ABSENCE OF HEART

It can be said absence of heart
can breed a fondness most sublime.
All longing festered from the start,
is magnified in space and time.

Can love endure the test of will?
Does absent love bless lovers still?
Fate says time and distance will pass.
But hearts growing fonder? My ass!

© Copyright Walter J Wojtanik

Other “absent” poems:

https://wojisme.wordpress.com/2014/11/12/heartache/

https://wojisme.wordpress.com/2013/11/03/his-city-was-gone/

https://wojisme.wordpress.com/2013/04/06/the-valedictory-of-an-auburn-muse/

PHYSICIAN HEAL THYSELF

I’ve been given a wonderful gift,
I have been presented with an extraordinary
opportunity. And in the unity of a writing
community, I am bolstered to holster
all fears and trepidation and feed on the
elation of this moment. I am a poet.
A writer who’s gift had been left in it’s
plasticine covering for fear it gets ruined
like grandma’s divan in the room
only used for important company.
Or wakes. It takes the support of like
cohorts and believers to stave off deceivers,
purveyors of doubt and negativity of sort
as you cavort through blank pages to pen
that which, again and again haunts you.
Now the chance to flaunt your talent
and you word skills that will make or break you.
It’s taken you forty years to become
the overnight success you’ve dreamed of being
and now you’re seeing the forest AND the trees.
But she’s determined to break you, to take you
from what you love and shove it up your ass.
Her style and class were checked at the threshold.
She’s sold you on the idea that your worth
is worthless in your pursuit. But you refute it.
You know one fact to be true. A writer writes.
All the battles and fights waylaid and splayed
in spatters across your life has prepared you
for nothing but this: The only way to fix it, is fix it.
There are people who believe in you and won’t
leave you hanging to gain nothing. Friends love
your work and you. You’re through with
being kept down. That perpetual frown needs
an upturn; you live and learn. No more left
on dusty shelves. Writer, Heal Thyself!

Poetic Asides November Chapbook Challenge – Day 13 – Self-Help

THE OUTSKIRTS

"Gas" by Edward Hopper
“Gas” by Edward Hopper

No one’s been by for years
and one of his biggest fears
was that he would die out here
alone, and no one would know.
The point of no return
sits a mile down the road
and the occasional lost traveler
would goad his excitement,
but leave him in a cloud of dust.
He must close down the station
and rejoin civilization.
His routine never changes.
He dusts off the pumps
encrusted with years of isolation
and failure. The readings are recorded
in a never ending string of naught.
A rumble in the distance arouses,
leaving him shaking in his trousers
only to be disappointed again.
The pumps stand sentinel,
grave markers for a dying breed.
He needs human contact
but all he attracts is dirt.
Lost in the outskirts.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Response to MIZ QUICKLY’S IMPROMPTU POETRY – Day 10 (Alone, or at a Party) Ekphrastic Poem

LIGHT FROM A DISTANT SHORE

She sets herself; a life raft for wayward
sailors navigating life on a tumultuous sea.
Her beacon shines brightly,
a nightly sweep with eyes searching
and a smile that provides great light.
Lost souls find comfort there.
Every heart beats more sure;
no hazard is too great to bear.

Far and away she stands,
a gentle lady of a kind and nurturing soul.
Her goal remains within reach,
nature’s friend and confidant.
A mother’s caress never so sweet,
nor guiding hand so tender,
making a mental effort to present
her precious gift; melancholy’s true mender.

For she becomes the friend in which you place your trust,
the “embrace” in which you find comfort.
She is a beautiful soul,
a manifestation of every good thing.
She brings her smile to soothe your heart
and you start to believe in all of her charm;
a shield protecting and projecting
is the sanctuary disguised as her arms.

Secure in the shadows
miles from your eyes, you are wise
to rely on her heart being your rudder.
For the heavens give her direction
and her faith gives her solace.
Her face, an angel’s desire
and the smile she burns throughout,
with love’s unquenchable fire.

© 2012 – Walt Wojtanik

IN SPACE NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU DREAM

The void is deep and expansive,
and I sit in a pensive mood.
No good can come out of
wild fantasy and schisms,
mystic midnight visions
that play with my psyche.
It might be that when I drift,
floating by my tin can, I am
Major Tom. Slightly clueless:
a mess with little control
of my faculties, or my course.
I cry out, but no one hears,
and my fears of irrelevance
though unfounded, are drowned out
by the silence of the heavens;
a cosmos that deafens.

Written to fit the POETIC ASIDES “vacuum” prompt and WE WRITE POEMS #104 – “Loneliness” prompt!

WORTH OVER BETRAYAL

All during the interview, she remained one of the cool customers,
keeping her thoughts private. Confidential.
The memories of that moment were a blur, but clarity
unmercifully came to lift her fog. Emotions washed over her
in waves; once again she felt violated, ransacked –
leaving her again to feel broken and isolated.
She sits weeping inconsolably, his hideous face revisits
her with all the charms of a tire iron to her purity.
Wishing she could trade that visage for a vision
of one more caring and compassionate, offering
a healing touch, a sensitive ear; a glue to mend her fractured self.
She felt the fool to think there was a man whose love could make her feel
whole and clean and mended. But there she was, cinched by his caring
arms wrapped around her heart like a belt holding up her psyche.
It made her feel brand new, like a sticker declaring her “Improved!”
Love heals all!

 

 

Written for The Sunday Whirl – Wordle #43

THE VICTORY OF THE FEET

Long distance runner,
solitary and sure. A pure stride
can not hide his determination.
Speed in reserve,
awaiting his chance to shine,
a divine communion;
head in the sky
and feet to pound the pavement
with no one to beat
but his best time.
A well-conditioned mime,
silent and fluid;
grace personified.
Solitary and sure; a pure stride
pushes him over the line before his time.
Laurels and accolades,
a race well run. A race well won.

Written for WE WRITE POEMS prompt “Begin at the Bottom: The Body, a series, part 1” – write a poem about feet.