The crash of waves hypnotizes,
repetitive and refreshing,
a resounding greeting,
in the shadow of its lunar engine.
A cyclical flow of an ebbing heart;
the give and take of passion’s thunder,
going under for the third time, a surrender
unending, unconditional and unfettered.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Quadrille #33: Sound


Alive and well and living
in a hole underground.
The only sound is that
of little feet scampering.
The late, white rabbit needs
time to find his groove.
He better move quicker, before
he gets stuck in a sticky
wicket. Near the thicket
the tea is served and
he has swerved into
the queen’s palace.
And what about Alice! Alice?
Who the hell is Alice?

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Tuesday Poetics: Underground


We live in bits and pieces,
a junk drawer full of memories,
moments held close to heart
that start to fray on the ends
and sends you careening into fits
of rage and bits and pieces.

It never ceases these bits
and pieces of fleece that smell
like her perfume all these years
here after. Shards of laughter
stuck in the rafters of a mind
in which he would come to find

words and scraps of paper,
pieces upon which he had written
skits and bits of humorous falderal!
Post-its hosting numbers and names
gone up in the flames of a pathetic pyre,
a fire that was once desire and is now

not long for this world. A dervish of a girl
spinning in a whirl of dust and debris,
and me ready to steady the tumult,
a Walt at the ready to repair what was
laid bare, a life rife with a smattering
of tattered thoughts and ideas, pleas

for a quick end (please give me a quick end)
and a friend with which to trade barbs
and count carbs as the passage of time.
Lengthy rhymes that were once big hits now spread
as bits and left in pieces of peace
praying for a new lease on these bits and pieces,

or a bigger junk drawer to hold this shrapnel
well meant to be moments held close to the heart.
Always a good start. We live in bits and pieces.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides – Prompt #393: Piece

Offered at dVerse Poets Pub – OLN #196


Le nuvole partono e il sole offre una fanfara per la grazia del mondo. Incastonati in un’alcova brillantemente illuminata, due anticipano l’arrivo di aromi e trattamenti freschi per la tavolozza, la gustosa pietanza servita nel loro nascosto santuario del prato. Bouquet dolci e entusiasmanti fragranti, biologici e terrestri. Non considerano degni di essere seduti al tavolo ma apprezzano l’invito a partecipare al suo splendore. Sautéed in bounty della terra, l’inverno a riposo e la promessa di estate nell’attesa, loro gustano le deliziose offerte della vita.

Le stagioni vengono in vita
Più robusto, fresco e ricco
Sorgente di risveglio



The clouds depart and the sun offers a fanfare to grace the world. Tucked into a brilliantly lit alcove, two anticipate the arrival of fresh aromas and treats for the palette, the savory fare served in their hidden meadow sanctuary. Sweet bouquets and fragrant enticements, organic and earthy. They deem themselves not worthy to be seated at the table, but appreciate the invitation to partake in its splendor. Sautéed in earth’s bounty, winter long at rest and summer’s promise in waiting, they taste the delicious offerings of life.

seasons come to life
more robust, fresh and hearty
awakening spring

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Haibun Monday: From The Kitchen of Poets


**In the Romance Language, La Primavera mean “Spring”


Small hand pressed against mother’s lips,
feeling vibrations of a sound not heard.
A sensation undisturbed. Leaning forward
to feel those same lips against a forehead.
A kiss to send a message of love.
Tiny lips against a worried cheek
mimic, “Mmm, mmm, mmm, mmm…
His hearty giggle; her silent tear.
Mother and son as one! Love is understood.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Poetics: Sensory Play


I profess and confess I am not afflicted by:

Bathophobia- Fear of depth.
Philophobia- Fear of falling in love.

Chiraptophobia- Fear of being touched.
Chirophobia- Fear of hands.

Dishabiliophobia- Fear of undressing in front of someone.
Gymnophobia- Fear of nudity.

Gynephobia – Fear of women.
Venustraphobia- Fear of beautiful women.

Hedonophobia- Fear of feeling pleasure.
Clinophobia- Fear of going to bed.

Phagophobia- Fear of being eaten.
Philemaphobia – Fear of kissing.

Pteronophobia- Fear of being tickled by feathers.
Verbophobia- Fear of words.

But I do have an innate fear of making lists!
Who’s idea was this anyway?
© Walter J. Wojtanik

Offered at dVerse Poets Pub – List Poetry


We stood on the cusp of victory,
and I, The Warrior, with the last charge in hand
had come to fulfill my destiny
as the last and only man to stand.

A soldier of a fashion, a rebellious cohort
of an ideal, and I feel every pang of pain
suffered by our legions, I could not abort
and allow such losses to be in vain.

Light and dark. Good vs. evil. Neither
mattered in this battle. There was only right.
And now, even that felt wrong. Either
I march off triumphantly or continue the fight.

Once, dreams of glory filled me, a hero
self-proclaimed and named after a fallen star
which appear on the day of my birth. A zero
destined for greatness. I could’ve gone far.

But as I look out on the devastation
I sense that this smoldering heap of despair
could have fared better if we had let our nations
flourish. Now only I, Wao Kinat-Jo am there

to defend this ‘prize’. A sad sight for eyes
that had once envisioned remarkable things,
but now seeing through this broken resolve to despise
the remnants of the empirical Order that still clings

to their own desolation. One man stands there as well
each of us in our living hell, each with a choice
to make. To take the next step and end with tales to tell,
or to both die in a flourish, and silence each others voice.

One hell of a decision; not much of a choice!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Dramatic Monologues


Other Warrior material can be found at