LIFE IN BITS AND PIECES

We live in bits and pieces,
a junk drawer full of memories,
moments held close to heart
that start to fray on the ends
and sends you careening into fits
of rage and bits and pieces.

It never ceases these bits
and pieces of fleece that smell
like her perfume all these years
here after. Shards of laughter
stuck in the rafters of a mind
in which he would come to find

words and scraps of paper,
pieces upon which he had written
skits and bits of humorous falderal!
Post-its hosting numbers and names
gone up in the flames of a pathetic pyre,
a fire that was once desire and is now

not long for this world. A dervish of a girl
spinning in a whirl of dust and debris,
and me ready to steady the tumult,
a Walt at the ready to repair what was
laid bare, a life rife with a smattering
of tattered thoughts and ideas, pleas

for a quick end (please give me a quick end)
and a friend with which to trade barbs
and count carbs as the passage of time.
Lengthy rhymes that were once big hits now spread
as bits and left in pieces of peace
praying for a new lease on these bits and pieces,

or a bigger junk drawer to hold this shrapnel
well meant to be moments held close to the heart.
Always a good start. We live in bits and pieces.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides – Prompt #393: Piece

Offered at dVerse Poets Pub – OLN #196

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LET’S BRING OURSELVES TO RHYME

In the present we stand, hand-in-hand for the cause of poetry.
Not quite sure what means to this end, but poets and friends
sharing in the hearth of majestic musings warm their hearts
with glowing expressions. Never at a loss for words
but sometimes a lot of effort goes unnoticed. The rhyme
stays within reason, for ’tis the season for all to write.

We would be well within our right
to seize the opportunity to delve into poetry,
giving proper respect to the relevant rhyme,
for what would sound more fitting between friends?
After all, we all craft with our own fine words
and hold the verse of others to our hearts.

For it is within the beating of said hearts
that we find the power in all that we write.
Poems flow from the manipulation of words,
and become the true essence of living poetry.
Inspiration expressed in the gathering of friends
all for the propagation of rapturous rhyme.

Not all find worth in the like sounding rhymes
preferring the freedom that liberates their hearts
in the form a verse that is as free. These, my friends,
are the choices that we as poets make. We are what we write.
It takes all kinds to write all forms of poetry,
but a true poet see the emotion woven into words.

Offer up your musings, for the communion of words
never ceases. Be they random or deliberate, rhymes
are the glue that holds together all our pieces. Poetry
is the literal music of our souls. It resides in every heartfelt
pang of passion and fashions itself into the right
moments of our lives as if they were comforting old friends.

What can we do to spread the scope of our beauty, friends?
Put the power of your opinion or your longing into words,
for it is within every woman and man’s right
to give the world exactly what we glean from our rhymes.
Poetry is a pulse. It is the syncopation of a loving heart.
And the living that we do, becomes our lifelong poetry.

Give poetry a chance, friends.
Leaving your heart in every word.
You have the time to rhyme; and all night to write it.

STAND AND FIGHT

In contemplation, sat she did,
to think of futures yet unknown,
despite the sad farewells she’ll bid,
and “braverisms” that she’s shown.
Her daughters, yes, are fully grown
to carry on her beauty bright,
and so to right the love I’ve shown,
I’ll stand beside her in her fight.

Lament the battered heart and head,
such maladies should not be hers.
I’d take them on myself instead
to suffer all that it incurs.
So as for now if it gets worse
I’ll keep my precious well in sight,
and pray that nothing more occurs,
I’ll stand beside her in her fight.

My sad intent comes at a price
through indiscretions wrought, it seems.
Forgiveness given must suffice,
as life dismantles all our dreams.
Yet through it all, her smile still beams,
a beacon through this dreary night,
emotions flow from both extremes,
I’ll stand beside her in her fight.

My princess, queen – my love so true,
I’ll hold you close with all my might,
and give you all that you are due,
I’ll stand beside you in your fight.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

For POETIC BLOOMINGS – INFORM POETS: BALLADE

dVerse Poets Pub – OLN #181

LEAVING LENNON MARKS

 

JohnLennonOnce behind a milk maid bleary,
I beard a Liddypoolian surly,
sing-song pop/rocks, yeah, yeah, yup,
with good dog Nigel, me soiled pup.
Richie-ringy, drum, drum, drum,
whilst Petey lands upon his bum,
Paulie wally doodles all day,
and Georgie puts pied pudding away.
Meanstyle, Yokie loudly bang she slaved,
a New Yorkshire in me final daze,
avant garded must too grately
amongst the scruffy beat alls lately.
Banded four we combed to stage Ed,
we was all the bloody rage, Ed.
Maniacal, the screamies fainted
as were the mused sick; badly tainted.
Writey, writey, Bob all-mighty,
pose’em, storied; all humoured slighty.
From me pen me wordies stumble,
in me own write does muzak crumble.
Go salve the Queen!

*** Scanned me copy of Lennon’s “In His Own Write” and drew me storied inspiring from without me.

WHAT HE HAS TO GIVE

A man loves from the depths of his soul
for he knows that is the right thing to bring.
He guides and protects those in his charge,
he always looms large in their eyes.
A man will comfort cries and illicit sighs
through his tender and heartfelt compassion
and fashion a life meant to be copied; emulated.
A man will do his very best
and fill his chest with the treasures
his family and friends will offer;
making for very full coffers.
A man that is loved is a man that rarely fails.
A man such as he forever prevails.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

 

*** We had been prompted to take a line from another poet and use it as inspiration, the title or a line for your new poem. Using a line from Sara McNulty’s poem, “MOST MEMORABLE”; the line is “A man such as he forever prevails.”

Presented at dVerse Poets Pub – OLN #173

OH, MY MANGLED MUSE

Lost in writer’s cell block 3,
the green mile of my written indiscretions,
searching for a jolt or jump start
to my weary muse, seldom used.
A poetry blog surfaces offering
refuge for that tired muse,
a home for worn phrases and ideas.
So the poet emerges, writing verses,
a rondeau here, a sestina there;
pantoum and villanelle, going to hell
for the sake of redemption,
not to mention all this haiku
I swore I’d never do,
being brought to bear on
this need to be expressive,
quite excessive, progressively
oppressed but, none the less,
a man whose words explode from his head
spraying his page with
the shrapnel of sardonic wit,
ere to wit, a spastic fit
of poetry that spans from
April until the twelfth of never,
cascading and parading
the sense of whether
the work will find
it’s natural conclusion,
giving the illusion
that break time is over.
A writer sentenced to
a lifetime of solitary refinement,
a poet, with more things to say
than there are hours in a day.

Offered for dVerse/Poet’s Pub – OLN Week #107

A THING GOING ON

Across the room eyes meet
and feet slowly shuffle to close
the gap between. Stealth, seen by others
as casual friends, and that’s
where the casual ends.
A smile and a nod, glasses
raised to salute, to toast,
to boast of the conquest
of hearts and minds.
Love finds it own level
even though it’s not quite on it.
Candlelit in a bit, rendezvous;
me and you in close quarters.
The waiter takes our orders,
Me and Mrs. Jones.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Written to Khara House’s 30 x 30 Challenge – Day 11 – jones

and presented at dVerse OpenLinkNight – Week 100