THE MASK WE WEAR

“Well we all have a face that we hide away forever
And we take them out and show ourselves when everyone has gone” ~ Billy Joel

We think we know who we are,
molded into this “someone”
we would like others to see.
But it is we who are duped
into thinking that hiding behind
the person we aspire to be,
will keep us from becoming
this parody of who we are.

“To thine own self” falls by the wayside
and we hide the flaws and imperfections
for the protection of our egos. Feelings
will be hurt no matter, be glad in who
you are at the moment. Embrace
the face in the mirror, and hear the cries
of non-deceiving eyes. In all fairness,
keep your awareness focused,

the joke is on you.
Acceptance comes from within,
it is a sin to think otherwise.
Remove the masquerade and parade
yourself in your finery. The Emperor
may be naked, but there is no mistaking
he hides nothing from the world.
Midnight strikes and the ruse is over. Unmask!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

“Object” Poem

THE MAGI TAKES THE METRO


He comes bearing gifts,
peace offerings and coffers
full of symbolism of little value.
His robes, are a tattered hoodie
and torn denim jeans,
coffee stained and remains of color
where splashes of bleach had landed.
A backpack slung, not well hung
and perched precariously carrying
various swatches of torn pages
and different stages of half chewed Wrigley’s
wrapped in the business end of a soiled tissue.
But it is you that he seeks, speaking your name
in mumbled tones. Written in unpublished
tomes and journals, kernals of truth
and little else. The rabble travel in packs
and stacks of wooden pallets stagger
through these darkened alleys of despair.
But what do they care? Weathered
and nailed to the crosswalk; talk of their
demise is greatly exaggerated. Following closely
as a car rises in the East; a feast for tired eyes.
His legs will carry him just so far, and it mars
any taint of reputation. Concerning his situation:
The stuff in the gold foil needed refrigeration.
It’s merely spoiled and exudes the foul smell.
And why the hell is Frank incensed anyway?
His hovel isn’t much, but it’s home
I suppose. Don’t mind his clothes.
I offer my spare change; He’ll take the bus.
Merry Christmas!

For dVerse poets Tuesday Poetics – Character Study

LOOK AT ME, I’M THE FUNNY MAN

A tear grease painted here on my face
in case the well’s run dry.
The tears of a clown roll down
my bulbous proboscis, sadness
in hiding, providing the greatest spark
on earth to offer my mirth for the joy
of others. It is laughter they are after.
But, it bothers me that I can’t lighten
my own heart. I fall apart and land
flat on my face. Traces of tears
grease painted here, just in case!

© copyright 2013, Walter J Wojtanik

BECOMING MY FATHER

 

My elbows hurt. Years of swinging
a heavy framing hammer takes its toll.
Just like my father, the first thing to go.
To extol the virtues of hard work
hardly works for one bred and raised
into it. A good fit for a blue collar guy.
Big plans and ideas; a mental diarhea
that clouds the here and now. How did
I not see it before? Sure, I’m enough
of my own man to matter, and still
enough of my old man to not care.
Where do I draw the line? It is a fine line
at that, and that begins the tale. The travails
of this life, rife with pitfalls and victories
are visited upon the son; the one most like
the man he aspired to be. My shuffle is
more deliberate. My vision waning.
My voice, still strong on paper dissapates
like vapor when I speak. I seek approval
to verify my insecurities. The purity of
thought and deed in need of a boost. No better
place to roost than in his shoes. These blues
sound better with a strong drumbeat; a sweet
syncopation to drive this transformation homeward.
The signs are tell-tale. The change is nearly complete.
I mailed my registration to AARP today.
All for a six dollar savings on a safe driving course,
to get me a ten percent discount on insurance rates.
I am becoming my Father. My elbows hurt.

MY BEARD NO LONGER SCRATCHES

I’m growing a beard.
Always wanted one; it is an afront to you.
Your fair-haired boy stands determined,
yearning to be free from the tyranny
of your iron fist. The last time we kissed
my face was clean and you leaned in
for more and more. But now, I just
let it grow. I know you hate it. I feel your burn.
I yearn for the taste of you, but I am not
through with my adventure. My beard
no longer scratches. It matches your heart,
there, but unfeeling. It never replaced the
face that was here before the hair.
Now, I care about it more than you.