TMI

How’m I doing?
I’m glad you asked!
My lower back is killing me,
sciatica and something
internal, I think. And this
infernal pain in my right shoulder
feels like a boulder
landed on it ,
it’s giving me fits.
And my left is starting to ache,
doesn’t take much over-compensating
to relay that pain across to there.
This weight loss may not
be the result of good eating
after all. Not sure what to call it,
and hope I can stall it until
after December.
I don’t remember things like I used to,
and I could use two Aleve to relieve
what ails me. It never fails me.
Once I figure out how to relate
to my prostate’s insolence…
you know, I should cut the violins
and quit complaining.
I’m serving up too much information.
How’re you doing?
Oh, I’m glad you asked…

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Poetic Asides – Prompt #411: Information

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SNOWBIRD IN FLIGHT

The svelte owl flew upwind, it didn’t want to squander
the chance to wander above the generator for warmth.
Trying to abscond with bits of straw buried,
a harried attempt to begin nesting. A miraculous
skill of survival readying for the arrival of winter’s
biting breath. Squinting one eye into the bluster,
a feathered Cyclops circling the willowy branches
left barren; exposed to the world. The wisest of birds
mercurial, a nonpareil in avian wonder. Under
the rodomontade that December’s artillery could be
buffeted with a curled wing. Elusive and unobtrusive,
twice observed and followed, never allowed to land
all the sand, snow covered hiding his blankness;
a ghost bird, wings stroking the wind and its
ego, usurping cheese for a salty seaweed
and a truffle with quahog salad.
A bunch of clove evergreens, the hide-away
for the bilious dunderhead hawks stalking and preying;
vespers for the vultures. Cowbird eggs left to fester,
trenched and guttered, fluttered and fine.
Winter approaches to encroach on her flight.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides – Prompt #410 – Weather

 

DRAWN TO THE WATER

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky  ~John Masefield from “Sea Fever”

I am drawn to the water,
a sanctuary dank and deep,
where Neptune’s sleep is unsullied
and tranquil. I will go there

where a sailor’s son should roam,
a second home for a weary traveler,
a reveler in life’s safe harbour.
Looking towards horizons and distant

places, of  foreign faces that grace these places
and dreams of adventure of which there are many.
Anyone who is so drawn is a son of the sea,
a welcomed one who is asked but one thing,

“What will you bring to the sea?”
for treasures that abound are found deep within,
and in their discovery we find ourselves.
I am ever-drawn to the water

a sanctuary dank and deep,
where the son of a sailor finds eternal sleep.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Poetic Asides – Prompt #408: Second Home

Sea Fever

 I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

LOVE COMES HOME

He felt the weight of life’s chain,
each link forged from his misdeeds.
It was a sure sign of his humility
as the gravity of his actions
mirrored the draw it had upon
each metal link, pulling both downward.

The constant refrain in his life repeated,
it greeted his ears and heart
whenever he would start to forget
where it was both belonged. Home had a claim
upon his presence; a place to plant his roots to grow
tall and strong, invariably to stand alone.

But the weight of his despair played heavily
on each tenuous branch; every creak and crack
triggers a spray of memory to reign down.
He relishes the opportunity to make a new home,
feeling how her love swells within him
to grittle his passion; to flick his stubbornness.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Poetic Asides – Prompt #408: Second Home

 

SAPPHIC STANZA IN POLISH POETRY

Through my heritage I’ve come to find myself.
There is no book here that sits upon my shelf,
it was tradition through which I have been found.
It’s been handed down.

Many customs come from our Old Country home,
brought to bear here where my grandparents had come.
Assimilated and fated to be free
in their new country.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides – Prompt #408: Second Home

** I’ve been searching for a poetic form that could be considered “Polish” in nature. Apparently many classic Polish poets have adopted the Sapphic Stanza which contains four line with syllabic counts of 11(5+6), 11(5+6), 11(5+6), 5 and a rhyme scheme of a, a, b, b. Variations and further analysis can be found here.

FUNNY MONEY

I have a cache of multi-colored
plastic cash in my pocket.
Like a rocket on the First of July
its burns a hole in my wallet.
Call it what you will, it is still
legal tender where people spend
twoonies like loonies. Her majesty
graces a bill with her bling,
Prime Ministers with sinister smirks
work their way onto these cheques
as well. Counting on Mounties to secure
the pure nature of the Great White North,
bought and paid for. My store of money
is kinda funny when the rate of exchange
is very strange , changing almost daily.
Saving it for another day,
another foray up Ottawa way,
working to pay the way, eh?

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Poetic Asides Prompt #405 – Money

COMING OF AGE

I turn each page gleaning all I can
from the information at hand.
But, it has become a time clock
of late. Ticking down every minute
and second chance, a fated dance
with my mortality. The reality
becomes clearer the nearer the end
rears its head. Another birthday looms,
another Christmas passes.
Another daughter to send off with her
now and future lifetime friend
and husband. Another year at a job
that has served the family well
(but not well off by any stretch).
Here’s the catch. I look forward
to the golden years (if they are granted me).
I’ll make no demands or make
outrageous plans. Retirement may come
and hopefully before I’ve expired.
I’m starting to get tired. There’s a new
calendar in my future. I pray
there is a future in my new calendar!
I turn each page while I can.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Poetic Asides Prompt #403 – Useful item

** A Calendar

MAKING ROOM FOR WHAT MATTERS

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?

WHY I WRITE POETRY?

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:

walter-j-wojtanik

 

 

 

 

 

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! 

SKY IN CONTRAST

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