POEMS COME HOME TO ROOST

Another verse that’s written from my heart,
a true emotion searching for repose.
Just a room in which it can take comfort,
a soul museum to display my art.

A biting poem piercing like a dart,
a loving poem like a lover’s kiss.
The saddest poem anyone could read,
to let a foolish poet play his part.

For in his heart is where his poems start,
expressions written from the poet’s soul.
They all come home to live inside his words,
a world in which all reason will depart.

Another verse that’s written from the heart,
these poems live and breathe in every rhyme.
A soul museum to display my art.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

DRAWN TO THE WATER

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky  ~John Masefield from “Sea Fever”

I am drawn to the water,
a sanctuary dank and deep,
where Neptune’s sleep is unsullied
and tranquil. I will go there

where a sailor’s son should roam,
a second home for a weary traveler,
a reveler in life’s safe harbour.
Looking towards horizons and distant

places, of  foreign faces that grace these places
and dreams of adventure of which there are many.
Anyone who is so drawn is a son of the sea,
a welcomed one who is asked but one thing,

“What will you bring to the sea?”
for treasures that abound are found deep within,
and in their discovery we find ourselves.
I am ever-drawn to the water

a sanctuary dank and deep,
where the son of a sailor finds eternal sleep.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Poetic Asides – Prompt #408: Second Home

Sea Fever

By John Masefield

 I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

LOVE COMES HOME

He felt the weight of life’s chain,
each link forged from his misdeeds.
It was a sure sign of his humility
as the gravity of his actions
mirrored the draw it had upon
each metal link, pulling both downward.

The constant refrain in his life repeated,
it greeted his ears and heart
whenever he would start to forget
where it was both belonged. Home had a claim
upon his presence; a place to plant his roots to grow
tall and strong, invariably to stand alone.

But the weight of his despair played heavily
on each tenuous branch; every creak and crack
triggers a spray of memory to reign down.
He relishes the opportunity to make a new home,
feeling how her love swells within him
to grittle his passion; to flick his stubbornness.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Poetic Asides – Prompt #408: Second Home

 

SAPPHIC STANZA IN POLISH POETRY

Through my heritage I’ve come to find myself.
There is no book here that sits upon my shelf,
it was tradition through which I have been found.
It’s been handed down.

Many customs come from our Old Country home,
brought to bear here where my grandparents had come.
Assimilated and fated to be free
in their new country.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides – Prompt #408: Second Home

** I’ve been searching for a poetic form that could be considered “Polish” in nature. Apparently many classic Polish poets have adopted the Sapphic Stanza which contains four line with syllabic counts of 11(5+6), 11(5+6), 11(5+6), 5 and a rhyme scheme of a, a, b, b. Variations and further analysis can be found here.

THE OPERATING TABLE

Skinned knees and elbows,
and a face sliding along a graveled
street, bounding up the curb
and rattling a few molars to the core.
Cuts and burns and bloody noses,
all treated here; without insurance cards,
or appointments. Emergency room
always open, with Tender Loving Care
and a bottle of Mercurochrome.
A gentle hand pulling pieces of stone
from the face her “handsome” boy,
wincing with me and holding back her own tears.
Always at no charge and with the healing powers
of a tender kiss on the repaired injury,
in time to get dinner on the table
when her work had finished.
Doctor Mom was always in.

FLEET FEET, FROZEN CURRENT

I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I wish I had a river so long
I could teach my feet to fly

~”I Wish I Had a River” – Joni Mitchell

Escape becomes the journey,
minds ever-yearning to be free.
It’s easy to see solutions

when far and away they lay,
and the day we get our way will stay
in memory, burnt and charred.

It’s in the cards offering a chance to take off,
a chance to handle any dance
that moves your feet nearer to where

thoughts are clearer and hearts
are strong enough to stay grounded.
You’d wish rivers could carry your feet

to places where faces and races
hold no sway, you could surely skate all day;
but mercury shoes never take flight,

and light strides hide your tracks.
You’ll be back when the river flows.
You’ll wish it would bring you home!

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day #27: “Take Off”

CELEBRATION OF A LOVE SUCH AS THIS

He stood on the front porch with morning as a new promise.
The mist of dew’s bated breath hung above the grass
as sips of his molten brew stimulated his heart.

This was the part that took the most out of him,
for he knew the feeling that was still asleep
and could not be awakened or aroused easily.

Looking out, he saw the tendrils of light lifting
over the distant ridge, a bridge between dreams
and heartbreak – and he aches a little with each

rise of his chest. He was a mess, and he knew it.
If he could eschew these thoughts he would,
but he also knew it would do no good.

The brilliance of the emerging sun possessed him
as much as her bright light held his passion.
It would keep from crashing down around him

and the memory of her flame fortified
the fire that burned warmly in his heart.
It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

The birds too were awakening, and there was no mistaking
their song. It was a strong prelude on this multi-hued
morn. It was born of love and hope, and he could cope

with whatever the day wrought. It ought to be good.
He would sip again and savor the flavor of lips
once pressed against this same cup, an interruption

most welcomed and desired. Again it stoked the fire.
A deep breath filled his lungs and he held it in,
recalling the scent of her as the same fresh

and exhilarating sniff. It was as if she was standing there
against his scarred shoulder, drawing her strength
from his worn and tired physique. But his psyche

needed mending because it was sending these signals
of glad sadness. An unbalanced madness festered
in love and disdain, an old refrain they had reconciled

years earlier. And in it, he just got more assured.
It was pure, these feelings, melancholy as they were,
for it was her who had saved him. It was her whim that

resurrected him; it protected him in ways he thought
no one ever could or would, but she did.
She hid it well, much the same as the rabbits that pocked

the field across the way when they came out to play.
Their furry tenderness blended in well to stave off this hell
that festered and pestered his heart. She loved their

timidity and guarded adventurism, they explored
the way her heart had searched for its mate.
Guarded and tentative, a preventative to heartache

and breakage. She had staked everything by offering
her smiles and womanly wiles to his dark and brooding
moods. She became the sunshine that bathed his face

and lifted his spirits, and her voice as he’d hear it
in the trill of the sparrows at play. It was their Anniversary day. A day when distant hearts are perfected

and reflect on lasting connections offered in breaths and sighs,
sunlit skies. Birds heard in the songs that lived within.
That silly grin when the bunnies leaped and danced,

and she had pranced through his life unabashed
and confident. She knew what it meant to be loved.
Cup nearly drained and a faint sound approaching

encroaching on this solitude, but not intruding.
He heard the door’s creaking yawn and his eyes were drawn
to the vision that graced him. Her face was angelic,

her blonde hair thick and disheveled; a devilish look in her eye.
She offered another shot from the bottom of the pot;
a new cup with a bright red heart right below where

his lips kissed. In the morning mist they were complete.
She had re-awakened to his new day. He had nothing left to say
but a deep “good morning” and he watched her yawning arms

stretch to hug the world. His girl never strayed. She stayed.
Reminders notwithstanding, she had been quietly demanding
his attention, not to mention his love, for above all else, he did.

He loved her more each day.
And today was their Anniversary day!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day 26: “Love Poem”

I CAN HEAR HOME

My earliest recollection was a connection with my mother. Soft, nurturing sounds that calmed and soothed. What did I know from words? There was something there that made me think…I like this sound. Humming. Singing. A language I would come to know as Polish, spoken from my parents to her immigrant father to communicate. No translation came; all the same it seemed strange all those years ago.

The static hum of something… shrill and powerful sounding, surrounding that little room in the basement where Dad carried in wooden boards and removed the most beautiful wooden things. A carpenter by skill, I learned the thrill of his obsession by the sounds his tools emitted. I came equipped with siblings, and they came with secrets whispered and demands shouted. Tearful emissions and admissions of fear and longing, the same as I had!

There were calls of “Hey Walleee!” at the back door of the house. Neighborhood kids spending childhood running wild, every child a brother or sister. As every one was someone’s daughter or son. And every mother was mom! Each connected to the other. A father’s whistle piercing and urgent. We all went running when that alarm went off! Or when the street lamps came on! Met by the sound of an open hand cutting air when we didn’t.

Alcohol laden tirades invaded on payday. A shot –and-a-beer mentality with all the vitality of a rampant bull in the china shop that was my adolescence. We waged battles and rebellions to save my mother’s psyche and my sanity. The vanity of thinking I could save the world. And iron rails, tracks bringing from there and taking from here and clear across the country, encircled my world. The sound of some steam and much diesel was pleasing to my ear. That clackety-clack brings me back every time I hear it. It was clear I had a passion for trains.

We welcomed the clank of pots and pans when my mother began to prepare our evening fare. It was there that the issues of the day played out. We were never without that blessing until that one Christmas Eve when her self-fulfilling prophecy came true. “One of these Christmases I’m going on a long trip and I’m NOT coming back!” The house was much quieter after that.

The neighborhood was as well. I can tell you when we had all grown and gone and Dad was left behind, I find my saddest memory lingers. Swollen fingers and legs and a cancer that begged for finality came at another Christmas time. Dad would soon follow mom and from then on, silence prevailed. The sound of the tumbler the last time the door was locked is my final recollection. Home became just a noisy memory then.

we hear sounds of love
wafting through our hearts and minds,
memories of home.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

NaPoWriMo 2016 – Day #18: “The Sounds of Home”

LACKAWANNA

Weather: sunny and warm
Flora: crocuses newly formed
Architecture: Many styles,
Customs: start with warming smiles.
Mammal /fish: We love dogs; we raise fish
Childhood dream: Fran-Ceil’s soft-serve in a dish.
Found on the Street: seventeen dollars
Graffiti: A tag that reads “Holla, holla”
Conspiracy: the Al-queda six
Dress: Comfy and casual is our pick
Hometown memory: Smokes Creek Floods
Outside your window, you find: fine trimmed yards
Today’s news headline: What ever the media wants to say,
Scrap from a letter: “I’m sorry it has to be this way!”
Animal from a myth: Sasquatch’s Brother
Story read to children at night: “Are You My Mother?”
You walk three minutes down an alley and you find: some money
You walk to the border and hear: “Got a looney?”
What you fear: Losing my “voice”
Picture on your city’s postcard: An old building of your choice!
Lackawanna where I was raised honored on this sixteenth day!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

NaPoWriMo 2016 – Day 16: “Almanac”

42˚ 48’ 44.5428” N Latitude / 78˚ 49’ 51.7332” W Longitude

A pinpoint on the map,
forever my favorite place.
I wouldn’t want to visit,
but a nice place to live.
Memories of journeys there
give me great joy.
I was just a boy, but I knew
there was no place like it!
Living there,
giving there,
loving there was the ultimate,
I miss those coordinates.
In part, they’ll stay in my heart.
Just a house to some,
but to me it was always home.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

For POETIC ASIDES Prompt # 346 – “Coordinates”