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
I go to the shore to stand in the place where our passions ignited. It was right here, somewhere near midnight with the bright moon exploding in liquid shrapnel upon the lake. My one mistake was not bringing you here sooner. The lunar luminescence made our hearts dance and visions of lips openly pressed in love’s hunger make me long for your shadow to return. Heartache burns singeing my soul, and offering this fire no fuel, yet it smolders.
The gulls take a turn toward the water, leeching their multitudes away to disturb my peaceful solitude. I’ve viewed their escape many times since you’ve passed. I’ve asked them to take me away with them, to free me as well. But they tell me in their raucous refrain, my footsteps are to remain to leave their stain on this place. I am destined to return as long as I remember your face, this place and our fire.
calling me to remember
your glow of love
© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2019
Grey shades become a blur, they stir an uneasy feeling as they’re stealing all tonal cohesion, freezing your ear in unsavory ways. It plays on your sense of composition. Your condition does not translate well and you dwell on its sound. You’ve been around these keys enough to know you can throw a klinker here and there. But that is where it rests. Stay sharp and do your best. Roses are red. Love is blue. We all live in a yellow submarine. But shades of grey rule the day as long as I play.
playing across a grey sky
In the key of C
© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019
Sir Edmund Hillary had it pegged. I scale my mountain of poetry because it is there. I write poetry because I can. I write poetry because I can’t sing or dance. I had given my voice a chance to entrance and entice others to emotion. I reach into my heart and write how it feels. It is as real as breathing. I am seething with the life force of words.
Who brought me to rhyme is a mystery. My history with words stemmed from a debilitating shyness in my youth. The truth is I would stammer and stutter, but my words seemed to flutter on the page. At that stage, it was my saving grace. I’d never lose face unless my words failed me. From romantic to farce to fantasy, I would fancy expressing my soul with words. Neruda thrilled me. Langston Hughes was my soul. McKuen and Lennon spoke in emotions I could only imagine. They were mentors all.
Sparrow whispers in sweet song
long after nightfall,
Mountain shadows slumbering
(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018
My cranium, once cavernous, is filled with such minutia, with words that flatter, my grey matter has turned the boldest fuchsia. And life events have taken space reserved for all my musing, I hate when they get in my face, and not through my own choosing. Those grand ideas that haven’t hatched will find a way to haunt me, they all look good on paper, but in action, are just daunting.
Events that hold a special spot, retained through repetition, birthdays, anniversaries, and the lot; to forget one is sedition. My head’s all clogged from writing blogs, my thoughts are one big jumble, if I would speak my mind out loud, I’d probably only mumble. Clarity has flown the coop, my logic’s hard to follow,
I get so flustered I could spit, but you’ll find that hard to swallow.
And TV is a mindless task, I’m not the biggest viewer, I’d put my mind up on e-bay and find me something newer. I think out loud, an endless drone, the humming starts to bug me, I wish that I could find a way, for someone to unplug me.
Grey silhouette stands
against the barren tree branch
thoughts take flight like birds
(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2018
(C) Walter J Wojtanik
Night falls upon the lowly, as bright lights fade and shadows creep right before they slumber. Slowly, they fight their weary eyes to sleep and morning sits in vigil, silent; still. Winter’s moon and stars align at will, warning midnight sprites upon the hill that soon their lights will die, become nil.
Day will pass in its allotted time, while hay made as the sun shines, lingers. May the world know night’s toils in this rhyme, saying all that a heart desires. Fingers curl to grasp the cold and darkened shroud, frost descends to cover lovers avowed. Hurl the pall so all can call out loud, kissed by winter’s shadow so endowed.
moon set horizon
vanishes as mourning comes
night’s death brings on day
(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018
The happy dead are in its voice, majestic poet! Might I be as full of song. Melodies of seafarers past haunt each true and measured step.
Lilting, ever-lifting; an offering from the weary mariner to Neptune’s ear. Accompanied in breath and beat repeats the symphonic sound of a lunar baton. Maestro of the night, unwavering. Building to crescendo, euphonious. Tympani, cacophonous crash; an introduction to the score so written. And hidden within languishes water’s rhythmic cadence, lyrical expressions of heart and soul, left to wash away traces of the moment. Never ending refrain, sing again!
crash of waves resound
long after sun seeks her rest
water quells her thirst
© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017
**Inspired by “On Seeing A Train Start For the Seaside” by English poet, Norman Rowland Gale