SUNRISE, FRONT WINDOW

Quiet. Serene. Soft and gentle
calling to the soul seeking refuge,
solace in the silent sanctuary.
It’s a feeling that rises up, touching
every fiber of your being.

As the sun rises, you are seeing
things in the light of a new day, 
a front window to capture the beauty of a world
left to your own devices, It is nice
that the vision of that first sun, shines through.

You fill your lungs with as much fresh air
as you can inhale and without fail, the scent
of the pines brings a tear for it is here
that the world began. Your heart beats
more true as you stand and listen

to the awakening that began
with the rays of the sun as it raises its hands
to glorify all that it touches. A symphony
of avian arias and woodland creatures
alerting the world they have arisen.

There is a sweetness that exists in nature,
a honeyed palette that quenches your thirst
and satisfies your hunger for each new day.
You savor the flavor of what your window reveals.
You believe this is the most alive that you will feel!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2020

dVerse – Poetics: Looking Out the Window

EARLY BIRD OF WORDS

I wake up early each day.
Some folks say I’ve lost my mind.
“You should sleep in, get your rest”
But mornings are best to rhyme.

I find I rhyme through the night.
I just might even dream in meter,
snore in something iambic.
Schemes don’t always click either.

Writing them down when I wake,
it does take an effort then,
eyes need a chance to adjust.
But it is a must to pen

the lines that are repeating.
They are fleeting, you can bet,
but if I focus, I’m good.
The rest of it I could get

with some determination,
A poet’s station for sure.
It is my word affliction,
my dereliction; no cure.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

For the Poetic Form Awdl Gywydd featured at Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer

LEARNING FORGIVENESS IN THE RECEIVING OF SAME

Let bygones be,
you’ve seen the error of your ways
and it’s been days since
your apple cart has been toppled.
The slight against you was just that,
slight. You might be wise to reprise
your failings amidst the wailing
and gnashing of teeth. Life is short,
but it can be sweet if you let it.
Swallow your pride and forget it.
Don’t let it ruin another day.
You had much to say yourself, leave it
on the shelf and accept your part
of the blame. It’s a doggone shame.
Much like love, the forgiveness your get
is equal to the forgiveness you give.
Live and let live, let bygones be.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

For dVerse Tuesday Poetics – Blame and Forgiveness

 

WHY-BUN?

I am a moody bastard. And my mood drives my every moment. It dictates my words. The poetry I choose to pen is as moody as I end up being. Let’s face it; I can be a hopeless romantic. Think two words. Hopeless. Romantic. I can park on a snarky moment and squeeze the life out of it. I love a good laugh, so any gaff in poetic parlance does a happy dance within me. I can be whatever I need to be. I am the why I write what I write. Drips of conceit, but not really. I have learned long ago that the right words will come at the right time. Any rhyme bears no resemblance to anyone but me. I try to emulate myself with every new waking day, seeing if I could surprise or shock myself.

The autumn of life
Paints with a vivid palette.
The growth of colors

© Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Haibun Monday: Why Do I Write What I Write?

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! 

SMOLDERING EMBERS ENDING

Lifting into the sky,
a string of flickering light.
A random path to the stars,
as each pop and crackle
augments every pinprick
in the evening darkness.
The lake is still, reflecting
each fleck of every spark presented.
All sent heavenward
until the campfire finally dies.

© Walter J Wojtanik

STATUS: QUO VADIS

“I always had this certain contentment-
I wouldn’t call it happiness-
it was more of an inner balance
that settled for whatever was occurring”
~From Charles Bukowski’s “How is Your Heart?”

I never had to go far to find the peace that I’d seek.
It was in a reflective inward glance, perchance to sneak a peek
at a place within myself adrift on a sea of endless wonder,
never under the delusion that emotional confusion
could steer me off course and force my hand
to stand with vile resentment
facing a destination of which I was unsure.
I would not ask “where was I going?”
showing some lack of confidence. Yet in testament,
I always had this certain contentment  –

amused in my own skin and living within my means.
A man who always took strides to fulfill his dreams.
within a level headed demeanor, making choices
that were not swayed by the voices inside my head.
Instead, I choose to walk the road rarely traversed.
Not always the easy path, I must confess
but being blessed with words in abundance,
the things I utter get me by.
I’m just a guy longing for success,
I wouldn’t call it happiness –

only a warming peace that I felt,
Every night as I knelt
in prayer, I found it there,
as my heart beat in my chest
I knew my destiny was a self-driven fate
never too late to see; less of a challenge
when faced with truth and love,
and above all else a belief in one’s self.
Guided by your essence, not blinded by its brilliance;
it was more of an inner balance.

In the valance of existence
I found the futility of resistance,
the acceptance to move forward remained alluring.
Every day was a new start, a beginning –
an opportunity to right what wrongs we’ve done
in a very contrite way, ensuring
that the good we do can return to us someday.
We go, knowing where we are going, and showing
our unity as we walk along our pathways, true companions concurring
and in that, settled for whatever was occurring.

© Walter J Wojtanik

 

TERMINAL

CentTerm
Buffalo’s New York Central Terminal still stands as a reminder of bygone days.

Terminal.
The end of the line.
Or the beginning. Bringing point A
to point B and all parts South.
From an era where the rails rarely failed
and Iron Horses sailed on wings of diesel.
And steam. It was a dream of mine
to have seen those bygone days,
in which architecture was considered art and
tile, leather and chrome found a home for it.
Built up when bottoms were about to fall out,
a bout of depression to serve as a lesson
and trains were the only way to go.
My favorite art deco stands as a remembrance
and offers a chance to recapture that feeling.
Stealing dreams in the high polished gleam of the time.
But, is the end of the line always
Terminal?

(C) Walter J Wojtanik

 

THE GIFT OF A FINE PEN

Writing

The ink that flows is the milk of a million reminiscences,
released with every scratch across the page.
All sage words live within it, it is an extension
of my expression. All painful memories come
in torrents of her indigo flow. I can show you
my pain with each strain of her nib.
Give me a pen, and you’ve given me freedom!
For no soul can be sequestered when a writer
writes. Every sight they have seen is given in return
all in remittance for the gift of a fine pen!

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides PAD 2017 – Day 1: Reminiscence

LET’S BRING OURSELVES TO RHYME

In the present we stand, hand-in-hand for the cause of poetry.
Not quite sure what means to this end, but poets and friends
sharing in the hearth of majestic musings warm their hearts
with glowing expressions. Never at a loss for words
but sometimes a lot of effort goes unnoticed. The rhyme
stays within reason, for ’tis the season for all to write.

We would be well within our right
to seize the opportunity to delve into poetry,
giving proper respect to the relevant rhyme,
for what would sound more fitting between friends?
After all, we all craft with our own fine words
and hold the verse of others to our hearts.

For it is within the beating of said hearts
that we find the power in all that we write.
Poems flow from the manipulation of words,
and become the true essence of living poetry.
Inspiration expressed in the gathering of friends
all for the propagation of rapturous rhyme.

Not all find worth in the like sounding rhymes
preferring the freedom that liberates their hearts
in the form a verse that is as free. These, my friends,
are the choices that we as poets make. We are what we write.
It takes all kinds to write all forms of poetry,
but a true poet see the emotion woven into words.

Offer up your musings, for the communion of words
never ceases. Be they random or deliberate, rhymes
are the glue that holds together all our pieces. Poetry
is the literal music of our souls. It resides in every heartfelt
pang of passion and fashions itself into the right
moments of our lives as if they were comforting old friends.

What can we do to spread the scope of our beauty, friends?
Put the power of your opinion or your longing into words,
for it is within every woman and man’s right
to give the world exactly what we glean from our rhymes.
Poetry is a pulse. It is the syncopation of a loving heart.
And the living that we do, becomes our lifelong poetry.

Give poetry a chance, friends.
Leaving your heart in every word.
You have the time to rhyme; and all night to write it.