrs. Grog invariably asked her mate.
“How you like steak?
“Well Done” replied her partner.
Cro-Magnon and Grog perfected the process
replacing dried grass for hair.
The discovery of fire made this “cooking” thing
possible. (And it allowed Cro-Magnon and Grog
to open a chain of Filet Magnon Steak Houses
throughout the un-civilized world.)


© Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014



Heigh-ho, the derry-o,
we’re just south of Ontario,
and weekend shopping is truly in high gear.

They say the more the merry-o
and car plates from Ontario
have filled the parking lots both far and near.

Spending cheques and loony-o’s
our friends here from Ontario
are filling coffers through sales offered here.

Stores and shops in Buffalo
a Peace Bridge from Ontario
become their destinations, this is clear.

Heigh-ho, the derry-o,
let’s raise a glass, Ontario
to spend your money and your weekend here.

I read your car tag’s motto,
“Yours to Discover – Ontario”
I’m glad you find a shopping gold-mine near.



© Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014



I found my poetry, and as such
I found myself. I discovered I had a heart
that rhymed in compassion and beat to the meter
of a well worded verse. The course of my thoughts
followed in kind, for my mind searched for
the emotions that corresponded to those
tendrils of imagining. I admitted much to myself,
knowing my indiscretions through the words
I used to express them. Peace came in the
release of such things and they would bring me
to each new revelation. It has become my
salvation; made me a better man.
I stand here today, no worse for wear
for there I have revealed the true me.
A self-discovery through poetry.


© Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014




Will you please put these CDs away?
Can you place these DVDs to view another day?
These all had cases when I bought them,
so why am I so damned distraught then?
You download now to your mp3 players?
You store your movies in multiple layers?
Then will you put these discs away
to sell at yard sales another day?


© Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014



I have found it!
24K pure and I’m sure
this vein will provide
a wealth of words.
I’ve heard of prospectors
panning for gold. But,
my shiny baubles
are discovered when
I poem for gold. Sifting
through the silt of ideas
to expose each gem,
the value of which
is different to different
people. There is no greed
for indeed my treasure
is to be shared with others.
I write to discover new worlds,
to find emotions and expose
the wealth of well written words.
Some may consider it
“fools gold” but I’m not sold.
To me it is the mother lode!


© Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014