I stand on the edge of this field,
& I can sense his presence here.
Living is easy, but with eyes closed
he can misunderstand a lot.
He has not seen thing clearly
in nearly thirty-seven years.
Nothing is perceived as real,
& it’s hard to be someone else,
when the who you are is no longer a star.
I know it’s a dream; it’s not too bad
& we’ll remain sad for the loss of you.
No one was the boss of you.
It’s all wrong but it’s nothing.
Don’t get hung up, let me take you down.
(C) Walter J. Wojtanik (with a little help from my friends!)
Once behind a milk maid bleary,
I beard a Liddypoolian surly,
sing-song pop/rocks, yeah, yeah, yup,
with good dog Nigel, me soiled pup.
Richie-ringy, drum, drum, drum,
whilst Petey lands upon his bum,
Paulie wally doodles all day,
and Georgie puts pied pudding away.
Meanstyle, Yokie loudly bang she slaved,
a New Yorkshire in me final daze,
avant garded must too grately
amongst the scruffy beat alls lately.
Banded four we combed to stage Ed,
we was all the bloody rage, Ed.
Maniacal, the screamies fainted
as were the mused sick; badly tainted.
Writey, writey, Bob all-mighty,
pose’em, storied; all humoured slighty.
From me pen me wordies stumble,
in me own write does muzak crumble.
Go salve the Queen!
*** Scanned me copy of Lennon’s “In His Own Write” and drew me storied inspiring from without me.
Counting from #9 working backwards;
it’s just like starting over.
Imagine having the ability to walk
within your own dreams!
Whatever gets you through the night
is all right. How DO you sleep?
I found that sleep is isolation a lot
like love. And love is like
watching the wheels go ‘round.
Mother warned to be cautious with my heart,
but nobody told me it would be so hard.
I’m a card. A joker. No working class hero,
a bit of a social zero who is sort of
a jealous guy, a little crippled inside.
I’d go cold turkey if that revelation
would gimme some truth. But I go,
living on borrowed time and I’m
losing you. There’s some truth for you!
In my waking hours, I’m a man at peace,
but given a chance, romance would flourish,
it would nourish my heart and soul.
I would feel the control of karma instantly
and continue to dream my mystic nightly
visions. Listen, the snow is falling!
It is calling me to sleep, perchance to dream.
Dreams give power to the people’s desire,
dreams stoke passion’s fire.
Oh my love, hold on.
Grow old with me and remember me
as your beautiful boy, your one true joy.
Woman, don’t fight it. This war
is over if you want it!
So, imagine having the ability to walk
within my dreams! It seems there is a place
for you beside me. God, do I want you beside me.
But it’s just my luck I am stuck. #9, #9, #9, #9…
(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014
Inspired by the songs of John Lennon
Meeting your maker take a lot out of a bloke.
You used to joke that heaven wasn’t real,
and now you feel what it would be like if you were right.
Bigger than Jesus you claimed and your fame
was crucified in a less meaningful way, apologies come,
it was a dumb thing to say in that way.
The papers said, “GOD IS DEAD!” and in your head
you saw your fabularity picking up the slack.
And then you wished you could take it back.
You didn’t need the weed to succeed, only John.
Acid turned you into an ass head for a short while,
but your Liverpudlian smile always toted charm.
You chose her to be your Yoko Ono, and with her on your arm
your were living your fantasy two fold. You thought things
that would bring discussions to the table. Deportation was a fable
ill conceived, and we believed all you would imagine,
if given the chance peace would find a way and today
you may still be dreaming. It seems surreal. I feel you here!
You may say I’m a dreamer.
Can you imagine?
(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014
His glasses were round
and he fostered a profound way
of seeing the world as it should be.
It was he who gave passivity
a fighting chance. At every glance
he saw possibility; a hope for futures
bright. It wasn’t hard to see in clear vision.
It was the division of ideologies
and theologies that put up barriers.
That was clearly visible. The problems
were not hidden; solutions were obscure.
It was for sure his legacy languishes
in rose-colored number nine dreams!
Inklings and instincts
insisted that he make plans,
house-husband days waning
and gaining in the confidence
that his music still gave credence
to his soul. Control no longer
an obstacle; collaboration
became his station. But it was
old alliances that jostled his peace.
So in a place, a secret space
he kept his adventure hidden
( a forbidden trek into his past)
A blast; a mania recreated in hopes
of finishing ones business.
Liverpool to New York looked bright
except for that one night,
everything was in plain sight.
Hidden, in a secret place – a space
kept between himself and an unknowing public.
“T’s and “I”s crossed and dotted, lined and spotted,
a melodic melange of hope, The next
after a Number 9 dream. Living is easy
with eyes closed, he came to reclaim his muse, unused
for thirty-three years. Rekindled by an old sound,
sounding brand new – a rejuvenation
by proclamation. Peace is fine in its time.
“I found mine in the arms of mother’s love”.
All charms washed away by a disenfranchised
loner when he should have just left well enough alone.
Going home to set the tale right; his vision is clear.
It is here where the secret is kept amidst lines
and specks, a song to be heard – every word!
Poetic Asides November Chapbook Challenge – Day 4 – _____ Sheet
The trouble with snowmen…
A snowman with “appendages”
is rather quite HOT,
until he gets hot
and then, he is not!
© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013
First line taken from “The Trouble With Snowmen” by Roger McGough
Remembering thirty years ago when a legend was silenced:
MEAN MR. MUSTARD
I ruled the world, you see,
and then the world ruled me.
A singing jester, a bloody fool;
one of those lads from Liverpool.
We came to America, land of the free,
our music grew, but it stifled me.
My choice of partners made a stir,
and the world had come to ravage her.
But we made a home and found our place,
without all that screaming in our face,
to settle into a life of seclusion,
and perpetrated this fantastic illusion.
So a glad house husband I became
while Yoko worked to make a name.
And I, a Beatle, husband, dad,
was happy in the life I had.
But music, still my love and passion,
had lured me in a rhythmic fashion,
to feed this “Double Fantasy”
and brought the world right back to me.
But, a yellow bastard made his name
by stealing someone else’s fame.
Mark my words David, he was a mean chap man,
crouching there with a steady hand,
I sang that, “Happiness Is a Warm Gun”
“Mr. Lennon?” bang-bang, shoot, shoot. I was bloody done.