I WILL RUN NO MORE FOREVER

I wasn’t a very fast lad, but I wasn’t too bad,
I had a gait that I would hate all my life.
I liked to run, but only to get places quickly.
I was built thickly as a boy and the joy I took
when I shook a leg was all I needed.
I had exceeded expectations.
There was elation.

But, reality came in this revelation. I got caught
up in aging, and staging a race to a finish line
took on a whole new view. And I would eschew
a harried pace, just in case I would fail.
No more high-tailing it. Now I mail it in.
My knees can’t take the beating. It bears repeating,
I will run no more forever.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Miz Quickly’s MuhwufSS: Goodbye To All That!

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ON THE OCCASION OF THE POET’S BEING CHALLENGED

My muse was defenseless,
a senseless ramble that was
slower than half-fast, as I’ve discovered.
But it’s Friday and I’m tired, uninspired
and the desire to poem has been sold
down the river of dreams, so it seems.
I have uncovered my flaw.
It gnaws at my words.
Such challenges should be left unheard.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

USE FIVE OF THESE WORDS AND CHOOSE ANOTHER
FOR TWO VARIANTS OF SAME

cover
defenseless
desire
flower
over
quality
river
slower
stone
tired

Miz Quickly’s MuhwufSS: Free Day of Sorts

VALDEMAR’S LAST EPISTLE TO POE

My Dearest Edgar:

It has been hard to reach you.
I beseech you to hear me out,
you imp of the perverse!
The power of words is in your court.

Do I need to resort to retorts
and provocations? Is your station such
that you no longer care much
for the world as it has become?

Remember that night we had that fight
after polishing off that cask of Amontillado?
The vintage was weak, I must say,
yet the musty bouquet had a kick like opium!

I had seen Annabel Lee, and she
had no nice things to say of the way
your pipe dictated your muse. I refuse
to believe your descent into the maelstrom

of clear thought was wrought with whatever high
your pipe would provide. You can’t hide forever!
That fall at the House of Usher should have
weaned you from such addiction, but your dereliction

was surely remorse filled. Of course
your sadness over Lenore was understandable.
It was the premature burial they gave her
that troubles me to this day. We could have saved her.

The oval portrait that hangs in your study
is ruddy red from whatever substance
you rendered. But your love for her was well known;
your heart was tell-tale – you never failed to wail

and lament that what had sent her to the grave.
I read the narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym.
It was him who should have cast
the proper verdict. The good doctor and professor

would surely have been tarred and feathered.
It was that purloined letter that convinced me.
Since we hardly speak now, how do I reach you?
Again, I beseech you. Is the city in the seas

the place where your haunted palace spreads?
Or do you consider me dead to you as well?
Do tell. Stop living this dream within a dream.
You seem lost to those who wish you none but well!

That is truly a predicament. I’ve sent
three score letters, all returned unopened.
I suspect the same fate from this hand.
I remember what you had said in the years

when our youth plagued us. “Trust your heart.
Never bet the devil your head. The oblong box
will wait for your fill!” Your words are still
in demand. You are the man!

These streets are in an upheaval, although I long
for a tamer lane than what exists now!
You remain an enigma, Edgar! I’ve been ravin’ of your wile
for a while. But left unanswered, I will write nevermore!

Sincerely yours.

M. Valdemar
Red Death Mask Company
Baltimore, Maryland

SHE, OF THE MOON AND THE STARS AND THE WORLD

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

THE SLEEP NAZI

(No sleep for you!)

Tossing,
turning,
yearning for the rest
I crave. Save me
from this tossing,
turning.
Burning the midnight oil,
toiling,
spoiling
my need for sleep.
Keeping,
weeping for relief
my belief is
tossing,
turning,
is churning in my head.
Stuck in this bed
without a clue
what to do,
how do you keep
asleep while I’m
tossing,
turning,
discerning my plight
I’ve been up all night
learning,
returning
to my
tossing,
turning.
Sandman fighting,
Bed bugs biting,
I’m begging on my knees,
please, oh pleazzzzzzzzzzzz.
WHAT WAS THAT?
Tossing,
turning.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2018

Miz Quickly’s MuhwufSS – Black and Blue Bedtime Blues: Restless Night

MONDAY WARM-UP BLUES

For this warm-up, we’re going to write titles, titles, and more titles.

To give inspiration a little help, this constraint: blue.

A bit of titular jocularity…

Blue Hued Mood
Blue Wisps of Sky Scattered Amongst the Clouds
Pirouette in Blue
Blue Tea and Synchronicity
Second Blue to the Right (Or I’ll Bite)
July Blew By Quickly

…slightly warped they might be.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

MuhwufSS – Monday Warm-up Blues (TITLES)

SATURDAY, MY BACKYARD

Ok, a bit warm
but not yet oppressive.
My guess is 73 with a breeze.
At work with the hose,
my clothes are summer worn,
(hair not nearly as shorn
as I’d like) Watering
the flowers in bloom
(what’s my obsession
with blooms?) There’s room
on the glider with my name
on it. The birds and gulls
having target practice,
but the canopy will save me.
I see the planes overhead
in a steady stream of going
and coming; flight path
established. Peaceful silence
interrupted by screams
of obnoxious neighbor kids;
i did my time, daughters grown
and “runaway” from home.
Just me and the Missus,
Saturday, my backyard!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

MuhwufSS – Off Season

 

ME AND POETRY (A Sestinacci)

Me.
Walt.
A man
mired in poetry,
given to expressions of words;
a sharing of emotion and fits of rhyme.

Rhyme.
Me
and words.
A guy Walt,
a muse full of poetry
and too much time for just one man.

Man,
rhyme
is poetry!
It moves me.
It takes this guy Walt,
and fills his expressive soul with melodic words.

Words.
Men
like Walt
can make rhyme
sing, and totally move me
to slather my heart with the sweetest poetry.

Poetry.
Words
within me.
Women and men
come to read my rhyme
and leave comments about the madness of Walt.

Walt.
Poetry
in rhyme;
painted with words;
offered to the gentle (wo)men;
and thrown down as a gauntlet by me.

I am Walt, this is me,
a verbose man of poetry.
Giving these words of rhyme my time.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

MuhwufSS – Repeat and Vary, part 3: The Sestina

A GRAND RE-OPENING

She did not come to my doorstep,
there was no notification that she was lacking.
All I knew was that we had performed together
admirably, and we knew we could do it again.
I never met her, this friend,
but I always knew in the end we’d still be a great pair.

Here she was, sweet as a ripe pear,
encouraging and nurturing, a light step
and a sledgehammer heart. A friend
indeed when a friend was lacking.
“I miss the process. Can we try it again?”
she messaged asking if we could still work together.

It surely didn’t take much for me to get her
enthused, for we DID make a great pair.
I have no qualms of firing those synapses again.
A garden themed poetic place where we step
in tune with other like minds, not lacking
the ability to find the words to pose. Widespread friends

who, when the day ends
feel better for the time together.
No heart leaves lacking;
a community beyond compare.
And from that very first step
it felt good to walk the garden again.

What did we think we’d gain
by bringing all these friends
to tread here in lockstep?
It becomes a reunion, coming to gather,
to be inspired, to cajole and share.
But mostly because we also needed the backing

of those who both of our lives were lacking.
So here we are again,
Marie and Walt, a somewhat storied pair,
very acquainted friends
who’ve never spent time together,
reveling in every calculated step.

Reconnecting has put the pep in our step that was lacking,
poetic pals together again,
with all our worldly and wordy friends beyond compare!

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

MuhwufSS – Repeat and Vary, part 3: The Sestina

Written for Poetic Bloomings Restart

WHO SPILLED THE FONDUE IN THE QUEEN’S LAP?

Her royal highness riding high
on her high horse as a matter of course,
came to tea with me and a few
drunk braggarts, haggard and worn.

Her royal heiney rode up
(as did her skirt)
and the boorish boys started to flirt.
The fellows removed their shirts

which was against protocol and all
the queen could do was titter and smirk
and work the room like it was hot!
It was not. It was pretty cool

except for the fool who spilled the molten cheese
between her highnesses knees.
They were not sure if it was Nigel or Ralph
(pronounced Raif, you uncouth commoners)

but in any event, it went fairly well
for the queen thought the gentlemen swell,
and she wished her son with the big ears
could loosen up and dance on chairs (like these gents did).

Inbreeding had indeed spoiled the child,
and any mild sense of normalcy fell to the wayside.
She took it in stride and tried to remove the cheese
from her cheesy queen shoes. Yet, no one ‘fessed up to the deed.

They would need an inquiry.
So, the queen kept drinking until she was stinking,
and articles of royal fluffery swiftly fell,
right down to her frilly pantaloons.

A speck of decency was found
and she was spirited out
as the drunken louts sang
London britches falling down!

© Walter J Wojtanik

MuhwufSS – August 1th, 2018