A poetic word magician
performing feats of fiction.
amazing micro poetry,
ponderous prose prestidigitation,
pulling rare bits from a hat,
tricks and gags, and all of that.
Alliterative illusions illustrated here,
as I make bawdy limericks disappear.
Literary magic, that’s my deal,
I’ll be here all week, try the veal.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Tuesday Poetics: Magic


I had the extreme pleasure of being interviewed by Claudette Young on her webspace, CLAUDSY’S BLOG. In it we discuss life, poetry and other journeys into worded wonder. Thanks Claudette for this opportunity.


Do you want to know a secret?
I want to hold your hand.
It won’t be long, just eight days a week.
I wanna be your man, but I’m happy just to dance with you.
Girl, tell me what you see. I want to tell you, I need you.
Yesterday, or the night before…any time at all,
I will carry that weight. I want you.
I’ve got a feeling, Martha my dear,
that we can come together. Don’t let me down.
In my life, this boy knows, all you need is love.
Oh Darling, good night.

P.S I love you.



Seconds tick.
The tympany of lost moments
left to linger in the anteroom of thought.
In the expanse of eternal existance,
we offer resistance to the passing of days,
hoping to delay their demise; returning with
each new rise of the sun. But, when we are done,
will we be remembered for all we strived to be?
Or will we be forgotten in the unmarked grave
of obscurity? Our procrastination is telling.
Time’s a wasting. There’s no tasting success
until we kick up our heels and initiate.
Tick, tick, tick,…

**For micro poetry’s prompt, “AND I QUOTE…” – “If we wait for the moment when everything, absolutely everything is ready, we shall never begin.” ~ Ivan Turgenev


Melodic memories, triggered by random turns
of phrase, a new page in your book of dreams.
It surely seems that a mind can be shaken or stirred
into a whir of activity. You possess a proclivity for
drawing upon the past long enough gone
to notate upon the staff of your life;
it is a song composed with ethos and verve.
Steeling your nerve, thrown caution becomes windblown
and all are shown the power of your voice.
A flash-back to a day when music was an ally
to rely upon, a trigger for thoughts nurtured
in the womb of your fertile mind. Gestation,
born of elation for all your songs relate;
it is never too late to write your score.
The more you remember, more tender the melody.


A howl of wind calls,
beckoning all the ghoulish apparitions
from their anguished slumber.
The stumbling lumber of death reborn.

These mystic silhouettes;
shadows of a past long forgotten,
rise like a fog that masquerades as thoughts.
Legend and folklore are dismissed as folly.

Lunar illumination; moon beams
shrouded in mystery. Their sordid history
brings a chill, as fright displaces your resolve.
Blood marks the place where death resides.
Your hunger burns and you crave
the nectar of a once beating heart.
But, as life departs, the pangs stab
bringing you one step closer to the soil.


As a challenge to my micronites over at micro poetry,
I have set a challenge to invent a poetic form.In the
spirit of this epiphany, I submit my form.

It is called: GENESIS – Taking the name of the form from
the musical group, it follows an “ABACAB” rhyme scheme.
Created for micro poetry, it is intended as a ten line poem
(ABACABACAB) repeating the sequence. But, it can go as long
as you’d like following that repetition. I thought I’d share
my example here.


A clearness of mind,
with a sense of objective,
thoughts quite refined,
without trepidation or fear.
Synapses unwind
giving you some perspective.
leaving doubt far behind,
to find your purpose here.
Memories of pasts seem kind,
and your viewpoint is less subjective.