Notes falling in cascade, a flow tailor-made for days such as this. Pure bliss in the melody given, driven by nature’s call and all the breath a bird could muster for its swift flight A bird lives to fly. Bringing joy to this nature-boy. © Walter J Wojtanik – 2021 dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille - Swift
Always in lost thought,
I oughta be dog-eat-dog, not
some bum on a log poet wrangling words.
No combatant in whatever war of wits
I would find myself.
my wile with words
seemed impressive. I found it excessive;
obsessive. Ogden and John Nash conjoined.
(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2020
The jolly joker, baggy pants and scant
patches of outrageous hair ; smiles and gags
abound. But nobody knows! Nobody knows.
And still, he’ll strap on his suspenders,
Seltzer water at the ready and a steady
Stream of laughs and guffaws, canned
And recorded for such times.
For his mind is a million miles away,
And all the pain does is slash at his heart.
His plaid jacket held together by one large button
It does not hold him tightly as he wished
He could hold his young daughter.
His tragedy feeds his comedy,
His funny side is the mask that hides
the tears of the clown. Only one wish –
that he could take his helium balloons
and allow them to float him to his little girl.
Separation takes its toll on all concerned.
The clown cajoles and entertains,
But no one ever sees his pain.
And their laughter does not heal him.
(C) Walter J Wojtanik -2020
taut and rigid in the strength
of a gale force wind. Beginning
and ending with the gusts
prevailing, sailing into the waters,
uncharted and unsure. It is purely
the epitome of self-sufficiency;
this proficiency so star-guided
provides me with the direction I crave.
In it, I am saved, a navigator of
life’s currents. Wave after wave,
I am coaxed toward shore, for sure
more open waters await me.
My sole journey continues undeterred.
She has spread her cheer every year
for twenty-seven. Pure heaven with
her heavily dimpled smile.
One of the sunshines of my life
and she, the sunflower of same.
Her name is Andrea, and her bloom
brightens every garden
she sees fit to visit.
(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2020
Quiet. Serene. Soft and gentle
calling to the soul seeking refuge,
solace in the silent sanctuary.
It’s a feeling that rises up, touching
every fiber of your being.
As the sun rises, you are seeing
things in the light of a new day,
a front window to capture the beauty of a world
left to your own devices, It is nice
that the vision of that first sun, shines through.
You fill your lungs with as much fresh air
as you can inhale and without fail, the scent
of the pines brings a tear for it is here
that the world began. Your heart beats
more true as you stand and listen
to the awakening that began
with the rays of the sun as it raises its hands
to glorify all that it touches. A symphony
of avian arias and woodland creatures
alerting the world they have arisen.
There is a sweetness that exists in nature,
a honeyed palette that quenches your thirst
and satisfies your hunger for each new day.
You savor the flavor of what your window reveals.
You believe this is the most alive that you will feel!
(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2020
I was born the third child on the third day, the third Walter in the line of familial redundancy. Not a junior, not a numeral, and after my father’s funeral, the last Walter standing. No three-star General commanding multitudes of minions. Just a man with a penchant for poetry, be they tercets or haiku, I am true to the test of three.
A third birthday was ushered in by the death of three, rocking my world at an early age. Holly, Valens and Richardson – mother’s sons all, taking the fall in a stormy Iowa sky. I don’t remember if I cried, but the music died all the same. Later the same year we saw the first of three Walter’s perish and a cherished name was diminished by one, survived by two “sons”. Three seems to be my number, lucky or not, but it’s gotten me this far in the line of three.
The trinity guides
and provides me a purpose,
three steps onward
© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2020
Thoughts keep rattling in my brain
in a flow of unconsciousness kind of way.
I feel the schnook, with page after page
of irrelevant rhyme padding my pyre.
Words flee in an escape toward clear through,
breaking the block that every writer fears
from time to time. It keeps me sane,
(at least for show) and I look for the window
that offers a way out. I can’t see how holding me
here serves a purpose. It mocks me.
What I gain in solitude, I lose when I throw
it out the gape, neither rook nor pawn,
just a tool to be worn and discarded.
Yet, poems are key to my survival.
And my muse is on the clock!
© Walter J Wojtanik – 2020
Silas Grint trod the soil, the ground to which he had been bound to for o’er these seventy years. Time has a way of wearing a person like an old suit, threadbare and tattered. It was no longer an ally. He knew soon he would be eternally tied to the dirt’s function. He scanned the vast horizon. Distant trees sway gently, nature’s solitary dance entranced. Stars remained hidden, cloud covered and isolated. A red moon rides on the humps of the low river hills. Heartache had become his affliction, a sad dereliction to the lost loves of past indiscretions. The old man wondered why it had embraced him guardedly. His garment fluttered loosely as gusts prevailed. They moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome treetops. Silas knew lonesome. It had been his station. Nothing to do but wait for his train.
(C) Walter J Wojtanik
Includes lines from Carl Sandburg’s Jazz Fantasia.