Don’t they remember?
They go about their day
as if nothing was wrong,
doing the same old song
and dance, as if perchance
it was all a dream.

But you cannot sleep
through such a fright.
It keeps me up at night
sometimes. Don’t they recall
at all how it happened?
They go about their day.

It’s not to say it’s an obsession,
but this confession is true.
What did you do when the twins fell?
Where were you when five sides
became four? When verdant pastures
claimed more? Don’t you remember?

It’s an indelible stain that remains,
a blotch upon all of humanity’s souls.
Yet, some go about their days, ignoring
and imploring we all do the same.
History forgotten is soon repeated,
and we will not be defeated.

It was no dream, this evil scheme,
it seems some would just as soon forget it.
And yet, it happened eighteen years ago today.
Without a thought, they go about their day.
What is there left to say? It happened.
Don’t you remember?

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

POETIC BLOOMINGS tribute to 911


I had lost my way. Mired in a jungle of thought, I found myself drifting away from my base – away from my mind’s center. Words, once an ally, have taken umbrage against a senseless ramble I had assumed. There’s no counting for intent, this descent was rapid. I could not stop my fall. When it began, I don’t recall… wrong, maybe I do. I think it started when I presumed people wanted to hear what I had to say. I wrote in a poetic way, a rapid-fire muse that would refuse to rest. It had gotten tired and old. I started to hate the direction I was headed, which was no direction at all. I had lost my way. Mumbling to myself, I found this quote, “You will love again the stranger who was yourself”. I started finding myself by loving who I was.

 © Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

 Written for dVerse Poets Pub – Prosery #3: Love After Love


There it still stands,
abandoned and left
in the dust to rust and decay.
In its day, a trusty “steed”,
but it has needed much attention,
not to mention plenty of cash
to re-convert this piece of trash to the notion
that motion was once its function.
An open lot, overgrown; not mowed
in a long while. Weeds obscured
and amber waves of grain sustain
the field mice that find lodging there
dodging the elements and predators.
And thus, this bucket of rusted,
once trusted truck is stuck,
alone in a field that seems devoid
of dreams and schemes. Just a means
to dispose of a once valued ‘friend.’

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019


Barefoot on a soft meadow tract,
grass green as seen by eyes
blue as the skies. A breath of wind
soothing my skin and keeping me
free to be the person I’ve always dreamed,
the who I’ve always seemed to
aspire to. The me that you have loved.
and above all else, no selfish wish
could hold you against your will.
My heart be still and let us
find the thrill unlike any seen, so true.
Grass green and sky blue; me and you.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2019


 People think I write quite prolifically,
generating poems terrifically,
but that kind of effort specifically
is taxing and takes a bit more.
And you can be sure
it takes a toll at times
and some of my rhymes 
get tired and repetitive.
And yet, poetry is my sedative,
pleasing and not competitive,
and I’ll keep writing poems as long as I live.
When poetry begs me to write,
I can keep on going all night!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

from POETIC BLOOMINGS: Prompt #254 – Second Wind


Sun In An Empty Room, a painting by Edward Hopper

Courtesy of

Her vacancy gapes,
a stagnant yawn to the afternoon.
It was once a comfortable room.
But, no drape or curtain
can hide what it lacks.
Every building has many stories
No one is there to hear how
the sun glow warms a decrepit space!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2019

dVerse – Quadrille #83: Sun


More Hopper inspired poems:

The Outskirts

Nick Has a Plan


A heart so true,
you can’t help but believe
for it will leave you in awe.
Every flaw becomes invisible,
becomes indivisible to your character.
An honest admittance that
costs a pittance but has great worth.
Where else on earth can trust and a faith
in purity offer surety of a connection
fair and true. It is up to you to believe,
I will not deceive. It comes straight from ♥ here.
In your heart I hope you know I’m sincere.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019


Brooklyn Ariel

The bond we’ve made was instant
and permanent, this haggard poet gent
and you, my darling granddaughter.
I sparkle when I am in your light,
a bright beacon in a world in need
of your luminescence. I get the chance
to hold you close. You look intently
as I gently tell you how much you’ve
given in the short time we’ve been together.
Your skin is so soft, mine the coarseness of leather
yet we complement each other sweetly.
Wrapped neatly in a swaddle, you flutter
and coo, you blink and explore, and what’s more
you smile, a contented little lass
(proving it’s not gas), and I melt.
I haven’t felt this joy since your mother
and aunt were born. But on this morn,
it is you, Brooklyn, who has brought beauty
into this tired life. You’ve so much to learn,
and I yearn to teach you all I can. Until then,
I will revel in something so beautiful!

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

Written to Poetic Asides Prompt # 484 – On ______


You begin this way:
this is your hand,
this is your eye…

…It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand.

~from Margaret Atwood’s poem “You Begin”

And so I continue!

This is my poem.
These are my words.
This is the time of night
where sleep beckons. I sit
fingers to keyboard on a silent eve.
This is my shirt; it has no sleeves.
It is as black as night,

or a chalkboard if you erase it.
Or blue if it’s really dark;
sometimes black looks like blue
when it’s really dark.
This is me and that is you and together
we are we, but never wee, for hearts in love
are so big as to hold it all.

You are as short as I am tall
and I continue to fall for you every time my rhyme
has you in it. So I begin it,
and then I continue. This is my poem.
These are my words, you are my muse.
I choose you to be, but that’s just me.
It always comes back to that!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer – Prompt #481 – Pick a writer