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?



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! 


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


“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



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

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

(C) Walter J Wojtanik




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


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.


You gather words, amassing
a vocabulary surpassing
all the words you knew before.

Your nuance is pleasing
and your carpe is seizing,
before the diem gets off the floor.

You dally with forms,
in your poetic windstorm,
wondering what your words have in store.

For no matter the season,
your rhymes will have reason
and make you all warm to your core.

You’re a wordsmith and you know it,
and you love to [play] poet,
though your friends think that makes you a bore!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides November Chapbook Challenge Day 16 – Play __________


I was looking for a poem I had written and was having a time locating where I had posted it. I came to this realization (basically an admission) I’ve created too many writing blogs! I have personal poetry blogs, collaboration blogs, blogs under pen names, non-poetry blogs, a journal and blogs still under construction. So to save me the angst of future searches, I am posting the URL addresses for these sites below. Feel free to explore these other sites if you wish:


My main blog is currently THROUGH THE EYES OF A POET’S HEART it began originally on blogspot at Through the Eyes of a Poet’s Heart


Another poetry blog is more thematic. Written from the viewpoint of Santa Claus, I AM SANTA CLAUS plays on the idea that we are ALL Santa Claus. It is being prepared as the manuscript for my next collection of the same name.


I has the pleasure to assemble poems with a Good friend of several blogs. Marie Elena Good and I had success with our joint personal poetry blog, ACROSS THE LAKE, EERILY, written from our shared perspective from opposite shores of the Lake Erie that separates us.

We then parlayed that into a site where our poetic friends could write to prompts and poetic form suggestions. POETIC BLOOMINGS became the poetic garden where poetry flourished. This site had to re-incarnations, as CREATIVE BLOOMINGS and PHOENIX RISING POETRY GUILDMarie has stepped aside to deal with life, and Sara McNulty has served in her stead sweetly. POETIC BLOOMINGS is still active.


During the times where I questioned my abilities, I wrote under a pen name on two occasions.  Under the guise of Joseph Phillip Walters (I am Walter Joseph Phillip Wojtanik) I carried on at ONE SHORE IN SILENCE .

Then as Chase Ephraim I wrote at WORD CHASE .


My short fiction (flash fiction) resides at WALLEGORYS AND OTHER STORIES .


IT’S JUST ANOTHER DAY  Just a blog about my every day made special.


WORDS AS MUSIC Will offer the idea of music lyrics being poetry in and of themselves.

Everything highlighted is a link to those sites. Hope you find something to please your curiosity!



There in stunted silence, the rube sits.
This solitary soul searching
the sites around him for a glimpse,
a fragmented fractal, upon which to
pose his imperfect pondering.
On the surface, a catatonic
cad, aloof and disinterested,
unaffected by life’s happenstance.
But below the layers of sinew
and fiber, there is a spark.
A speck of a spark in which
all the answers of life dwell.
It flits and dances in his soul,
it infects his longing heart,
it leaps boundlessly to his vacuous
cranium, this arena of thought,
where it has room to roam.
Bouncing from synapse to
neuron and back,
expanding disproportionately
to the importance it assumes
but oh, the wonder it beholds.
Inside this infantile ember
there exists an avalanche
of ideas that simmer for the moment,
and have smoldered for all
of his lifetime.
Romantic ruminations of a
love lost or a soul mate found,
ridiculous rhymes of a playful tone,
tactile meandering of a verbal nature,
all abiding in his treasure chest of intellect.
He shifts in his seat, our
spellbound simpleton, this
multi-syllabic snake charmer,
as a tendril of thought comes
a bit too close to that glowing
epicenter of expression. They merge,
taking on a life all its own
to flail unencumbered, this
cerebral conflagration
burning brightly.
Extracting a pen, he jots three words
on the back of his left hand,
an apparent reminder of whatever
bit of brilliance just entered his mind.
Gathering together his scraps of paper,
and his pieces of the puzzle he is crafting,
this omni-present observer strolls
three benches down to take a
new vantage point to view this vignette
called life. And glancing at his
left-handed, self-made tattoo
he reads the words he had written.
It states quite simply,
“I am poet”.
Rather satisfied with his station
in this complex world, he writes
with a singular hope to touch
yet another soul.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

dVerse Poets Pub – Meeting the Bar – Let’s Kick it Up a Notch


The original poem:


He sits in silence,
alone, a soul searching
for a glimpse, just
a piece, upon which to
propose his pondering.
Cool on the surface,
a cad, aloof,
not interested,
not affected by life.
Beneath layers of sinew
and fiber, there is a spark
in which lies all the answers to life.
It dances in his soul,
it infects his longing heart,
it leaps to mind –
this arena of thought,
where it has room to run.
Connecting the dots,
expanding unevenly
in the wonder it holds.
In each dying ember
there lives an idea that simmers,
for the moment smoldering
and burning all his lifetime.
Thoughts of love
or a love lost,
a soul mate found,
playful rhymes touching every word,
all residing in his mind.
He is restless, this
simpleton snake charmer,
as thoughts like tinder comes
a bit too close to that glow.
They take on a life all its own
to dance freely, enflamed
and burning brightly.
Taking his pen, he scribbles
on the back of his left hand,
to remind him of inspirations
as they enter his mind.
Gathering together his pages,
these pieces of the puzzle he is crafting,
this ever-present observer moves
three benches down, taking a
new point of view of this scene
called life. And glancing at his
left-handed, self-made tattoo
he reads the words he had written.
It says simply, “I am poet”.
Satisfied with his station
in this complex world, he writes
with the sole purpose of touching
yet another soul.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – May 2010