ELECTRONIC VOICE PHENOMENON

Silence surrounds; the sounds of night pervade,
Shadows crawling, calling in the vacuous void.
You avoid the spot in the corner where darkness
is all consuming. You are assuming that all that lays
at rest is best left alone. The breathing you hear
is clear across the room; not your own.
A moan, a creak sneaks to slip beside you.
Disembodied shivers sends a quiver down
your spine. The whine in your ears disappears
as your thoughts perceive what you disbelieve.
Your recorder catches something that concerns you,
but you can’t discern what it could be.
A whisper? A cry? A scream nearby? You spy that shadow
again rising like an orb left to fend for itself.
The playback confirms these ghosts do not feed the worms.
They’ve come out to play, or so that’s what they say.

Creepy Prompt # 199 – Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer

LOVE IS A BATTLEFIELD

Heart-to-heart, they were warriors;
hand-to-hand combatants suffering
the slings and arrows of outrageous accusation.
Shaken to its core, the love once shared
is no more. She held firm, her tongue in silence
and all the fierce violence he had perpetrated
only exacerbated their animus. It was a blessing
that her rugged resolve would hold her; solid marble
with a tender touch. In the remote reaches
of her time-worn soul, she saw herself a vision
in splendor and grace. The memory of his face was filed
away like the other cows who attempted to graze
in her verdant pasture. The bastards
should have known, Love is a battlefield.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012

Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #73

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

FEBRUARY 3, 1956 – 10:42 A.M.

I was in no position to be born,
in the breech; feet first, a fresh “face”
coming to the fore on that frozen February morn.
Until then, my days on earth up to the day of my birth
were a placid float, suspended in muted serenity.
But, the anguish of my poor mother would serve
to provide shocks to propel me into action,
gaining traction in this field of my amniotic shield;
a permeable hideaway of liquidity.
But damn the masked man in white, he startles me;
a sharp slap sets my ass to flame and a tearful wail to my lips.

 

Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #41

OCTOBER SAVES

Fighting a battle often lost in the darkness
of a weary mind. There is no rest there.
Cursing the single candle lit to offer
its illumination; to infiltrate this
mental stagnation. Accursed slumber
why do you wage against my will?
Will you release me like the leaves
of October’s colorful flurry, left
to scatter in the cool winds from place
to place; a migration to discover the peace
that I crave. You have found me, October.
You have extended your lifeline in fine fashion,
a saving assist for one clamoring for control
over heart and soul,
over heart and mind.
I clutch your hand as I am flung over
the edge of reason. Your season is here.
You want me near, October, where I belong.
Anything else would be just wrong.

…AND THE FLAG WAS STILL THERE

A principle was attacked amidst
tears and destruction; a surreal snapshot
of a day worth forgetting. But no one did.
How do you forget the sight; the sound?
How do you forget the faces; the screams?
How do you diminish the sacrifice?
The word ‘impossible’ was tailor made
for this moment in time. Despair and
disbelief would be usurped by anger
and determination to not allow those who
put it all on the line, go quietly into that good night.
It became a fight to rise each day to face
the insurmountable task one brick at a time.
As many bricks as there were tears shed.
As many shards of glass as there were screams
of torment and terror. But the greatest error
made by a faceless ideology was assuming
we were broken and defeated. But the foresight
of three brothers of the fraternity most depleted
showed we were not defeated. Through the rubble
it stood in defiance. A naked flagpole planted
among the girders and debris. A symbol; our banner
raised high. A declaration loud and clear.
We are still here. We will not go gently.
Together we stand, a shield for liberty.
You took your shot and failed. An American Tale…
and the flag was still there! America had been blessed.

MARCEAU

You stand alone,
palms forward, feeling
for the faint traces of these
walls of your own devising.
It isn’t surprising that your cries
for assistance fall on the deafness
of the maddening crowd. For crying out loud,
won’t anyone help this man?
It is apparent that this transparent box
has him perplexed. Every exit is sealed
in his mind. If he can only find the door.
He stands, silent tears streaming
for this seemingly simple mute.
Maybe it’s time to speak his mind;
A bitchin’ time saves mime!

STEPPING OUT

Out of the darkness

where you’ve hidden your muse
in the shadowy thicket, bringing
it into the bright daylight.
No matter how you fight
to keep your ideas fresh and new,
your view had been used; your vantage point
has been abused. So, you slant
your rant in a slightly twisted way,
bringing forth a new version of the things you say.
Breathing a sigh of relieved contentment,
you discard resentment and go through the paces,
filling the empty spaces with bits of your wit
and finally getting “it”. One foot after the other,
Brother. You’re back in business.
You’re stepping out. Welcome home,
you’ve emerged a better man for it.