He comes bearing gifts,
peace offerings and coffers
full of symbolism of little value.
His robes, are a tattered hoodie
and torn denim jeans,
coffee stained and remains of color
where splashes of bleach had landed.
A backpack slung, not well hung
and perched precariously carrying
various swatches of torn pages
and different stages of half chewed Wrigley’s
wrapped in the business end of a soiled tissue.
But it is you that he seeks, speaking your name
in mumbled tones. Written in unpublished
tomes and journals, kernals of truth
and little else. The rabble travel in packs
and stacks of wooden pallets stagger
through these darkened alleys of despair.
But what do they care? Weathered
and nailed to the crosswalk; talk of their
demise is greatly exaggerated. Following closely
as a car rises in the East; a feast for tired eyes.
His legs will carry him just so far, and it mars
any taint of reputation. Concerning his situation:
The stuff in the gold foil needed refrigeration.
It’s merely spoiled and exudes the foul smell.
And why the hell is Frank incensed anyway?
His hovel isn’t much, but it’s home
I suppose. Don’t mind his clothes.
I offer my spare change; He’ll take the bus.
rain water leaking
dripping bit by bit
beneath the singular wheel
you feel its pain
in the falling rain
© Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2013
CURSES TO YOU, HEARTLESS WENCH!
Unfeeling, leaving hearts reeling,
stealing emotion on the notion
that you can’t miss what you never had.
Bad, bad, AWFUL bad, and it’s sad
that a love lost and a woman scorned
become the choice of the lesser
of the two evils proposed. You
are left exposed to her icy stare.
You wouldn’t dare question your fate.
You’d hate to find her frigid digits
around your nape; grasping, gasping
for air and a wooden stake. You fail
to see any humor or any laughing matter,
for that matter. An “Ice Queen” would be
a dream girl compared to her barren tundra.
But, you’re under her spell and your heart is hers,
at least until she’s done walking all over it.
Go to hell you witch! OK, I’ll show you the way.
© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013
Written for NaPoWriMo 2013 – Day 10 – Un-love Poem
On the edge of reason, we watched and waited.
We hated being helpless, and I guess
we hated being the target of hate.
Many were functioning as they normally had,
but then every man, woman, mom and dad
had much to explain to minds that could not
comprehend. It had sent a strong message,
that we should be ever-vigilant and can’t
let down our guard. It is hard to preach trust
when the thrust of such extreme proportion
penetrates our collective spirit. They thought
they’d split it in two. It is true that we fight
amongst each other, like any “sister” and “brother”
but let another interfere and we’ll be here united
to fight it tooth and nail. We had stumbled, but did not fail.
May God continue to Bless America!
© – Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012
DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
(A found poem)
I’ve been mad for fucking years;
been over the edge working me buns off…
I know, I’ve been mad like most of us
(even if you’re not mad…)
All you touch and all you see,
a race toward an early grave
is all your life will ever be.
Waiting for someone
or something to show you the way.
You are young; life is long.
There is time to kill today,
plans that either come to naught,
or are half a page of scribbled lines.
Hanging on in quiet desperation,
it came as a heavy blow,
yelling and screaming and telling him
“Grab that cash with both hands”.
It is the root of all evil,
but we sorted the matter out.
I was really drunk at the time!
“Listen son, don’t give me that do goody good
bullshit”, said the man with the gun,
God only knows it’s not what we choose,
but which is which and who is who?
There’s room for you inside;
only a difference of opinion.
Good manners don’t cost nothin, eh?
Got to keep the loonies on the path
And if with dark forebodings
your head explodes, raise the blade.
Make the change. Lock the door and
throw away the key. The old man died.
All you hate,
all you distrust,
all that you deal
beg, borrow or steal…
There is no dark side of the moon!
It’s really a matter of fact it’s all dark.
***The poem was culled from the lyrics of the songs on the Pink Floyd album by the same name.