UNCLE FRANK HAD A LIMP

I knew him in his later years,
amidst fears of this craggy old-man
with the pronounced limp.
I had no knock against the man,
even though he tried prodding me into it.
“Knock on my leg!” he’d harass me,
and it would embarrass me to shy away.
He’d rap his knuckles against his shin.
The sound stayed with me. Knock on wood!
***
Old photographs of my grandmother
and her siblings emerge and a surge of
a phantom spasm rose up my right leg.
Uncle Frank and his dog in frame,
five legs and a wooden pole.
Legends find their truth; even in family re-telling.
Frank always explored the railroad tracks
that ran behind the house. Against all warning,
one morning they found a delirious Frank pleading,
bleeding profusely from his severed appendage.
On the flatbed of the family truck he was carted,
as he started begging his father not to punish.
My great-grandfather asked one question:
“After disobeying me, will you do it again?”
A lesson learned at a great price.
The resounding of knuckles against
a wooden prosthetic was punishment enough.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides 2017 April PAD – Day 13: Family

CLAUSTROPHOBIA

 Get off of me, I hate this feeling,
my senses are reeling; walls closing in.
Tight fitting spaces are places I do not flourish in.

I need my room. This impending doom sensation,
is causing debilitation to my psyche.
It might be this inate fear of being here, a bit too near

for my taste. It’s a waste of good angst to be against
this barrier. Getting scarier and scarier the more
people close in. It’s a crying sin akin to torture.

Bullets are being sweated. I’m headed for a panic attack,
a manic attack of nerves that swerves me into this mix.
No easy fix to my phobia. People pushed against me

and this room gets smaller still. It’s a horrid scene,
packed in like sardines. I could scream; it seems
everything and everyone is against me.

I should have taken the stairs.

SPACE IDIOCY

Peering out the window opening; leering
at the vastness of a vacuous void,
there are no life forms appearing
and I feel a bit annoyed.

Volunteering for a mission
is just another way of saying
I give you my permission
to be used as you see fit. Playing

hero (when martyr would suffice nicely)
and I know to get back from this place
I will need to get out of this space, precisely
what I did NOT want to do. In case

you aren’t listening, the sounds around
are vacant. In space no one can hear you
scream for Ice Cream (no matter how big the mound),
it would melt before the spoon got near you.

So, I don my suit, untried; untested,
and strap my boots to seal my feet,
If I wore this at home, I’d be arrested
but, on this planet, it can’t be beat.

I press the button to raise the panel
and nothing appears to transpire.
I press it again on this stupid panel
with no result but to fan my ire.

I need release, my mission is clear,
I need to step down to step on the soil,
I haven’t a clue how to get out of here
despite my training and years of toil.

I pound on the door with furied fists,
yelling at the intercom transmitter,
but this innocuous box, it surely resists,
frustrated am I, but I’m no quitter.

“Open the pod bay doors, Hal!” I scream,
but the response, it does not save me.
“I’m afraid that I can’t do that, Dave!” it seems
this spaceship has enslaved me.

I have no qualms about dying in space,
though this isolation is truly scary,
Besides, its memory is a disgrace,
I’m screwed. I’m not Dave, I’m Larry!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Written for dVerse Poets Pub – Tuesday Poetics: Fear

APNEA

A good night’s sleep is all I crave.
But, I have become a slave to my disorder.
Limbs once nimble now churn as I burn
the midnight oil. I toil each night
seeking rapture. But I have been captured
by my demon and random thoughts swirl
as if strewn by the wind of memory.
Heart beating faster, a runaway freight train
through the prairie of my barren soul
with no control of my own.
I cough and groan, throat emitted as I spit
in a foaming fit of rage, roaming the halls madly.
Sadly, I’m ready for a padded vault.
It is Disruptive Sleep Apnea’s fault.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

SUNDAY WHIRL –
Wordle #111

Written for the SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle # 111

and presented at POETS UNITED – Poetry Pantry #153

also Khara House’s 30 x 30 Challenge – Day 2 – Slumber

LAST MAN DEARLY DEPARTED

Loggia’s hands lay palm down on the slab.
Warned furiously to follow the detour
(which he didn’t),
his modest and boring life
got the best of his common sense.
None of his invited guests had placed
a value on his friendship
and the knot in their collective gut grew
quite large. Never the less, they were still
shocked and surprised when they had to
transfer Loggia’s lifeless body to the morgue,
in keeping with the aftermath of his demise.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Words required to use: aftermath, transfer, shocked, knot, value,
guest, boring, modest, detour furiously, slab, palm

Written for MIZ QUICKLY’S IMPROMPTU POETRY – Day 24 Wordle

CULTURE AFTERSHOCK

Seeking shelter from the storm of hatred,
the shock of indifference reverberates;
a time bomb spent to quell revolution,
yet offering no solution. Hardened hearts
rage against the dying of the fight;
with the resilience that defines the struggle.
We promise to thrive; staying alive to land
on our feet. A firm resolve shipped and settled.
Who are the real infidels?

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #105

ELECTRONIC VOICE PHENOMENON

Silence surrounds; the sounds of night pervade,
Shadows crawling, calling in the vacuous void.
You avoid the spot in the corner where darkness
is all consuming. You are assuming that all that lays
at rest is best left alone. The breathing you hear
is clear across the room; not your own.
A moan, a creak sneaks to slip beside you.
Disembodied shivers sends a quiver down
your spine. The whine in your ears disappears
as your thoughts perceive what you disbelieve.
Your recorder catches something that concerns you,
but you can’t discern what it could be.
A whisper? A cry? A scream nearby? You spy that shadow
again rising like an orb left to fend for itself.
The playback confirms these ghosts do not feed the worms.
They’ve come out to play, or so that’s what they say.

Creepy Prompt # 199 – Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer

UNDER THE VALANCE OF NIGHT

Dusk fell across the valley like a funeral shroud;
obliterating the light of day and hiding its wretched decay.
The hollow below held no trace of vegetation;
the furrowed land sat fallow and empty,
not even possessing the essential nutrients
to imply that the soil was once fertile.
The chain link fence held it in containment
as it rose above the barren void.
It gave the appearance that the Grand Master
had taken His pencil eraser and wiped
all that was beautiful and promising
off of His canvas. But it was a recipe
that had provided many great things.
One could be forgiven that the valley
lay disinterested in its plight.
The right Operator would return her
to its former productivity. Patience will grow.

For THE SUNDAY WHIRL – WORDLE # 71

THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #71

BIOPSY

Symptoms came to the fore
knocking me to the floor. A knee
and a supplicant plea
were all that made me see the pain
wasn’t just in my brain,
but it did leave me drained and scared.
If I had only dared,
then I might have been spared this fate.
And it’s never too late
(or so they say). I wait for word,
but so far all I’ve heard’s
something a little bird told me.
Right now it’s wait and see
what this next biopsy will show.
The process is so slow
as far as these things go. Can’t wait
(I hope we’re not too late).

IN THE SHADOW OF FEAR

All instinct will scatter like shards of broken glass.
It’s an age old story; a knack you have developed
that will scald your thoughts and leave you ashen,
but still urges your resolve onward. A sound akin
to the whispering of silent sisters will charm your heart,
but you can be assured it will also crush your spirit.

 

THE SUNDAY WHIRL – WORDLE #40