The crash of waves hypnotizes,
repetitive and refreshing,
a resounding greeting,
in the shadow of its lunar engine.
A cyclical flow of an ebbing heart;
the give and take of passion’s thunder,
going under for the third time, a surrender
unending, unconditional and unfettered.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Quadrille #33: Sound


She embraced him with gentle caresses,
limbs surrounding hearts so cautiously
that their steps failed to leave prints.
Cheeks tinted with the flush of true love
seasoned by the prelude to promises.

His words flow in waves, drifts of foamy spray
offering vivid reminders that rest on the tip
of their tongues, where “I love you” repairs them,
echoing, never sounding tinny or hollow. Following

hearts that take their lead in the prelude to promises.

Eye to eye they fix their gaze;
in the nick of time they are mended.
Insidious intrusions of love’s determined dart
splitting hearts to be rejoined again as one,
heartbeats of passion in the prelude to promises.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides Prompt #394: Repair


Let me fix you up with some coffee
good and hot to jump start your heart .

Let me fix you some juice
freshly squeezed just to please.

Let me fix you an English muffin
or if you rather, toasted bread and jam instead.

Let me fix you some bacon,
(you always love when I’m makin’ bacon!)

Let me fix you some eggs,
sunny-side up or scrambled, and when you get up

Let me fix you up for a lifetime
of many more pleasing breakfasts such as these

Let me fix the bed and you
can rest your head beside mine.

We’ll be fine. Let me fix you.


© Walter J. Wojtanik



Heartaches and confusion
lost in love’s illusion,
the fusion of pain and longing,
a deep burrow into a soul so burdened.

Learning that the end of loving liaisons
coincides with the death of that phase
of a life dedicated to an amorous fait accompli,
from your knees it looks insurmountable.

But, how to make the tables turn?
You learn that love never dies, it burns
smoldering internally for eternity,
a lingering and lurid ember aglow.

You come to know that every end begins
and every abandoned heart wins
another chance to dance unbridled, never idle;
always keeping lethargic feet in motion.

On the odd notion that love will never more
grace your open door; never soar to the heights
once aspired, and only be mired deep within,
choose to begin, find a common bond of which you’re fond

and reach out for the hand that helps and
heals heaped up hearts and sorry souls
tinkering with the broken and battered matter
until a distinct beat is discerned. It is then

you will have learned to love again.
So remain as a friend, open to the possibilities,
with the responsibilities to just repair;
a valued new direction for your heart waits there.

©  Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides Prompt # 394: Repair


Skinned knees and elbows,
and a face sliding along a graveled
street, bounding up the curb
and rattling a few molars to the core.
Cuts and burns and bloody noses,
all treated here; without insurance cards,
or appointments. Emergency room
always open, with Tender Loving Care
and a bottle of Mercurochrome.
A gentle hand pulling pieces of stone
from the face her “handsome” boy,
wincing with me and holding back her own tears.
Always at no charge and with the healing powers
of a tender kiss on the repaired injury,
in time to get dinner on the table
when her work had finished.
Doctor Mom was always in.


Alive and well and living
in a hole underground.
The only sound is that
of little feet scampering.
The late, white rabbit needs
time to find his groove.
He better move quicker, before
he gets stuck in a sticky
wicket. Near the thicket
the tea is served and
he has swerved into
the queen’s palace.
And what about Alice! Alice?
Who the hell is Alice?

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Tuesday Poetics: Underground



I find a voice in my poet of choice,
I am conversing with Neruda.
The dude had a style, and while
I admire him greatly,
lately I find much of him in me.
I am no Neruda, no poetic Buddha,
but Pablo’s odes and sonnets are honest
presentations (never lost in translation).
I have become a student of him,
on a whim and not by surprise,
this guy’s poems move me.
It behooves me to find bits
and pieces of Pablo to blow
my mind, to remind me that poetry
has a purpose to communicate,
to elated, sometimes sedate
and placate a burdened heart.
From my start I have been ensconced
in this need to read Neruda.
Please, don’t find me rude.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides – Prompt #393: Piece


We live in bits and pieces,
a junk drawer full of memories,
moments held close to heart
that start to fray on the ends
and sends you careening into fits
of rage and bits and pieces.

It never ceases these bits
and pieces of fleece that smell
like her perfume all these years
here after. Shards of laughter
stuck in the rafters of a mind
in which he would come to find

words and scraps of paper,
pieces upon which he had written
skits and bits of humorous falderal!
Post-its hosting numbers and names
gone up in the flames of a pathetic pyre,
a fire that was once desire and is now

not long for this world. A dervish of a girl
spinning in a whirl of dust and debris,
and me ready to steady the tumult,
a Walt at the ready to repair what was
laid bare, a life rife with a smattering
of tattered thoughts and ideas, pleas

for a quick end (please give me a quick end)
and a friend with which to trade barbs
and count carbs as the passage of time.
Lengthy rhymes that were once big hits now spread
as bits and left in pieces of peace
praying for a new lease on these bits and pieces,

or a bigger junk drawer to hold this shrapnel
well meant to be moments held close to the heart.
Always a good start. We live in bits and pieces.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides – Prompt #393: Piece

Offered at dVerse Poets Pub – OLN #196


Le nuvole partono e il sole offre una fanfara per la grazia del mondo. Incastonati in un’alcova brillantemente illuminata, due anticipano l’arrivo di aromi e trattamenti freschi per la tavolozza, la gustosa pietanza servita nel loro nascosto santuario del prato. Bouquet dolci e entusiasmanti fragranti, biologici e terrestri. Non considerano degni di essere seduti al tavolo ma apprezzano l’invito a partecipare al suo splendore. Sautéed in bounty della terra, l’inverno a riposo e la promessa di estate nell’attesa, loro gustano le deliziose offerte della vita.

Le stagioni vengono in vita
Più robusto, fresco e ricco
Sorgente di risveglio



The clouds depart and the sun offers a fanfare to grace the world. Tucked into a brilliantly lit alcove, two anticipate the arrival of fresh aromas and treats for the palette, the savory fare served in their hidden meadow sanctuary. Sweet bouquets and fragrant enticements, organic and earthy. They deem themselves not worthy to be seated at the table, but appreciate the invitation to partake in its splendor. Sautéed in earth’s bounty, winter long at rest and summer’s promise in waiting, they taste the delicious offerings of life.

seasons come to life
more robust, fresh and hearty
awakening spring

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Haibun Monday: From The Kitchen of Poets


**In the Romance Language, La Primavera mean “Spring”


Small hand pressed against mother’s lips,
feeling vibrations of a sound not heard.
A sensation undisturbed. Leaning forward
to feel those same lips against a forehead.
A kiss to send a message of love.
Tiny lips against a worried cheek
mimic, “Mmm, mmm, mmm, mmm…
His hearty giggle; her silent tear.
Mother and son as one! Love is understood.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Poetics: Sensory Play