A serie of poems I had written in tribute to John Lennon. Remembering this day.


John Lennon sang,
“All You Need Is Love”;
died from hate.

John Lennon sang,
“Happiness is a Warm Gun”.
Sadly he learned.

John Lennon sang,
“Come Together Now Over Me”,
and people did.

John Lennon sang
to “Give Peace a Chance”.
Rest in Peace.

John Lennon sang,
to a generation that believed.
Living through music.

© – Walter J. Wojtanik


Once behind a milk maid bleary,
I beard a Liddypoolian surly,
sing-song pop/rocks, yeah, yeah, yup,
with good dog Nigel, me soiled pup.
Richie-ringy, drum, drum, drum,
whilst Petey lands upon his bum,
Paulie wally doodles all day,
and Georgie puts pied pudding away.
Meanstyle, Yokie loudly bang she slaved,
a New Yorkshire in me final daze,
avant garded must too grately
amongst the scruffy beat alls lately.
Banded four we combed to stage Ed,
we was all the bloody rage, Ed.
Maniacal, the screamies fainted
as were the mused sick; badly tainted.
Writey, writey, Bob all-mighty,
pose’em, storied; all humoured slighty.
From me pen me wordies stumble,
in me own write does muzak crumble.
Go salve the Queen!

© – Walter J. Wojtanik


His glasses were round
and he fostered a profound way
of seeing the world as it should be.
It was he who gave passivity
a fighting chance. At every glance
he saw possibility; a hope for futures
bright. It wasn’t hard to see in clear vision.
It was the division of ideologies
and theologies that put up barriers.
That was clearly visible. The problems
were not hidden; solutions were obscure.
It was for sure his legacy languishes
in rose-colored number nine dreams

© Walter J Wojtanik


I ruled the world, you see,
and then the world ruled me.

A singing jester, a bloody fool;
one of those lads from Liverpool.

We came to America, land of the free,
our music grew, but it stifled me.

My choice of partners made a stir,
and the world had come to ravage her.

But we made a home and found our place,
without all that screaming in our face,

to settle into a life of seclusion,
and perpetrated this fantastic illusion.

So a glad househusband I became
while Yoko worked to make a name.

And I, a Beatle, husband, dad,
was happy in the life I had.

But music, still my love and passion,
had lured me in a rhythmic fashion,

to feed this “Double Fantasy”
and brought the world right back to me.

But, a yellow bastard made his name
by stealing someone else’s fame.

Mark my words David, he was a mean chap man,
crouching there with a steady hand,

I sang that, “Happiness Is a Warm Gun”
“Mr. Lennon?” bang-bang, shoot, shoot. I was bloody done.

© Walter J Wojtanik


December 8, 1980

A busy night in the jungle,
it seems every bungled
suicide attempt and
accident picked today
to play out their dramas.
Street punks and pistol
packing mamas and pops.
Everything stops when they
wheel the shooting victim in.
It’s a sin, they got him in the back.
His jacket soaked in the outpouring
of his life’s force. In the course of such
events, life takes a front seat,
we meet it head on. That Beatle
guy was dead on. But, “Happiness is a
Warm Gun”? Tell that to this guy…
He looks like… Lennon?

(C) Walter J Wojtanik


I remember that it snowed that day.
     Don’t you remember? 
I remember it was on
     a Monday night in December. 
I remember I picked you up at a half past three, 
     and you were waiting by that old maple tree. 
I remember the wind was blowing rather strong, 
     and I had you waiting out there far too long. 
I remember you thought you should have stayed in bed, 
     but came out with that horrible cold instead. 
I remember we had some dinner, we saw a show, 
     and we made some angels in the snow. 
I remember I drove you straight home to get some rest 
     and offered to rub some Vicks® on your chest. 
I remember we finally got there a bit after nine, 
     and I remember you said you had a really good time. 
I remember we chatted briefly watching the snow 
     and we listened to music on the radio. 
I remember the announcer broke in with some bad news, 
     and that shroud of sadness covered you. 
I remember. Don’t you remember how you cried 
     that night we heard that John Lennon had died?

© Walter J. Wojtanik


He had the paper,
pressed, preserved; reserved
to read when the pain was less
palpable, and he’d be able to grieve.
He couldn’t believe that twenty years
stood between this heinous act, a fact
he had struggled with greatly. But,
lately he felt closure. He was sure
that John was near, it was clear that
in the music and moments of release,
his elusive peace was just a piece of the puzzle.
His New York was empty without his big spirit,
the heart of this metropolis beat
in the stately brownstone Dakota.
Back to bring song back to the maniacal
masses. A cold December to remember,
Central Park aglow, and the World Trade Center
continued to tower tall twenty years since his fall.
They’ve killed John, and life went on.
He had the paper, pressed, preserved;
reserved to read when the pain was less
palpable. Maybe tomorrow!

© – Walter J. Wojtanik


He stood in amazement
so much had changed.
It was a strange epiphany;
his once stoic symphony
had been knocked to its knees.
The Central Park trees failed
to hide the absence of
the majestic twins. The brownstone
once home was a Mecca for
tourists and purists who needed
closure. The exposure wrought
could not be bought; a recluse,
a self-abused; self proclaimed
Caulfield in search of fame
and a name to remember.
That cold December, he could
not see past the last place
he had seen in life, leaving
a young son, a wife and
an adoring nation that came
in adoration of his journey.
Seeing it again was hard,
in the Dakota courtyard
a stain remains. Reliving it
again and again he hears it.
“Mr. Lennon?” Bang, bang,
shoot, shoot. A warm gun
and a Double-Fantasy.
New York City gone wrong.
His city was gone.

© Walter J Wojtanik






She has spread her cheer every year
for twenty-five. Her, alive with joy
and 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 – 2018


Respect came in various lessons,
and messin’ with Ma was one learned early.
The old man went squirrelly when we dissed
his missus. He truly went nuts,
no ifs, ands or buts.

No ifs, ands or butts
would not be spared if we dared sass back.
A swift smack on the behind
would find you and remind you,
“Don’t talk back to your Mother!”

Don’t talk back to your Mother.
But, giving Dad the lip with a slip of the tongue
would have also “brung” the wrath of Dad.
He wasn’t bad, but he had a fuse you needed not light.
We had to fight the urge disobey.

We had to fight the urge to disobey.
We’d say what he wanted to hear,
and wait until we were clear of earshot
before we got our frustrations out.
It wasn’t about what we said.

It wasn’t about what we said.
Instead, it was how we said it.
I’d live to regret it that my last words to mom
came from a dark place. The hurt on her face.
stays with me to this day.
It was too late to watch what I say.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

POETIC ASIDES with Robert Lee Brewer – Prompt #457: Disobedience


The days are getting shorter still,
the summer fades away,
we’ll say goodbye from on the hill
on some late summer’s day.

I hold you near and we can hear
Fall waiting in the wings,
the colors warm will soon appear,
with all that autumn brings.

Moments of love’s long embrace
sustain me through the night,
and glowing starlight on your face
makes everything feel right.

Prepare to dream of Summer sun,
a restful sleep ensues,
with memories of Summer fun;
the ones we’ll never lose.

The kiss we shared upon that shore,
the picnics in the park,
the magic of this life and more
will greet us after dark.

And there my dear, I’ll hold you,
and whisper love’s entreaty,
as summer sets, when day is through
to rest in autumn’s beauty.

So, go to sleep and have your rest,
I’ll wake you come the Spring,
just lay your head upon my chest
to see what this night brings.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018


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


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


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


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


You weren’t fixing on leaving,
you had other plans.
But, God laughed
and you were gone. A memory
written ad nauseum,
causing hearts to ache
at each re-telling. Eyes
swelling with tears
laced with fears of  folks forgetting.
It’s hitting home the more
distance passes and a trace of your face
flashes in my mind from time-to-time.
You are nine years in passing
and I keep amassing poems
well long after you’re gone.
And my life moves on.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Bloomings – Prompt #211: And I Quote #1



My memory is dotted with crisp images
that have engrained into the depth of my soul.
I have no control over them; they lay dormant,
only to bubble to the surface when I least expect.
Trying in vain to relinquish these old feelings,
I reel with remorse, this sad course I contemplate
leaves me silent and still and alone.
And so, I am left kneeling in supplication,
a broad brush of despair paints me.
This clown cries out from within, making a spectacle
of my mirth and mired muse. My resolution
refuses to take hold; these memories dominate me.
It is too late. Love languishes.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018