EX MARKS THE SPOT

She flashed a life briefly
chiefly to reassure
that her ability to rebound
from profound sadness
would quell the madness
of his intense expression.
Each session of their tryst
would make her eyes mist over,
and before she was covered
in clover, she would know
where their hearts were buried.
She remains to be carried
in the hollow of his chest,
the best place she could be.
She possessed it; caressed it,
claimed it, marking the spot.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Presented at Poets United – Poetry Pantry #159

OFF THE HOOK

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Earl was a weird guy, he never did fit in. He was a fish out of water as far as life was concerned. He learned what he needed to succeed, but indeed he was on his own. It was the way he lived. It was the way that he died. Flopping around on the grass like a trout, he went out hook, line and sinker. Death lured him home.

On the grass, Earl left
leaving his family bereft,
fodder for the worms.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Written for MIZ QUICKLY’S IMPROMPTU POETRY – Day 27 – Alt
Shorpy Images

THE OUTSKIRTS

"Gas" by Edward Hopper
“Gas” by Edward Hopper

No one’s been by for years
and one of his biggest fears
was that he would die out here
alone, and no one would know.
The point of no return
sits a mile down the road
and the occasional lost traveler
would goad his excitement,
but leave him in a cloud of dust.
He must close down the station
and rejoin civilization.
His routine never changes.
He dusts off the pumps
encrusted with years of isolation
and failure. The readings are recorded
in a never ending string of naught.
A rumble in the distance arouses,
leaving him shaking in his trousers
only to be disappointed again.
The pumps stand sentinel,
grave markers for a dying breed.
He needs human contact
but all he attracts is dirt.
Lost in the outskirts.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Response to MIZ QUICKLY’S IMPROMPTU POETRY – Day 10 (Alone, or at a Party) Ekphrastic Poem

YOUNG MASTER “B” GETS A PAPER ROUTE

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Photo from http://www.shorpy.com/

“Paper, Sir?” the young man asked
the stodgy old curmudgeon,
the kind of guy with a whiskey flask,
the creepy aged fart wasn’t budgin’

“What kind of scam are you running, boy?”
the elderly gentleman wondered.
“Why, what do you mean, Sir?” the boy was coy,
for the man made a serious blunder.

“These papers you see, are the news of the day!”
the lad took the time to detail,
but the nattily dressed thought him a pest
and wanted the young boy to fail.

The headline emblazoned read, “Man on the Moon!”
and the photo depicted the same.
“I must find me a constable, boy you’re a loon!”
he called out but no officer came.

“Lies, lies, lies!” the man was heard to mumble.
“What fantastic falsehoods you’re selling!”
He reached for the papers and started to fumble
to see all the tales they were telling.

“Stock Market Crash? World War II?
Such fantasies? News of the Day?
Stalin’s Mustache? The Avian Flu?
I won’t buy this balderdash!” and the man walked away.

Young Master Buffet re-assembled his papers
and inwardly chuckled because
his “news of the day” told of future such capers,
but he never said WHICH day it was!

All of his headlines were set to occur
it was only a matter of when,
but the pages on the bottom pleased him for sure
“Warren Buffet: One of the World’s Richest Men!”

He started out small, he could envision this scene,
making more green than the world’s ever seen!

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

MIZ QUICKLY’S IMPROMTU POETRY – DAY 3 (Photos)

TACTILE MEANDERING

What that simple hello began,
this tender caress continues.
Hues of blushed skin and
heavy bursts of exhalation
exacerbates our situation.
Were you chilled to the bone
your reaction would be similar.
But the warmth of this touch
ignites the fire within
and still these fingers linger.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Photo by Kim Nelson

Written for Poets United – Verse First ~ Reaction

CHAIRS

“Quentin said there was this place…a way station. Do you know of it?”

The old codger wiped his hands in his haggard beard, a thoughtful swipe. He stared at me for a brief eternity, wondering if my question was an interrogation.

“Well, you know Quentin,” the Keeper began, “said a lot of wild things. Said we was goin’ to hell. Always drummin’ up some noise about this here rapture.”

“What do you know of this…rapture? Do you believe?” I continued.

“Don’t know what I believe. Ever since the Creed was declared, I ain’t been sure of nothin’.”

“But what is this place then? All these chairs.
Quentin spoke of this too. That this was…” I was interrupted by the old man, completing my thought.

“…this was where the angels came? Quentin was censured by the committee. Shouldn’t have been speakin’ his mind like that, I’ll tell you!”

“Why do you just sit here old man? What is your purpose?”, I asked, making the first query of interrogation.

“I am just minding my mind” he replied. “You sought me out, Intellectual! “

He saw it. Through my wrapping and gilding, the Keeper saw it. The Intellectuals were the first to depart. Quentin was an Intellectual. Our ilk posed a threat. The geezer knew.

“Did I miss it?” I asked of the rapture.

The Keeper’s grin was ominous. His laugh hideous. I simply grasped his cloak to establish control. His neck snapped with the slightest of pressure.

Quentin always spoke the rapture; of us going to hell. I propped the limp shell of a man into one of the chairs, and prayed we weren’t desolate. For I was not sure if we were too late for the exit, or bound here to this hell.

Either way, I was screwed.