TIME AND TIDE WAITS NOT

Time and tide waits not for any man,
both will come of their own will, not yours.
So, pick your spots and stick to the plan.

Take on challenges the best you can,
and waste not your minutes and hours.
Time and tide waits not for any man.

As seeds that are planted in the sand,
we will wither and die like flowers.
So, pick your spots and stick to the plan.

The time that we borrow comes from His hand
doled out through Celestial powers,
Time and tide waits not for any man,

live your lives and make no demands,
this gift washes down in Loving showers,
So, pick your spots and stick to the plan.

Our fates are held within His hands,
go boldly forward; do not cower,
time and tide waits not for any man,
so, pick your spots and stick to the plan.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Meeting the Bar: Villanelle

A VILLANELLE TO THE GIRL IN 312

This is forward of me I know, but I pass you every day
and I have been fascinated by the very thought of you.
It seems there are so many thing I’d like to say.

I noticed that you appear to be all work and no play,
and that’s a shame for one with eyes so blue…
this is forward of me I know. But I pass you every day

and your smile always melts me; you make my blues go away.
I don’t even know what you name is, it’s true,
it seems there are so many things I’d like to say.

There is a sadness to you, and I wish there were something today
that I could do for you that would be nice, you’re long overdue.
This is forward of me I know, but I pass you every day

with nary a word spoken. My vocal cords aren’t broken but hey,
I’d like to extend a hand as friends and buy dinner for two,
it seems there are so many things I’d like to say.

It would be really nice to meet you and court you if I may.
We can talk and laugh and hopefully become friends so true.
This is forward of me I know, but I pass you every day,
it seems there are so many things I’d like to say.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Meeting the Bar: Villanelle

Another Villanelle here: Time and Tide Waits Not

OUT IN FRONT

Out in front
there’s a rickety porch,
rough hewn timbers with tree bark
still clinging to their fibrous skeletons.
Rocking chairs and a stump table;
shavings from a whittled branch
strewn about the weathered floor boards.

Out in front
there’s a tree; tall and stately,
a monument to the longevity apparent
since it was planted, a feeble sapling
much like himself – thin, gangly and weak.
It speaks of perseverance and dedication –
fulfilling its station to mark time and grow.

Out in front
near the tree, there’s a lake…
a pond, really. Reeds and lily pads
defining its edge. Sounds of crickets and croaks
of bullfrogs, cicada whines reverberate in the late
afternoon. Soon their sounds will be silenced
as the seasonal change lumbers into the valley.

Out in front
is a tire dangling, a rope looped over a branch
of the stately tree. Dirt dug out, a furrow where feet
dragging and kicking kept sticking the ground
with a new found ferocity. Gaining in height and velocity,
the children take turns launching, airborne to land
in a heap with a thud; sometimes blood appears, the poor dears.

Out in front
a wagon waits; flatbed secured, a hitch holding tightly.
On a brightly hued morning, and without much in the way
of a warning, grandfather had passed. The town folk amassed
in respect; paying forward what had come around on occasion.
Sadly in procession, he was carried from the house – a finality.
Placed upon the caisson, a solemn silence ensued.

Out in front
the porch remained; rockers swaying in the stiffness of a late breeze.
Birds nested in the tree and the pond continued with activity
and the sounds of life. No one sat on the pendulous tire as it
swung hypnotic. The front door was ajar, but it was in exit,
not as an invitation to enter. Out in back the fields had grown
unruly and left to sit fallow. But, out in front a good fellow has gone.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Offered at dVerse Poets Pub – MTB: Impressionism

BE – AN EPIPHANY

The lesson becomes this. You learn by living. And you hope you’re allowed to apply all of these lessons before your living ends. The nest is vacated as of late, not quite empty but that’s just semantics. The girls have ostensibly evacuated, leaving my wife and me to “fend for ourselves”. We do OK. I cook. She cleans. I repair and remodel. She washes and gardens. I nocturnally smash my head into furniture; she resumes a battle against her dreadful afflictions. But, we do OK. The battles used to be shared. We were mutual combatants in a strained union, dancing precariously on the precipice of a bottomless free-fall. Somehow, the feet always seemed to avoid that finality. You come to be a student of your own mistakes, taking what you can salvage and leaving the unnecessary flotsam for the plankton. The fate has been tickled and in the thick of it, remains our sanity. So we chose to dance; to cling to a life for the prescribed better or worse and try to nurse this wounded beast back to health (or some semblance thereof!) We had gotten into the habit of letting life slip by. But, our new discoveries dictate that if you do that long enough, you die without living (learning the lessons). That needed to be remedied. After all, I repair and remodel, so fixing covers it.

The truth lies in this lesson: love, deserved respect, and forgiveness all seem to be equally important. These make a life well lived. I had lost sight of the importance of the life I had been given. I tried to strive for “poetic perfection”, bucking the system; thinking myself above the “flock”. I went on this journey to find a “higher plane”, without realizing “I had already arrived”. The time wasted trying to honor and glorify my abilities, skewed my sense of priority; it almost destroyed me. I became what I had always been, a small grain of sand on a vast lake shore, a speck in the early evening sky.

My wife and I had come to find something we had lost or forgotten a while back: love, respect and forgiveness. And in the tenderness and embrace of this moment, I fell in love with my wife all over again! And the lesson becomes this. You learn by living. And you hope you’re allowed to apply all of these lessons before your living ends. Whatever happens in this life, that moment belongs to us.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Offered at dVerse Poets Pub – MTB: Prose Poetry

IF I ONLY THOUGHT LOVE WAS ENOUGH

If I only thought love was the answer,
If I only thought words were enough,
If I only thought “I’m Sorry” would ease all your pain
I’d say it again, and again, and again.

If I only thought hearts wouldn’t crumble,
If I only thought those tears were the balm.
If I only thought my heart could absorb all your pain
I’d do it again, and again, and again.

If I only thought a mind could find solace,
If I only thought a soul could find peace.
If I only thought a reason could truly explain
I’d tell you again, and again, and again.

If I only thought you knew how I love you,
If I only thought love was enough.
If only I’d tell you again and again,
these moments wouldn’t be so tough.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

dVerse Poets Pub – MTB: Critique and Craft

 

ANGEL VOICES AT DAWNING

I hear it gently,
and I mentally
take note of the lilting song.
Angel voices sing
the soundtrack of Spring.
Their chorus is loud and strong.

Morning brings their sound,
and it is around
dawn’s first light that I hear it.
A poet’s heart sees
the living beauty
within euphonic spirit.

I begin each day
the exact same way.
I am thankful for this gift.
My whispered prayer
rises through the air;
as their harmonies uplift.

 

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Presented at dVerse Poets Pub – Meeting The Bar: Alouette

PREAMBLE TO AFTERMATH

The rebellion continues.
The Warrior” stands petulant, defiant;
reliant to emerge from his self-imposed exile.
Rising from the ruins;
billows of smoke amidst the staccato drone of distant sirens.
He has the dubious distinction of surviving the conflagration
with nothing more than a minor scar from a metallic dart.
It all starts with the turn of a latch and an igniting of fuses.
All hell breaks loose in blooms of fire; the resound of incendiary explosions.
You march into the breech and beseech the gods for mercy.
But, it will only come when the end is near,
and you’ve only just begun!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

dVerse Poets Pub – Meeting the Bar: Futuristic Revolution

BOB DYLAN THOMAS

Do not think twice because it’s alright,
Sad eyed lady standing in the rain;
Lay lady, lay in your blue gown at night.

I’ve been gone far too long from your sight,
Here with the Memphis blues again
Do not think twice because it’s alright,

I miss home, a hurricane still full of fight,
Knock, knocking on heavens door, my friend,
Lay lady, lay in your blue gown at night.

Stuck inside of Mobile, far from sight,
A hard rain’s gonna fall, Zimmerman!
Do not think twice because it’s alright.

Brave men, lovesick and blue, too uptight,
find the right to love just like a woman,
Lay lady, lay in your blue gown at night.

Along the watchtower the question is right
The answer is blowing in the wind
Do not think twice because it’s alright,
Lay lady, lay in your blue gown at night.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

dVerse Poets Pub – MTB: Bob Dylan

The words of Bob Dylan written as Dylan Thomas’ “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”

 

HOMESICK BLUES

A hard rain’s gonna fall, and all I can think of
is my sad eyed lady of the lowlands.
A rainy day woman, she stands
down in the flood watching
the river flow. The current is strong
and I’ve been gone far too long;
bound with cold irons. I miss home.
And if I gotta serve somebody, it may as well
be her. I’d been stuck inside of Mobile
with the Memphis blues again.
I shall be released and I’ll be knocking
on heaven’s door; her blue nightgown
tangled at our feet. No longer love sick.
Memories thick and windblown, she’s shown
she can love just like a woman. Lay lady.
Lay with the pent up passion of the
hurricane within. Don’t have second thoughts.
It’s alright. It’s a changing world
I have resurfaced; have a purpose.
Your rolling stone has come home.
(C) Walter J Wojtanik- 2016
Based on the songs of Bob Dylan
dVerse Poets Pub – MTB: Bob Dylan