You weren’t fixing on leaving,
you had other plans.
But, God laughed
and you were gone. A memory
written ad nauseum,
causing hearts to ache
at each re-telling. Eyes
swelling with tears
laced with fears of  folks forgetting.
It’s hitting home the more
distance passes and a trace of your face
flashes in my mind from time-to-time.
You are nine years in passing
and I keep amassing poems
well long after you’re gone.
And my life moves on.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2018

Poetic Bloomings – Prompt #211: And I Quote #1




My memory is dotted with crisp images
that have engrained into the depth of my soul.
I have no control over them; they lay dormant,
only to bubble to the surface when I least expect.
Trying in vain to relinquish these old feelings,
I reel with remorse, this sad course I contemplate
leaves me silent and still and alone.
And so, I am left kneeling in supplication,
a broad brush of despair paints me.
This clown cries out from within, making a spectacle
of my mirth and mired muse. My resolution
refuses to take hold; these memories dominate me.
It is too late. Love languishes.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018




“True ease in writing comes from art, not chance”

  ~An Essay on Criticism (Sound and Sense) Alexander Pope

The heart expresses all that its eyes can see;
it is a voice that’s clear and speaks to all who wish to hear.
So, do not close your mind to what is possible. It can be
that a heart so blind will make love disappear.
But pens that stroke in broad and heartfelt hues,
will yield a master work in the words you choose.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2018


“Man’s main task in life is to give birth to himself.”

~ Erich Fromm

A heartbeat strong and sure,
pure and unadulterated; slated for great things
if only he’d assume his gift and lift it heavenward.
Words become him, but he struggles,
his message is saturated; inundated with self-doubt.
Tucked away like a cocoon, a swoon
of outrageous proportions. He succumbs
to the demons in residence, brought about
by said doubt and deprivation; a degradation.
But, still within, a heart beats strong and sure.
Confidence in short supply, he relies on
what his soul regurgitates and spews onto paper and page.
Sage advice he had once read. Man’s purpose –
his only purpose is to re-invent who he was meant to be.
The darkness lurches as sporadic contractions push him,
his tunnel vision shrouded in a murky mire,
and as synapses start to fire he sees the light,
at the end of the tunnel he is blinded by brilliance.
A gentle slap to a lifeless muse brings a gasp,
and he grasps for pencil and pad; a poet reborn.

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik

“Task” Poem



“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



“I am cold, even though the heat of early summer is adequate. I am cold because I cannot find my heart.” ~Sebastian Barry from his novel A Long, Long Way

I am cold.
No chill shakes me
or makes me shiver. Once a lover,
a target of Cupid’s quiver.
I cannot find my heart.
I cannot start to say when
or where I had lost its fire,
lost my desire.
Was it the passing of time
that had absconded with it?
Or was it your passing
and this inconsolable pain?
Had I given it away
too much without recompense,
dispensing any claim on unconditional love?
As you look down from above, I wish
that you could give me a shove. I know
my angel watches over me. I see.
It is clear to me that I am cold.
I cannot find my heart.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016


“True ease in writing comes from art, not chance”

  ~An Essay on Criticism (Sound and Sense) Alexander Pope

The heart expresses all its eyes can see;
a voice that’s clear and speaks to all who hear.
So, do not close your mind to what can be,
a heart so blind will make love disappear.
But pens that stroke in broad and heartfelt hues,
will yield a master work in words you choose.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

MIZ QUICKLY DAY 2 – Iambic lines

LUCA BRASI (Rispetto)

"Luca, dorme con i pesci!"


A boorish brute, loyal to the last.
a henchman, evil and brutal.
He’d seal your fate with one quick blast,
begging for your life was futile.

Don Corleone was your boss,
protect his life at any cost.
Brasi, your death was quite messy.
Luca, dorme con i pesci.*

* Sleeps with the fish


Do you want to know a secret?
I want to hold your hand.
It won’t be long, just eight days a week.
I wanna be your man, but I’m happy just to dance with you.
Girl, tell me what you see. I want to tell you, I need you.
Yesterday, or the night before…any time at all,
I will carry that weight. I want you.
I’ve got a feeling, Martha my dear,
that we can come together. Don’t let me down.
In my life, this boy knows, all you need is love.
Oh Darling, good night.

P.S I love you.



Seconds tick.
The tympany of lost moments
left to linger in the anteroom of thought.
In the expanse of eternal existance,
we offer resistance to the passing of days,
hoping to delay their demise; returning with
each new rise of the sun. But, when we are done,
will we be remembered for all we strived to be?
Or will we be forgotten in the unmarked grave
of obscurity? Our procrastination is telling.
Time’s a wasting. There’s no tasting success
until we kick up our heels and initiate.
Tick, tick, tick,…

**For micro poetry’s prompt, “AND I QUOTE…” – “If we wait for the moment when everything, absolutely everything is ready, we shall never begin.” ~ Ivan Turgenev