THE HOME YOUR GENERATIONS ONLY KNEW

An unfamiliar place with no trace
of anything you can recall.
So many thoughts and ideas
given birth as your mind unearths
sorrow with little hope for a tomorrow.
Webs cobbled in fine silk
milking memories from misty midnight menageries.
Windows to the world, a soulless place
replacing what once was held dear,
here where love blossomed
and generations of sons
and daughters grew in tune.
Airy, left in decadent decay –
a shell of better days
ghosts of confiscated youth
ripped from the grip our longing hearts
by upstart degenerates and renegades
where as children we once played.
Zombied now and denigrated to
wait for a wrecking ball or an overhaul.
In dreams you find your mind returning,
yearning for what long ago was your domain.
In dreams you can certainly go home again,
but why would you want to?

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides

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ANOTHER POEM FOR THE WORLD

I had come to discover words.
And I never needed to define my words,
but always hoped my words would define me.

And words would come to fill my head,
and the more words I desired, the more
my words mired my thoughts. Those words sought release,

and my words came to spill onto my page.
Every thought, once thought as wise or sage played
upon each piece of pristine papyrus, a word plagued virus.

Each word stained page came assembled in hope
to resemble the poetic pondering of some word genius,
one of the genus Poeticus Delecticum who would come to be read

from far and wide in reading room and library.
But nary a word has reached those depths or breaths or lengths.
The strength of my poetic beauty traversed not the world nor universe.

My best poem has gone north to brighten the capital
of the Great Provincial North. She has become the last word that defines me.
She finds me close to her heart as we send her off to start her new life as a wife.

A wealth of words. A beautiful new song. Another poems for the world. Andrea.

 

(C) Walter J Wojtanik

 

LONG AGO IN A POETRY BLOG FAR, FAR AWAY…

ORPHAN BOYS OF THE GALACTIC EMPIRE

“Did you know my father?” the farm boy inquired.
He was tired of searching faces for traces of familiarity.
No fear or temerity, only a gut full of anger; a blackness
that defined what “dark” was. An uncle and aunt
can’t keep him safe forever, he was strong.
Was it wrong to be so driven? He was living
for one purpose, to bring balance to the universe.
There’s a price on every head, and instead
of idealistic pursuits, your suit and dented helmet
covering your demented mind are all he could offer.
Your coffers will grow as long as you go out
and bring in the ones most wanted.
“Wretched scum and villain” fits him, and yet
you can’t escape the eyes of Fett!
“I AM your father” came the decree.
You would think it would free you of the burden,
but you know your inner strength is all you ask of it,
and no one forced you to this undertaking.
I have been the darkness, and you were right.
A father left to fight chooses a cause worth it.
Join me and we will rule the Empire on your terms.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik

LOST WORDS: POETS IN PASSING

I’ve spent a lot of time getting lost in words.
My words; the words of others. The sisters
and brothers of poetic thought who ought to be
feted. I am elated to have known you all.
Words find a way to fall onto the page,
sometimes on deaf ears and it is here
I have come to know them. I consider it
verbal violence when words are silenced.

Andrea Heiberg, your voice was a choice
I made an effort to hear, for it was here
I came to know you. Our paths crossed,
once in vile vitriol, but I had come to know
the soul that you had nurtured, a cultured
reach to beseech me to listen to every
glistening word, some of the best I had heard.
I think of you often, and I miss your words.

Vivienne Blake, you found a way to make
poetry seem like a beautiful waltz, a dance
that would entrance and soothe, with each
glorious word you’d use as a testimony of life
lived well & to the fullest. You were the best
at encouraging words to flow and allow us
to know the courage of your own words.
I think of you often, and I miss your words.

Dyson McIllwain, you verbose Scot,
you were not a flash in the pan.
Your words still stand as a testament,
meant to grace our hearts and souls.
Poetic thoughts united us, it invited us
to share the beauty of words with the
world and this world of words with others.
I think of you often, and I miss your words.

Today, I find Salvatore Buttaci has joined
his Father and Mother all in the embrace
of the Father who loved him, as Salvatore
loved his Blessed Father. His words expressed
in complete reverence, words of love
for his beloved Sharon, his cherished family,
his students of life who held to his wisdom.
I think of him now, and I miss his words.

I am at a loss. A loss of kindred hearts,
a loss of conjoined souls. You have all left
many holes that can never fully be filled.
I have been thrilled to have held you dear.
My words fail of late and the fate of them
hangs in the balance. This valance of life
hangs as well. My eyes swell with tears.
I miss you all. I am at a loss for words.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

 

MONTY, MONTY, MONTY

You stand out in the crowd,
a turnip waiting for your turn
to earn the largess of life.
You start out with a good wife,
extraordinary daughters,
and a position you’d love the chance
to trade for what’s behind
door number two.
It’s you and the wheeler dealer.

You have one shot at this,
so make your choices wisely.
Things sail along smoothly,
but then one morning
you are rudely interrupted
with an abrupt life alteration.
Your station is untenable,
it renders you a lesser version
in this life’s excursion.

So here’s the offer.
You can have money in your pocket
and keep your current life
with all your issues
or you can exchange it for more
than what you’re able to bargain.
It’s selling your soul for
a Cuisinart and a new car.
You realized you’re better off by far.

Life is no game show,
and not a reality show.
There is no show at all,
just reality. And with all its banality,
it is the best prize
one can strive to acquire.
Just keep what you have and be glad.
This is the best you will feel.
Let’s not make a deal.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides April P.A.D. Challenge – Day 10 – Deal/No Deal

CASE FILE: X-52

My rocket propels me;
speed of light excursions
into the darkness of deep space.
It is silent, serene and no one
can hear me scream.
My days blur into each other
and it effects my equilibrium.
A floating trash compactor
in the expanse of endless nothingness.
Major Tom has found his way home,
and ground control has shut down
leaving me to be the clown staying
weightless in a prolonged environment!
In spite of my woes: Case Closed!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day 4: CASE _____

 

A CASE OF ESCAPING JOY

Distant hearts do not grow fond of distance,
and our ability to embrace that joy
seems to slip from your hands as if those charms
become like road markers in your distorted side view
mirrors. Trying to milk human kindness
from the swollen teat of reality gets harder
as the lactate begins to dry up.
Joy seems so overrated in that moment
of ill-decision. Removing yourself
does not render a solution, yet
you walk away anyway. Maybe someday
you will come to know joy and rejoice,
even if it doesn’t smack you upside the head.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day 4: CASE______

THE CASE OF RELATIVE INSUFFICIENCY

The family is getting smaller, our numbers decrease.
Some because some had become deceased,
due to old age or other unrelated disease.
The kids have moved away and they stay in touch
but their absence is telling. It has me dwelling
on memories that bring a smile and a tear
and I sit here wondering when they had gotten older.
It gets a bit colder when I think about it.
I doubt it will ever be that warm again.
But then again, nothing lasts forever
except for unfortunate grudges that nudge at
your sensibilities. Neither side budges
and the chasm grows wider. Inside you
there’s a little bit of everyone who had gone
before us. It was for us that they existed
and persisted until Brother Death came to call.
We all fall down that abyss but sustain
that bit of brain that keep the family close.
A heavy dose of reality tells me we are all fated
to be ‘late-greated”, but until we are, I keep
the family that remains from getting very far.
It all starts in the heart.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides April Poem-a-Day Challenge – Day 4: Case______

CHÂTEAUNEUF DU PAPE

All that was left from the shipwreck
was a tin of caviar and the wine.
A bottle of the grape and a can of bait.
You hated the taste of the caviar,
but the fish it had lured to your
make-shift fishing pole were a treat.
All you could eat until the can was drained.
For an ungodly reason, you kept the cork
intact for a special occasion, and today
was that day. The day you lost all hope.
The bottle popped with a resonance that was
a perfect counter point to the waves lapping the shore.
A lovely bouquet. Earthy!
You take a sip.
A swig.
A guzzle.
The label read “Châteauneuf du Pape, 1951”
That’s probably French for “Water from 1,951 Sewers”.
Your inebriate binge lasted long enough
for you to scribble something on the back of a leaf.
You stuffed it into the bottle.
Your last will and testament.
All your worldly possessions.
An empty tin can and your father’s watch.
You heave the bottle into the surf and watch it bob,
praying for death to rescue you. It started to sink.
Your coconut just stares.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

 

WHO? WHAT? WHY?

Sir Edmund Hillary had it pegged. I scale my mountain of poetry because it is there. I write poetry because I can. I write poetry because I can’t sing or dance. I had given my voice a chance to entrance and entice others to emotion. I reach into my heart and write how it feels. It is as real as breathing. I am seething with the life force of words.

Who brought me to rhyme is a mystery. My history with words stemmed from a debilitating shyness in my youth. The truth is I would stammer and stutter, but my words seemed to flutter on the page. At that stage, it was my saving grace. I’d never lose face unless my words failed me. From romantic to farce to fantasy, I would fancy expressing my soul with words. Neruda thrilled me. Langston Hughes was my soul. McKuen and Lennon spoke in emotions I could only imagine. They were mentors all.

Sparrow whispers in sweet song
long after nightfall,
Mountain shadows slumbering

 

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018