A house full of one time dreams
and all the minutia gathered over the years
of cheer, fears and heartfelt tears,
becomes a nearly empty nest at best.
And deep in my chest all the “memories”
assigned and attached to each book or toy
are now being packaged for a new girl
or boy. Photographs serve to preserve
all the moments in cascade,
a parade of smiles tinged with sadness.
Another box taped and secured,
carried to the car, for the recycle bin,
for reuse or (for trash); no cash
value for one man’s trash
(once held as treasures)
no pleasure in fixing what has needed “repair”
It is there where reality resides,
it hides in every pang and tug
on a b-flat heart string,
it brings me to this: once I dispose
of these bins full of slightly worn clothes,
I’ll know the girls are truly gone,
dispatched to hatch memory preserves
of their own making, taking a small seed
to nurture future purging like this.
The realization says this place is becoming
too big for just two. It is true you can’t go home
again. But would it kill you to visit a bit more?


This week, I get the opportunity to answer the question, “Why I Write Poetry.” Robert Lee Brewer of Writer’s Digest.Com’s Poetic Asides posed this query to poetic masses. The link to the site is listed below:







Again, thank you to Robert for his guidance and support and to the many poets who make this site a great place to play poet! 


The sun shines in the early morning sky,
to dry the pouring rains that had fallen.
Lake-effect rain is in the air again.
Over the lake the sky is charcoal gray,
the clouds are miserable and sullen
and fill me with a comparable disdain.
A counter-point that paints a violent scene,
both bright and dark combatants throw all-in.
The winds antagonize, they have free rein
to prod the skies once placid and serene.
Hard rain.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides Curtal Sonnet Challenge

Offered at dVerse Poets Pub – Open Link #199



Tall and thickly rooted,
an “orchard” amidst a garden.
The hardened immigrant toils,
muddied soil his base,
and his face is ruddy and worn.
He had been removed
from the home he knew trans-
planted between two trees
shading his vegetable patch.
An apple tree reaching,
arms raised in prayer beseeching
for a fruitful yield. Across the way
plums, purple and regal.
Leathery hands gripping a hoe,
a “Hokka” he calls it, chopping
and tilling clods of dried sod.
Plans for tomatoes, potatoes,
beets and cucumbers
and a number of other plants.
Bandanna flailing raised to brow
mopping the flop-sweat
under the noon day sun, baking.
A curse in his mother tongue,
chopping against bark to free
the mud held tightly. Releasing
his place of birth for a new home!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides Prompt #397: Land of ________



If I lived in another land, it would be something Seussian,
then I’d have an excuse again for being so strange.
I could rearrange words as if they were furniture,
and I would yearn for sure to hear the who
what Horton heard. It would be absurd I’m sure if
I could bring Thing 1 and Thing 2
into my crew and eschew (or bally-hoo)
any Lorax attacks that smacks of tom-foolery
and wear my drool like it was drool joolery!
That would be way too cool, you see!
(But that’s just me!) I’d enter every poetry slam
equipped with a pan of green eggs
and ham it up with my eyes quite shut
and a pocketful of wockets
(that sounds more Fuddian than Seussian!)
and I’ll be very amussian in my humor rume!
I would make a wish for just two fish,
one red and one blue (I’ve no need
for two blue! Do you?) I think
what I think and I know
what I know and I’m very familiar
with the places I’ll go.
I’m only old once (or maybe twice
if the weather’s not nice)
and have bunches of hunches
about sneetches with leeches
or foxes with sockes (hidden inside
of brightly wrapped boxes.)
So, say what you want and say what you say,
I’d be luckier by far to live right where I are!

© Walter J Wojtanik



The news hits like a punch to the jaw.
Pow! Wham! Zowie!
Another icon of my youth has gone.
Adam West was the Batman I knew,
I grew up with his campy depiction.
This benediction keeps him ensconced
in my heart and mind for all time.
Godspeed and rest, Adam West!
Pow! Wham! Zowie! R.I.P.!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides – Prompt #396:  Historic Persona


“Go West young man, Go West!”
Or so they say I said.
First intoned by John Babsone Lane Soule
in 1851. It’s funny that my quote
mirrored John’s in a sense,
but lets dispense with the mystery.
History will show that I had
paraphrased what Soule had said.
I reiterated in this way in 1865:
“Go West, young man,
and grow up with the country.”
I’m giving Soule credit for that verse
because he said it first!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides Prompt # 396: Historical Persona


As the dense smoke of ill decision lifts,
it becomes clear that a heavy heart is cumbersome.
Where once it danced lightly and entranced,

it now serves to be too clumsy and immense,
it pelts the senses like a wet sack of cement.
Heartbeats are reduced to a murmur,

they are reluctant to answer love’s call.
You can guess that all stray thoughts travel
to hell and back without a GPS.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides – Prompt #395: Snap Decision




The ties that bind have released,
and a piece of your past floats
mindlessly, aimlessly into
the atmosphere. Your decisions
are a snap and as vacuous
as the stratosphere of late,
but the great thing about it,
is once you set things free
you are able to start fresh.
Step free of the mess you had
a hand in and begin again.
The first step is admitting
you were a part of the problem.
Your umbilical has been cut;
you are Major Tom, a satellite on this
star-filled night. Freedom is just
another word for not giving a flying starship!
No anchor will secure you once the tether
has been snipped. Release your grip and drift.
No matter what you decide, consider yourself


© Walter J. Wojtanik


Visions secured in
heart tattoos of Technicolor.
Kodachrome kept
in the vault of your mind;
mega-pixels held for posterity,
photographs with a memory.
Bringing joys long festered,
sequestered deeply within.
Sorrows of many lost
tomorrows preserved
in faces and places
of loves long gone.
And somewhere, there is
a flash of brilliance
illuminating the shadows.
You choose this moment to
preserve. It deserves a revered space.
Your snap decision is precise.
These memories will live in photographs.

© Walter J. Wojtanik