LOST WORDS: POETS IN PASSING

I’ve spent a lot of time getting lost in words.
My words; the words of others. The sisters
and brothers of poetic thought who ought to be
feted. I am elated to have known you all.
Words find a way to fall onto the page,
sometimes on deaf ears and it is here
I have come to know them. I consider it
verbal violence when words are silenced.

Andrea Heiberg, your voice was a choice
I made an effort to hear, for it was here
I came to know you. Our paths crossed,
once in vile vitriol, but I had come to know
the soul that you had nurtured, a cultured
reach to beseech me to listen to every
glistening word, some of the best I had heard.
I think of you often, and I miss your words.

Vivienne Blake, you found a way to make
poetry seem like a beautiful waltz, a dance
that would entrance and soothe, with each
glorious word you’d use as a testimony of life
lived well & to the fullest. You were the best
at encouraging words to flow and allow us
to know the courage of your own words.
I think of you often, and I miss your words.

Dyson McIllwain, you verbose Scot,
you were not a flash in the pan.
Your words still stand as a testament,
meant to grace our hearts and souls.
Poetic thoughts united us, it invited us
to share the beauty of words with the
world and this world of words with others.
I think of you often, and I miss your words.

Today, I find Salvatore Buttaci has joined
his Father and Mother all in the embrace
of the Father who loved him, as Salvatore
loved his Blessed Father. His words expressed
in complete reverence, words of love
for his beloved Sharon, his cherished family,
his students of life who held to his wisdom.
I think of him now, and I miss his words.

I am at a loss. A loss of kindred hearts,
a loss of conjoined souls. You have all left
many holes that can never fully be filled.
I have been thrilled to have held you dear.
My words fail of late and the fate of them
hangs in the balance. This valance of life
hangs as well. My eyes swell with tears.
I miss you all. I am at a loss for words.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

 

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MONTY, MONTY, MONTY

You stand out in the crowd,
a turnip waiting for your turn
to earn the largess of life.
You start out with a good wife,
extraordinary daughters,
and a position you’d love the chance
to trade for what’s behind
door number two.
It’s you and the wheeler dealer.

You have one shot at this,
so make your choices wisely.
Things sail along smoothly,
but then one morning
you are rudely interrupted
with an abrupt life alteration.
Your station is untenable,
it renders you a lesser version
in this life’s excursion.

So here’s the offer.
You can have money in your pocket
and keep your current life
with all your issues
or you can exchange it for more
than what you’re able to bargain.
It’s selling your soul for
a Cuisinart and a new car.
You realized you’re better off by far.

Life is no game show,
and not a reality show.
There is no show at all,
just reality. And with all its banality,
it is the best prize
one can strive to acquire.
Just keep what you have and be glad.
This is the best you will feel.
Let’s not make a deal.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides April P.A.D. Challenge – Day 10 – Deal/No Deal

CASE FILE: X-52

My rocket propels me;
speed of light excursions
into the darkness of deep space.
It is silent, serene and no one
can hear me scream.
My days blur into each other
and it effects my equilibrium.
A floating trash compactor
in the expanse of endless nothingness.
Major Tom has found his way home,
and ground control has shut down
leaving me to be the clown staying
weightless in a prolonged environment!
In spite of my woes: Case Closed!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day 4: CASE _____

 

A CASE OF ESCAPING JOY

Distant hearts do not grow fond of distance,
and our ability to embrace that joy
seems to slip from your hands 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 the lactate begins to dry up.
Joy seems so overrated in that moment
of ill-decision. Removing yourself
does not render a solution, yet
you walk away anyway. Maybe someday
you will come to know joy and rejoice,
even if it doesn’t smack you upside the head.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day 4: CASE______

THE CASE OF RELATIVE INSUFFICIENCY

The family is getting smaller, our numbers decrease.
Some because some had become deceased,
due to old age or other unrelated disease.
The kids have moved away and they stay in touch
but their absence is telling. It has me dwelling
on memories that bring a smile and a tear
and I sit here wondering when they had gotten older.
It gets a bit colder when I think about it.
I doubt it will ever be that warm again.
But then again, nothing lasts forever
except for unfortunate grudges that nudge at
your sensibilities. Neither side budges
and the chasm grows wider. Inside you
there’s a little bit of everyone who had gone
before us. It was for us that they existed
and persisted until Brother Death came to call.
We all fall down that abyss but sustain
that bit of brain that keep the family close.
A heavy dose of reality tells me we are all fated
to be ‘late-greated”, but until we are, I keep
the family that remains from getting very far.
It all starts in the heart.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides April Poem-a-Day Challenge – Day 4: Case______

SLEEPING BEAUTY IN FLANNEL

 

There she sleeps,
all grace & charm at rest.

I watch the rise & fall of her chest
breathing in peace; a sedate rate
at best. Snugged up, blanket to chin,
holding within all the love
that she keep boiling as she sleeps.

The day’s toil sent lumbering
as she lays slumbering deeply
in dreams.

A hint of a smile
graces her face; a pleasant R.E.M.
moment that fades as swiftly.
Softly she snores (it is for sure
that she does) because of the
blockage that plagues her.

A murmur.

The coo of a dove.

I love it when she peeks for an instant
checking to reassure that I’m still near her.
I hear her breathing change again
as she is sure she has been heard.

My gentle kiss does not awaken her,
it has taken her to another dream.

It seems a given as there she sleeps.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2018

HOW IT BEGAN

A51A556C-4545-485C-94B5-FBF80C434058They were young.
Correction: She was young,
he was her senior by eight years.
But amid the fear and trepidation,
she found her station by his side.

His pride was showing
and she was knowing he loved her.
They dated and waited and “hated”
the nay Sayers who indeed said “nay”.
Yet, they remain together ‘til this day.

But early on, they did struggle.
And holidays and celebrations
were feted with a kiss and embrace
and a promise of better things
when things got better.

The first Valentine’s Day
he put pen to page and this sage
with his wonderful words
wrote her a “card”. It wasn’t that hard.
He rendered a heart to start,

and within its borders, this hoarder
of secret poetic ponderings
had her wondering where this beauty
resided. For he had hidden it deeply,
keeping his embarrassment in check.

But what the heck, he folded the paper,
his caper awaiting completion.
His fear of exposing his heart
even to one so true, would have you think
he was unsure of his words and of her.

But, he watched as she read the verse,
and counted the steams that flowed
down her cheeks to collect on her chin.
That’s how it would begin.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and cried.

As much as he had tried to deny his muse,
She was at last glad he would choose
to reveal his heart. That’s where is would start.
The following year he erred greatly,
for things had gotten better lately.

For Valentine’s Day he bought her a card.
It wasn’t that hard to plunk down money
all for his Honey’s pleasure; a treasure she’d love.
She didn’t. It upset her; he had let her down.
He could tell by her frown he had mistaken.

It had taken a turn and he would yearn
to know the reason she thought he had committed treason.
His hand-made card was rather crude and plain,
it had ink stains and smudges that he fudged
to try to fix. But as it was, it endeared him to her.

There was more heart and soul in its simplicity,
it brought electricity to her being, and seeing
the perfectly embossed placard that was
the hallmark of all such things, did not
bring her joy. Her boy made a promise.

For their lifetime, he would draw and rhyme
in his one-of-a-kind way. And I still do to this day.
Every Valentine, Anniversary, Mother’s Day
and Birthday, (even an occasional Earth Day card)
came in my hand from my heart. That’s where it would start.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides Prompt #427 – Valentine’s Day

DOWN THE AISLE ON CLOUD NINE

It was cold, darn cold.
And the Snows of Kilimanjaro
found Buffalo at home.
Everyone dressed to the nines
and tens and then it hit me,
today the training wheels
come off for real. Here’s the deal –
my daughter was getting married.
I had carried her when she was small,
but all down the long aisle I couldn’t help
but smile (and shed a tear or a hundred)
and we “carried” each other in our walk
that I wished lasted longer. A last kiss
and this Miss became a wife.
I’ve awaited/dreaded this moment
all my life and now this boy sheds tears
of joy. My beauty and her handsome man
stand astride and cannot hide their love.
Blessed from above in a married swoon,
we will not soon touch ground for a while.
And we continue to smile.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Asides – Prompt #420: Elevated poem

SEPIA: THE COLOR OF MEMORY

Left behind.
After all that have gone before.
A box.
No one left to claim the contents,
so it becomes mine.

Scraps and relics of foregone places,
tug on my mind for the slightest traces
of remembrance.
Remnants of vaguely familiar people
who caused me to be.
Reminders of the way
things came about in my history.

The past revisited
in fond recollection.
I study the faces
and strain for a mention
of a name. Many are unknown
and will remain so.
But, in the myriad of this photographic
patchwork I find a common thread,
which binds this present
to those long agos.

Sepia.
This sepia tone
is the trigger that fires these synaptic
glimpses at who I have become
and of the people who “brought” me to this place.

Sepia is the color of memory.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2017

Poetic Asides – 2017 November Chapbook Challenge – Day 30: Back in the Day