WHAT A CROC

My mighty fight with fasciitis
might as well have been
a fight to stay upright.
Painful steps upset the balance
of my power. Cortisone shots
provided some relief.
The doctor recommended
I get a pair of crocs. Not sure if I
should have been offended or remained
upended, I relented. This fashion
faux pas was just what
the doctor ordered. No bare feet,
or soft footwear, get a pair of crocs
and your feet’ll feel better!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day #23: “Footwear”

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SHOES OF THE SEER

A poet sees things; wears many shoes.
Traipsing across the linoleum,
this visionary meanders, wandering
with eyes set on a plan. He doesn’t stand
for blind gazes clouded by mindless phases
and lapses of reason. ’Tis the season
to bring your best idea to the table and retain
your stability, for the ability to see
lies within. Pick up your chin and grin,
it is great to have a plan for all mankind;
it takes a clear mind to be a visionary.
Leave your agenda at the door; the floor is yours.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day #23 : “Footwear”

SIX WORD SATURDAY – AUGUST 18, 2012

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

LAUREATE AT THE STAKE*

Sacrificed on the altar of reason,
pages ignite; an incendiary conflagration
of words and rhyme – metered and meted.

Ashes strewn, wind blown; sown upon
the fertility of a mind left wanting to be heard.
Every word burning like midnight oil to ravage

all this savage heart has toiled to achieve.
Like decayed leaves these poems smolder.
Line by line, they feed the fire; burning.

Learning that poetic purity is akin to obscurity,
remnants of thought filling the air
like sparks off to incite the masses and high grasses

in smoky simile; nothing is left unsaid.
Laureate at the stake burning, take the time to learn.
There is rhyme enough to burn.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012

* Note:  On being selected the 2010 Poet Laureate for the April PAD at Writer’s Digest.com/Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer. I seemed in a hurry to get there, and humbly find I still have much to learn and accomplish.

100% MY FATHER’S SON

He was Walt as I am Walt,
and his father was before him.
We shared so much, our ways
and such, as I carry on today.
He, a man quite good with wood
but didn’t say a lot.
Me, a man quite good with words,
but as with wood, quite not.
He taught me things,
he bought me things,
he wrought me with his demons.
And I was swell,
and I rebelled
and inherited his demons.
But, there was a man, despite his flaws
loved his family just because
we gave him joy. Every girl,
every boy, and Mom the glue
that mended us, nurtured and befriended us
and protected us ’til we knew better,
she’d make him a saint if we had let her.
But, Dad was rather quite assured
that mistakes he made would not be cured,
we learned to live within his world
until he up and left it. And now,
bereft it we hold onto all he gave.
I got his eyes, artistic style,
I got mom’s nose, her sighs, her smile,
I got his skill and sad addiction,
I embrace her warmth, his dereliction.
But all-in-all, one helluva guy
in his workshop in the sky.
I have his name, I have his fun,
100% my father’s son.