DADDY’S FLOWER BLOSSOMS

She has spread her cheer every year
for twenty-seven. Pure heaven with
her heavily dimpled smile.
One of the sunshines of my life
and she, the sunflower of same.
Her name is Andrea, and her bloom
brightens every garden
she sees fit to visit.
 

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2020

dVerse Poets Pub – Quadrille: Garden

I AM LEGEND

I am an enigma; a legend,
insistent that the season becomes
the most important thing.
It is for the children that I work,
and it seemed that they came
to appreciate this generosity,
which was rather rare.
Up in my spacious
hamlet I plan, amidst the hustle
and bustle (and time to rustle a sugar cookie
or two) with my diminutive minions
to charge through more rapid than eagles.
Rather happy, rarely sappy, I continue to hurl
myself  into this chore clenched fist and more
until I think I will burst.
And when I laugh my belly shakes,
a right jolly old spasm! Bridging the chasm
of disbelief, for a dedicated cause.
There is no mystery here. I am Santa Claus.

© Walter J Wojtanik

dVerse – Meeting The Bar: I am, The First Person Narrative

 

SHE LIKES THE MANY FACES OF CLOCKS

1.

She makes time
for the time she has,
should she run out
she’ll wind herself up,
minute by minute!

2.

How many faces can she see?
How much time will she need?
It isn’t continuum greed!
The lady loves clocks.
They knock her socks off!

3.

Digital is all I command.
I can’t stand analog any longer.
The time is stronger in the dark.

4.

Three in the bedroom,
five in the kitchen,
three in the living room,
and my daughter’s room,
and the computer room.
The bathroom has one
in the shape of a toilet seat.
A shower gift from an aunt.
She doesn’t have the heart
to part with it!

5.

Her internal clock
keeps me awake at night.
Right when I think
I’m on the brink of slumber,
she wakes up alarmed.
I sleep with one eye open.
I know it’s coming!

6.

Does anybody really know what time it is?
Does anybody really care?
~ Chicago

She cares about time.
Rarely ever late.
Great at punctuality.
Even with the fragility of life,
my wife is rarely late.
But, one day we will all be!

7.

Every hour on the hour,
our hours are ours.
Every waking minute
I’m taking stock in our
continuous clock.
Tick-Tock,
tick-tock,
tick

8.

Time is fleeting,
it is eating away our days.
If it stays in sync
I think we’ll be okay!

9.

Passing the time
in her company,
I’m finding my peace
in every numbered face I see.
Is it me or is number seventeen
running a bit slow?

10.

I make time
for the time she has,
should she run out
I’ll fall apart,
minute by minute!
There’s no disgrace
in losing face!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik

NIGHT FALLS

Evening descends like a hushed silence,
and tranquility is its marker.
Her song is a lilting lullaby
in the shadows of the night.
There’s no threat of violence
as the midnight sky grows much darker.
The constellations fill the sky
contradicting darkness, bringing light.

© Walter J Wojtanik -2019

Offered at:
Poetic Asides: Cyhydedd Naw Ban (Welsh Poetry Form)

and

dVerse Poets Pub: Quadrille – …and the most beautiful words are…  

tranquility

A variation of the form written as a companion piece to “Comes the Morning”

COMES THE MORNING

Morning arrives like a soft whisper.
As he prepared to leave, he’ll kiss her

and he’ll wish her a wonderful day.
She coos through sleepy dreams and she’ll say

“Love you!”, an incoherent mumble
that he almost hears as he stumbles

through the kitchen door and heads for work.
Waking to her presence is a perk

that he has been gifted. She’s his prize
that he sees through appreciative eyes.

He feels fortune has smiled on him,
and it surely has. It’s not a whim.

Morning arrives, a brand-new blessing.
It will be a good day, he’s guessing.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer – Cyhydedd Naw Ban (Welsh

poetic form)

LOST AND MIRED

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