IN THE LINE OF THREE

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 – 2018

 

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WHAT’S THE DEAL?

You’ve played the gambit
and the gamut of games
has your head stealing
a breath or two as you
prepare for the next round.

You’ve found that you are
less of a player than a heart slayer
as you lay your cards on the table.
You’re able to hide your poker
face, a grace you’ve been given.

You’ve got a hand that would stand
up to any, and many have bluffed
with less. It is best if you go
all in to try and win her heart,
for you know it is all a part of the game.

You’re down to your last few chips
and you’d be a monkey’s uncle
if your ante leaves you broken.
They’re only tokens anyway,
it just depends on how you play.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides Prompt #452 – Game

DOGWOOD

Trees rustle and sway
and make a day of it.
Leaves, cut by the winds of change
rearrange, only to rediscover
home again. Nestled and rested,
the best place to recline.
But I find it annoying,
a noise toying with me.
It is there, somewhere
near the patch of saplings,
rapping an echo as of rabid canines.
It’s fine, but it hearkens to me,
this bark of the dogwood trees
unleashed. Their bite’s not so bad!

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Bloomings Prompt #213: You Come To My Senses

SUNSHINE WHISPERS

Salubrious salutations resonate
on this late summer day,
the golden orb reigns down
in waves of gilded images.
I hear your voice echo against
my skin, my pate, red from shouts
of your raucous oration.
I hold my station as you continue
the tirade of this sweltering afternoon.
And as night draws nigh I hear your soft
sigh and sweet farewell; your promise
of a fresh new tomorrow. Your whispers
ease my sorrow and caress my soul,
touching my heart with your lilting goodnight.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Bloomings Prompt #213: You Come To My Senses

I WILL RUN NO MORE FOREVER

I wasn’t a very fast lad, but I wasn’t too bad,
I had a gait that I would hate all my life.
I liked to run, but only to get places quickly.
I was built thickly as a boy and the joy I took
when I shook a leg was all I needed.
I had exceeded expectations.
There was elation.

But, reality came in this revelation. I got caught
up in aging, and staging a race to a finish line
took on a whole new view. And I would eschew
a harried pace, just in case I would fail.
No more high-tailing it. Now I mail it in.
My knees can’t take the beating. It bears repeating,
I will run no more forever.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Miz Quickly’s MuhwufSS: Goodbye To All That!

DO NOT SPEAK ILL OF THE DEAD

Hauntingly flaunting their verity,
searching for clarity or at the least
their finished business. A chance
to other side unimpeded. They’ve
exceeded their life expectancy. They’ve
begged and pleaded for some relief
but your belief in the paranormal
has you talking. You are walking
through dark and abandoned places
seeing faces in the woodwork,
being a jerk to ambivalent apparitions
under the strangest conditions.
There are footsteps down the hall,
a distant call from beyond
the next room. There is no doom
in death that the living can’t provide.
There is a little voice inside your head.
Is it the voice of the dead instead?
Don’t talk back, or they’ll be return.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides Prompt #451 – Other Side

THE WRONG PART OF MY OTHER (WRITE) SELF

He was a poet and hated the approximate.
Rainer Maria Rilke
from “The Journal of My Other Self”

This Walt, quite precise to a fault,
drifted away from his passion with words.
His darkness preceded him and he conceded
that his craft to him, felt combative.

Drifted away from his passion with words,
he found what he said had been said before.
That his craft to him, felt combative
is a testament to the utility of his poetic futility.

He found what he said had been said before,
he felt like a repetitive bore and what’s more,
his testament to the utility of his poetic futility
was an admission to his failing at maintaining his pace.

He felt like a repetitive bore and what’s more,
writing the glut of emotions he had felt and feels
was an admission to his failing at maintaining his pace.
Prolific was terrific for a while, but it wears on one’s soul.

Writing the glut of emotions he has felt and feels
dealt with his life of love and anger and despair and loss.
Prolific was terrific for a while, but it wears on one’s soul,
and losing control of your muse was like verbal abuse!

Having dealt with his life of love and anger and despair and loss,
exposed the truth about his other self; made words seem wrong!
And losing control of your muse was like verbal abuse!
Lately he tended to struggle with the words he’d use!

Exposed, the truth about his other self made words seem wrong!
His darkness preceded him and he conceded
that he tended to struggle with the words he’d use!
This Walt is quite precise to a fault!

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides Prompt #450: Something goes wrong

MEMORY FADES, LOVE REMAINS

He senses he knew her way back when,
but he is not quite sure. Quite forgetful is he,
she is a beauty he had once known. He loves
her, he thinks. But he’s not quite sure. He
seems to show a spark of familiarity. He begins
to connect and then rapidly fades. He hates to
let it show. He loves, then he begins to forget.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

When he loves, he begins to forget.
~ from “A Man In His Life” by Yehuda Amichai

Poetic Bloomings – “And I Quote” #1: Memory

Miz Quickly’s Imprompt Poetry – MuhwufSS: Golden Shovel

WHERE LIFE’S TRAIL ENDS

Off to find where the treasure of life is stored. We
travel along the pathways for they shall
lead us along in our sanguine walk.
We will talk to birds speaking in feathered tongues with
nary a misunderstanding nor demanding tone. A
communion with nature, hands held aloft as we walk
to any destination we please for surely that
is where the trail ends and all us friends will be glad. It is
all that we have treasured, doled and measured
to share with all hearts that conjoin, and
as we get older, although our pace may slow,
we will continue to stroll life’s walkway, and
take our pleasures from the bench where we will watch

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Miz Quickly’s Imprompt Poetry – MuhwufSS – “Golden Shovel” Poetry

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch…

from “Where the Sidewalk Ends” by Shel Silverstein

SHE, OF THE MOON AND THE STARS AND THE WORLD

Her gentility precedes her. Her long
tresses flow in cascade as she walks
along the shore at night. Looking out at
this star filled vignette, she steals the night;
the moon and the stars and the world that’s
presented to her. It’s for sure this is what
she has needed. Love depleted, her heart is
ready to recharge in large part because the good
that resides there, hides there and is reserved for
the one who would walk with her at midnight, the
one to whom she will gladly give her soul.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Miz Quickly’s Imprompt Poetry – MuhwufSS: Golden Shovel Poem

Long walks at night–
that’s what is good for the soul

~Taken from “And The Moon And The Stars And The World”
by Charles Bukowski