DEMENTED

“His mind’s not right” my mother would say,
and my father was apt to agree.
“He keeps to himself too much in a way“,
a strange little man there, you see.

And my father was apt to agree,
that something inside his boy festered,
a strange little man there, you see,
who loves to keep darkly sequestered.

That something inside their boy festered,
certainly was not the issue,
“Who loves to keep darkly sequestered?”
mother asked as she reached for a tissue.

Certainly, was not the issue
that my mind worked in mysterious ways?
Mother asked as she reached for a tissue,
“Where does that boy go to these days?”

Yes, my mind worked in mysterious ways
but, deep in my thoughts there was action.
Where does that boy go to these days,
was a quest for some self-satisfaction.

Deep in my thoughts there was action,
my pen at a feverish pitch,
this quest for some self satisfaction
would placate my poetic itch.

My pen at a feverish pitch
to pen pantoum and other such poems,
would placate my poetic itch,
“If they read what I write, they would know them”

To pen pantoum and other poetry?
“His mind’s not right” they would say.
If they read what I write, they would know me.
I kept to myself too much in a way.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

Offered at dVerse Poets Pub – A Piece of Written Art

INVISIBLE MAN

Please don’t look for me. I will not be there.
If my spirit lingers, it’s out of fear
of leaving this place unattended.
My worn and ravaged heart has been mended,
      but the scars are much to much to bear.

In the shadows I stay, lurking here where
I remain covered and concealed there.
My heart torn actions have been defended.
      Please don’t look for me…

You fail to see me, and you do not care
that I had given all I had. But dare
I ask for its return it would end
terribly. You can see nothing, my friend;
there’s blankness in your eyes, that distant stare –
      Please don’t look for me…

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

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

THE MAGI TAKES THE METRO


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

MY BEARD NO LONGER SCRATCHES

I’m growing a beard.
Always wanted one; it is an afront to you.
Your fair-haired boy stands determined,
yearning to be free from the tyranny
of your iron fist. The last time we kissed
my face was clean and you leaned in
for more and more. But now, I just
let it grow. I know you hate it. I feel your burn.
I yearn for the taste of you, but I am not
through with my adventure. My beard
no longer scratches. It matches your heart,
there, but unfeeling. It never replaced the
face that was here before the hair.
Now, I care about it more than you.