INVISIBLE MAN

Please don’t look for me. I will not be there.
If my spirit lingers, it’s out of fear
of leaving this place unattended.
My worn and ravaged heart has been mended,
      but the scars are much to much to bear.

In the shadows I stay, lurking here where
I remain covered and concealed there.
My heart torn actions have been defended.
      Please don’t look for me…

You fail to see me, and you do not care
that I had given all I had. But dare
I ask for its return it would end
terribly. You can see nothing, my friend;
there’s blankness in your eyes, that distant stare –
      Please don’t look for me…

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

JOY ESCAPES ME

Distant hearts do not grow fond of distance,
and the ability to embrace that joy
seems to slip from your arms as if those charms
become like road markers in your distorted side-view
mirrors. Trying to milk human kindness
from the swollen teat of reality gets harder
as days go by and the lactate begins to dry up.
Joy seems so overrated in that moment
of ill-decision. Trying to remove yourself
from the equation does not render a solution,
yet you choose to walk away anyway. Maybe someday
you will get re-acquainted with joy and rejoice,
even if it doesn’t just up and smack you in the head.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

ZOO

“…someone told me it’s all happening at the zoo!”
~ from Simon & Garfunkel’s “At The Zoo”
Cramped quarters, and crowded to overflow,
you never know how these things are planned.
As it would stand, the animals had little say.
 
It was sad and upsetting in a way,
that the keepers made the choices and
those without voices had little to say.
 
The variety of the species was intriguing,
in a league all their own, over-blown
in scope, and that left little to say.
 
Everyday, the wild ones were forced into domesticity,
a simplicity to those cracking the whip. The zookeeper
fond of rum indeed, due to breeding and nothing constructive to say.
 
Four young lions, strong in spirit and vision,
but always in division over their birth right
and wrong as it sounded, they had little to say.
 
Gazelles, graceful and girlish, flanked the habitat,
concerned with this and that, did strive to survive the onslaught,
but, they ought to have been allowed more to say.
 
When it was feeding time “at the zoo”, the milieu
benefited the fittest, as we crowded around the dinner table.
You could label us as you wish, but each dish had something to say.
 
Life at  “the zoo” offered sanctuary, with nary a worry,
for family gave you more than we “beasts” expected.
We were well protected, and that said it all.
(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

CALL ME ISHMAEL

My alias precedes me,
even if my history doesn’t.
A Nantucket sailor on a whaler?
Not absurd though it sounds as if I’ve been around;
from classroom to classless seafarer, dare I
step away sight unseen from the Merchant Marine?
A man obsessed and depressed in Manhattan,
following death as she follows me.
Ahab’s Pequod offers refuge in this centrifuge
chasing the great white; following death as she follows me.
Narrator, philosopher, sometimes poet. You know it
isn’t easy when you’re among only men adrift at sea.
Let me introduce myself. I am Ishmael. Call me.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides November Chapbook Challenge – Day 9: Call Me ____

HOPE AND CHANGE

Making a change for change sake,
is akin to spitting into the wind.
Intentions, mask your futility
of where your fire should be directed.
In retrospect, nothing really
does transform. It is only manipulated.
It is cajoled; a good front is placed
in front of the vile vision that sets you seething.
Thoughts become all- controlling; left to
simmer and boil over again in time.
Turning a jaundiced eye to the truth.
You hope for better, but don’t hold your breath!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides November Chapbook Challenge – Day 8: Change/Never Change

 

SPACE IDIOCY

Peering out the window opening; leering
at the vastness of a vacuous void,
there are no life forms appearing
and I feel a bit annoyed.

Volunteering for a mission
is just another way of saying
I give you my permission
to be used as you see fit. Playing

hero (when martyr would suffice nicely)
and I know to get back from this place
I will need to get out of this space, precisely
what I did NOT want to do. In case

you aren’t listening, the sounds around
are vacant. In space no one can hear you
scream for Ice Cream (no matter how big the mound),
it would melt before the spoon got near you.

So, I don my suit, untried; untested,
and strap my boots to seal my feet,
If I wore this at home, I’d be arrested
but, on this planet, it can’t be beat.

I press the button to raise the panel
and nothing appears to transpire.
I press it again on this stupid panel
with no result but to fan my ire.

I need release, my mission is clear,
I need to step down to step on the soil,
I haven’t a clue how to get out of here
despite my training and years of toil.

I pound on the door with furied fists,
yelling at the intercom transmitter,
but this innocuous box, it surely resists,
frustrated am I, but I’m no quitter.

“Open the pod bay doors, Hal!” I scream,
but the response, it does not save me.
“I’m afraid that I can’t do that, Dave!” it seems
this spaceship has enslaved me.

I have no qualms about dying in space,
though this isolation is truly scary,
Besides, its memory is a disgrace,
I’m screwed. I’m not Dave, I’m Larry!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Written for dVerse Poets Pub – Tuesday Poetics: Fear

SELF-IMPOSED EXILE

What’s the difference? Running to or running from, the shortest distance between two points is still an escape in any book. Separating oneself from the fray plays upon your angst and ire. This poetic fire in your belly leaves a smelly taste in your mouth and there’s no way out except up. Corsica has sent her eviction notice; malcontents are not welcomed! So remove your hand from your waist-coat and smoat the day you decided your muse was more important than the process. A beg of forgiveness and a sharp wrist slap, every mishap screams for release. Exile is as puerile as you may not have imagined. Standing on the periphery serves no purpose. Escape from your ego. Take off to your refuge. It is the textbook “No Lose” scenario written for a poetic Lothario!

why hide away words?
your actions speak just as well.
Tell the world you’re here!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day #27: “Take off”

APNEA

A good night’s sleep is all I crave.
But, I have become a slave to my disorder.
Limbs once nimble now churn as I burn
the midnight oil. I toil each night
seeking rapture. But I have been captured
by my demon and random thoughts swirl
as if strewn by the wind of memory.
Heart beating faster, a runaway freight train
through the prairie of my barren soul
with no control of my own.
I cough and groan, throat emitted as I spit
in a foaming fit of rage, roaming the halls madly.
Sadly, I’m ready for a padded vault.
It is Disruptive Sleep Apnea’s fault.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

SUNDAY WHIRL - Wordle #111
SUNDAY WHIRL –
Wordle #111

Written for the SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle # 111

and presented at POETS UNITED – Poetry Pantry #153

also Khara House’s 30 x 30 Challenge – Day 2 – Slumber

LAST MAN DEARLY DEPARTED

Loggia’s hands lay palm down on the slab.
Warned furiously to follow the detour
(which he didn’t),
his modest and boring life
got the best of his common sense.
None of his invited guests had placed
a value on his friendship
and the knot in their collective gut grew
quite large. Never the less, they were still
shocked and surprised when they had to
transfer Loggia’s lifeless body to the morgue,
in keeping with the aftermath of his demise.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Words required to use: aftermath, transfer, shocked, knot, value,
guest, boring, modest, detour furiously, slab, palm

Written for MIZ QUICKLY’S IMPROMPTU POETRY – Day 24 Wordle

BATTLESTAR SCIATICA

Across the galaxy to the small of my back,
just below two cracked vertebrae.
A start just like any other day
in a week not unlike any other still.
A stabbing pain radiating; debilitating
and traveling southward, with an outward
expression of an excruciating grimace
across my face. Phasers set to numb
and extraterrestrial images come to mind.
Alien vs Predator, a battle to the death
in the small of my back; a sciatic attack.
Other missions scrubbed while my condition
doubles me over, a voodoo curse.
I wish it’d get better before I get worse.
Dark Side 1 – Poet 0.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

POETIC ASIDES Day 10 (Suffering)