They called him Jimmy Mudflap,
the lousy greasy comb over did not flatter him.
But he kept his Capo clean. No spatter
from any gatt got on nary a spat
when Jimmy laid out. He hung
close to the wheels with the motor running.
He was gunning for consigliere,
but would settle for some muscle.
In any tussle, Mudflap had it covered.
He was discovered with tire tread
across his head in the Fine China factory.
Jimmy Mudflap sleeps with the dishes!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik




“Drink this!” she said with a smile,
“while I try and squeeze out another quart.”
Her sad cohorts had lost their sight
in a bar fight; it was not their night!

“This is rather sour” one blind man said with a dour look.
“It appears this milk was a ba-a-a-a-ad choice!”
“You are so right!” she said sheepishly.
“Your cow must be sick. And why is its hide as thick

as lambs wool?” asked he. “I guess you’re no fool” she quipped.
From that point on she was tight lipped!
But the blind men could see through her scam,
as they heard her take it on the lamb!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

QKJ #23 – “The Blind Men and the Milkmaid”



They do not know who he might be,
but his work is damn impeccable!
He works each day along the way
from nine-to-five and then some.
Some consider him handsome
though his feature are quite pretty,
and still he toils, burns midnight oils
and lives somewhere in the city.
For it’s all Hans on deck as the
younger Holbein is seen at his desk
working at a rapid rip. No one knows
Hans comes each day to steal paper clips!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

QKJ #8 – Unknown Young Man at his Office Desk


After you…

We as brothers in life seek to climb
the Eiffel Tower. One step at a time
my small French feet make their mark and…

Eh Hem!
Pardon Moi. After you…

As Alphonse has said, he is only ahead
because a gentleman allows the courtesy.
And it is agreed. He has tiny feet! And…

Eh Hem!
Pardon Moi. After you…

Gaston is a jealous sort, but that is my cohort
as we climb. I’m more than pleased if Alphonse
eased past me to take the lead. (It feed his greed…)

Eh Hem!
Pardon Moi. After you…

Please, please! Au contraire, Alphonse! In this,
I have no need for greed. My ego is all that drives me.
It derives me no great pleasure (Except where you, Alphonse, is concerned…)

Eh Hem!
Pardon Moi. After you…

A few step more and we can sure see all of Pa-ree!
Excuse moi! After you Gaston! No, after you Alphonse!
But I insist Gaston. I wouldn’t think of it Alphonse…

After you…!

© Walter J. Wojtanik –2016

Poetic Asides Prompt #371: Ekphrastic Poem



Lighter than air over the New city,
the grace and beauty of her opulent
decent looked at in awe by the millions
below, a slow pan from right to left.
Up in the air they are unaware
that they are the talk of the town.
Down on the ground, folks like ants
can’t get a clue. Oh, the humanity?
They do not believe there’s a chance
of air borne disaster from the sky.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Hindenberg Flying Over New York City



Poetic Asides Prompt #371: Ekphrastic Poem


Photo by David Ligare

The bread is stacked like the deck against Him.
The “wine” is fine (for an eight year old.)
They have been sold a bill of goods
that if they are as good as gold,
they will inherit the earth…
or the Kingdom of God…
or grandfather’s pocket watch
wrapped in a swatch of his old flannel.
This unholy Eucharist blessed
with peanut butter and jelly;
they’ll get their fill until
He is either denied or betrayed,
or hung out to dry with a loud cry:
Father forgive them, they have no clue!

Photo by David Ligare

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Magpie Tales – MAG #310

Presented at dVerse Poets Pub – OLN #169


photo by Damien Derouene

He studies the board.
She studies their adversary.
He thinks he can take him in three.
All she knows is that she
has their milk money riding on this match.
He sees a flaw in the guy’s game.
She’s found it too, and if he has the will
to go in for the kill, there will
be a cookie in it for her!
Check and mate, she can’t wait!

©Walter J Wojtanik – 2016

For Magpie Tales – MAG 309

Photo by Damien Derouene


Silence resounds, quiet sounds
never heard, lines blurred,
fine lines are absurd when less bold.

Cluttered desk reflecting
jumbled minds and muse,
(no muse is good muse)

words he chooses
lose their meanings,
demeaning his art

starting with any rhyme.
Time stands, still you
feel history repeats itself,

shelves full of books and periodicals
are illogical when left alone.
Home in a room for one

who writes what hearts express.
All the best from the poet in the big chair
who dares write such bizarre things!

© Walter J Wojtanik, 2014



Photo Credit: Janet Ride Carnahan -2014
Photo Credit:
Janet Rice Carnahan

High above the cliff they fly
a tribute of sort off for a short stretch.
The three birds are the free spirit
of one so loved, high above the cliff.

The first bird is Honor.
Its flight takes a straight and true course,
the source of all pride and achievement,
no bereavement is complete without Honor bestowed.

The second suspended in avian beauty is Respect,
fully earned, in a circuitous route, for wherever
it goes it is recognized for its ability and strength
it would go to any length to earn what is returned.

But the last bird holds a special mantle. It is Love.
Higher above the others it flies, filling the skies
as like many hearts with the devotion to family
and country. A boundless gift lifting all to such heights.

We all carry the spirit of these three birds,
and we continue to soar through their wings,
a flight to pay tribute to all left behind to find it.
The flight is endless, forever rooted in Honor, Respect and Love.

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014