The door is always open,
for friends – the spice of life.
To share some time, some talk,
some java, some wine and sit to opine
about what greatness life has to offer.
The coffers are always full
when a friend comes to call.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

dVerse Poets Pub – Quadrille #41: Spice


Old friends, old friends,
connecting through the years,
through the tears and fears of yesterdays.
Memories shared and compared to the days they
sat on their park bench like bookends.

A newspaper blown through the grass
time-stamping the miles of laughter and smiles,
a random tumble of disappointments and joys.
Just a couple of the boys watching as a windblown leaf
falls on the round toes of the high shoes

of the old friends. Old friends,
linked from their “springs”
until their rapidly fading Decembers,
they’ll remember their days as
winter companions, the old men

lost in their overcoats, waiting for the sun,
for their days grow shorter
and a last, long lasting look at the world
is all their time can demand. In the distance,
the sounds of the city sifting through trees

settles like dust on the shoulders of the old friends,
We will all return one day, as old dust,
airborne and free, seeing the world
and landing, not demanding anything, no more time.
Can you imagine us years from today?

Sharing a park bench quietly
we will sit and reminisce, with misted memories
filling us full, but us not feeling fulfilled.
Only our friendship will remain, our sad refrain:
How terribly strange to be seventy.

Old friends,
memory brushes the same years,
silently sharing the same fears.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

*Italicized blue sections are the lyrics of Simon And Garfunkel’s – Old Friends

“Love / Anti-Love” Poem


When evening calls and I am here
poised at my keypad rapt in worded wonder,
thoughts of you invade my thinking
giving me this inkling that we have connected
in ways we don’t understand. Here I am,
just a man you had known now fully grown
and dabbling in these poetic pursuits.
And you, the woman who is drawn to my words,
drawing the inspirations found hidden there.
I can thank my lucky stars in this fortuitous sky
that we seem to have teamed up to create magic
in sight and sound, looking to orbit this universe
we are constructing. Written in the stars,
knowing that this moment is ours.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day #22: “STAR _____”


It took us forty years to come this far,
forty years past the bar.
Familiar faces,a place held in memory,
not lost on ones who desire
another chance to glance
at the years gone by so far,
forty years past the bar.
Friends solidified, the wide eyed
curious, furious that connections
took so long to close. Long ago indiscretions
leave no scars forty years past he bar.
Meeting like old times, greetings
that lingered sometimes longer than others,
sisters and brothers of long lost mothers
reunited to reignite the home fires.
The desire for that long last look that took
forty years. Past the bar, there we are
where youth had left us, bereft of fears
to face our years in order to return
to where we had learned of life and truth.
Someone left the door ajar to allow us
access to here where we are, forty years after the bar.
A celebration rediscovered, brushing past
crushes and friends who now somehow see through
to the you long hidden, given the chance to be
one of the many to return. Right on par
the Class of ’74 – forty years after the bar.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014

The 40th reunion of Lackawanna High School Class of 1974 held at J’s White Elephant, rekindles the home fires of classmates and friends confirming the fact that we remain connected in heart spirit and mind. A good thing to find forty years after.


I’ve been given a wonderful gift,
I have been presented with an extraordinary
opportunity. And in the unity of a writing
community, I am bolstered to holster
all fears and trepidation and feed on the
elation of this moment. I am a poet.
A writer who’s gift had been left in it’s
plasticine covering for fear it gets ruined
like grandma’s divan in the room
only used for important company.
Or wakes. It takes the support of like
cohorts and believers to stave off deceivers,
purveyors of doubt and negativity of sort
as you cavort through blank pages to pen
that which, again and again haunts you.
Now the chance to flaunt your talent
and you word skills that will make or break you.
It’s taken you forty years to become
the overnight success you’ve dreamed of being
and now you’re seeing the forest AND the trees.
But she’s determined to break you, to take you
from what you love and shove it up your ass.
Her style and class were checked at the threshold.
She’s sold you on the idea that your worth
is worthless in your pursuit. But you refute it.
You know one fact to be true. A writer writes.
All the battles and fights waylaid and splayed
in spatters across your life has prepared you
for nothing but this: The only way to fix it, is fix it.
There are people who believe in you and won’t
leave you hanging to gain nothing. Friends love
your work and you. You’re through with
being kept down. That perpetual frown needs
an upturn; you live and learn. No more left
on dusty shelves. Writer, Heal Thyself!

Poetic Asides November Chapbook Challenge – Day 13 – Self-Help


The results from the lab were in, but they could not detect any regret in my voice. It had been my choice to stand by you; friends together, a second chance for us to right what so often had gone  wrong, one last time. Taking note of your fragility and your need for constant rest, the best I could do was to care for you and be true to our connection for your protection and my own. My conscience would not allow me to make that same mistake, where I took leave of my senses and you. Translated: your illness made me sick.

The SUNDAY WHIRL -  Wordle #117
Wordle #117

Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik 2013

Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #117

Offered at POETS UNITED – Poetry Pantry #158


In death, sadness. In life, joy.

A friend and family member was killed in an automobile accident on Wednesday. Walter Kujawinski was a simple man, mentally challenged and who battled schizophrenia and alcoholism in a world that didn’t understand his handicap. There is sadness in his passing, but he was a joy in life.

Written for SIX WORD SATURDAY 8/18/2012


Strangers on the shores,
more than poetic piasans.
Thrown together by chance,
a serendipitous dance
across the Grand Hall.
The call for poetic writers,
fighters for the cause
for better or for verse.
Destined to become
best friends; partners
in rhyme and only time
will tell just how well we
will gel. But, we’ll continue
to support and nurture;
poetic futures looking bright,
right until we meet.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012


She sets herself; a life raft for wayward
sailors navigating life on a tumultuous sea.
Her beacon shines brightly,
a nightly sweep with eyes searching
and a smile that provides great light.
Lost souls find comfort there.
Every heart beats more sure;
no hazard is too great to bear.

Far and away she stands,
a gentle lady of a kind and nurturing soul.
Her goal remains within reach,
nature’s friend and confidant.
A mother’s caress never so sweet,
nor guiding hand so tender,
making a mental effort to present
her precious gift; melancholy’s true mender.

For she becomes the friend in which you place your trust,
the “embrace” in which you find comfort.
She is a beautiful soul,
a manifestation of every good thing.
She brings her smile to soothe your heart
and you start to believe in all of her charm;
a shield protecting and projecting
is the sanctuary disguised as her arms.

Secure in the shadows
miles from your eyes, you are wise
to rely on her heart being your rudder.
For the heavens give her direction
and her faith gives her solace.
Her face, an angel’s desire
and the smile she burns throughout,
with love’s unquenchable fire.

© 2012 – Walt Wojtanik


Attracted by lingering memories,
or drawn by a heart felt compassion,
we come together to fashion our thoughts
into some semblance of conformity.
The enormity of that which we wish to convey
touches the hearts and souls of other such
thinkers planting their seeds to flourish;
in poetic bloom we are nourished.
One to another we join; all invited and welcomed.
A home for such ideas in the garden of thought.

A place of such communion does exist. The venue is called POETIC BLOOMINGS and it is a garden of poetic expression shared by many. All are welcomed and encouraged to write.
Open to all poets of every skill level and age. All that is required in the garden is to have fun and stop to smell the poetic roses!

This poem was written to the prompt: Community over at WE WRITE POEMS. Thanks to Marian Veverka for the inspiration.