THEY GO ABOUT THEIR DAY

Don’t they remember?
They go about their day
as if nothing was wrong,
doing the same old song
and dance, as if perchance
it was all a dream.

But you cannot sleep
through such a fright.
It keeps me up at night
sometimes. Don’t they recall
at all how it happened?
They go about their day.

It’s not to say it’s an obsession,
but this confession is true.
What did you do when the twins fell?
Where were you when five sides
became four? When verdant pastures
claimed more? Don’t you remember?

It’s an indelible stain that remains,
a blotch upon all of humanity’s souls.
Yet, some go about their days, ignoring
and imploring we all do the same.
History forgotten is soon repeated,
and we will not be defeated.

It was no dream, this evil scheme,
it seems some would just as soon forget it.
And yet, it happened eighteen years ago today.
Without a thought, they go about their day.
What is there left to say? It happened.
Don’t you remember?

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

POETIC BLOOMINGS tribute to 911

AWAITING HER SMILE

For years he’s waited, half sedated
by the memory of her face.
There is an empty space
where she once sat. It is that
place that he preserves.
Lost in the promise of a return,
it’s been a while since
her smile had blessed him.
It tests him and his resolve.
She has been gone for years
and his tears force him to sit
and wait, to contemplate his loss.
The personal cross he bears.
He sits on their bench and stares
into the night hoping
to catch sight of her smile.
He waits. He knows he will join her soon.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

For Red Wolf Prompts #424: Ekphrastic Poetry – Night

POST MORTEM

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

 

ON FORGETTING TO FORGET

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

 

 

SEPIA: THE COLOR OF MEMORY

Left behind.
After all that have gone before.
A box.
No one left to claim the contents,
so it becomes mine.

Scraps and relics of foregone places,
tug on my mind for the slightest traces
of remembrance.
Remnants of vaguely familiar people
who caused me to be.
Reminders of the way
things came about in my history.

The past revisited
in fond recollection.
I study the faces
and strain for a mention
of a name. Many are unknown
and will remain so.
But, in the myriad of this photographic
patchwork I find a common thread,
which binds this present
to those long agos.

Sepia.
This sepia tone
is the trigger that fires these synaptic
glimpses at who I have become
and of the people who “brought” me to this place.

Sepia is the color of memory.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2017

Poetic Asides – 2017 November Chapbook Challenge – Day 30: Back in the Day

ADAM WEST

The news hits like a punch to the jaw.
Pow! Wham! Zowie!
Another icon of my youth has gone.
Adam West was the Batman I knew,
I grew up with his campy depiction.
This benediction keeps him ensconced
in my heart and mind for all time.
Godspeed and rest, Adam West!
Pow! Wham! Zowie! R.I.P.!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides – Prompt #396:  Historic Persona

I SAW MY FATHER

I saw my father this morning.
It caught me off guard,
without warning, without any
precognition. The man’s been dead.

Over ten years gone, and though
I long for one moment more,
it underscores my dilemma.
I saw my father this morning.

His craggy morning beard
clearly heard when he’d scratch his chin.
Internal debate whether to shave it,
or save it another day, who’s to say?

The wrinkles around his eyes
that grew greater when pater smiled.
He had a great smile, and while he was alive
would strive to flash it at every turn.

I’d learn his way and his charm came
along with his name, my grandfather
bore both, so I am told. Too old
to remember him, but dad was clear.

I saw my father this morning.
He of the wise old face and cleft chin,
he of the exuberant grin, carpenter hands
the texture of leather caused by weather and life.

Hard knocks smart, an old fart with humor
and the aplomb to use it, sometimes abuse it
along with us and my mother. A man of another
time and age, sage with advice and super nice

when the smoky brown bottle stayed away.
Not to say it was right, but it might explain
some of his apparent flaws. It gnaws at me.
I saw my father this morning.

The man’s been dead, that has been said.
But as I look in the mirror and scratch my craggy chin
in debate and count my crow’s feet framed eyes, I have to smile.
I saw my father this morning. I see him every morning.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides 2017 April PAD – Day 13: Family

 

DON’T YOU REMEMBER…

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 – 2016

Poetic Asides November Chapbook Challenge – Day 10: TRAGIC

MARBLE, GRANITE AND STONE

I.
A stone
marks your presence,
yet the essence of you
lives within me.

II.
Memories and heart felt emotions
fill the corners of my rapturous soul.
Amidst these rows and rows of monuments,
of marble and granite.

III.
You are both remembered
long since you departed with pieces of my heart,
buried with you, as much as pieces of your lives
live within me.

IV.
I come to celebrate you,
feting each life as a part of me,
a solid foundation
upon which I was built.
The only guilt I bear
is not being there to tell you,
“I love you” often enough.

V.
Of granite and stone your time has been marked,
a stark reality to the soft and caring souls you were
in this life of love and wonder. Under this marker you lie;
deep within my heart you remain, an eternal blessing.

VI.
Rest comes shrouded in stone,
shadows of death left to languish,
grounded in seclusion; isolation.
Marked in granite,
planet Earth receives all that remains.
Spoils for the soil.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

dVerse Poets Pub – MTB: As a Cubist Poet

MEMOIR OF ME AT THREE

I was a clumsy kid and I always hid in out of the way places. I could be found atop of the refrigerator… in the pigeon coop… under the front porch… I carried a “torch” for the girl next door (she was much older) all of four. We’d have walks in the pram holding hands and sleeping together (under the trees in the park.) I recall being afraid of the dark. I loved my mom and dad. I had a sister and two brothers (with others in my future.) I got skinned knees and sutures. Certainly a silent sort, never resorting to words then when a good hand gesture would suffice. It was a very nice life for me when I remember me at three.

My youth seems to play
in the rafters of my mind,
finding comfort there.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016