SECRETS KEPT AND HIDDEN

No one knows.
And the best kept secret remains as such.
How much is it worth to know things
that your heart can confirm,
but you can not communicate,
this declaration of fact lies hidden.
Distance spanned and water
under the bridge between then and now.
How do you live a life with this burden?
They couldn’t know; you gave no indications,
your stagnation and debilitating fear
brought you here with nary a lead.
But indeed, you have known.
You will carry it until you’ll have grown
feeble and cold, just an infarction from
the chill’s permanence; it hides in residence.
Do you declare to the world and hope the rooftops
can handle your exuberance,
your happy dance long buried?
This fact prompts you to wonder
that if under this guise you can reprise
what your heart conceals; the real feel of its mystery,
your history until now untold and you let the story unfold.
Touching secrets with probing fingers,
the memory lingers. You held the best vantage point
in the room to see all before you,
a chance at a glance always revealed.
Though you were in close proximity,
you chose to let fear dictate and seal your fate.
Never a clue did you expose. You chose to fade,
finding comfort in your invisibility. Indignantly,
you held your nerve and your secret this long.
It can’t be wrong to release your burden and breathe again.
No one knows.
You wonder if your existence evaded detection then.
You are certain that it does now.
Unseen for all these years, no one could know.
Your memories melt flowing onto a page
as you engage your feelings.
Poems written of your smitten past,
and at last you come clean.
I mean, really, it’s not as if these poems will ever be seen.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

LOOK AT ME, I’M THE FUNNY MAN

A tear grease painted here on my face
in case the well’s run dry.
The tears of a clown roll down
my bulbous proboscis, sadness
in hiding, providing the greatest spark
on earth to offer my mirth for the joy
of others. It is laughter they are after.
But, it bothers me that I can’t lighten
my own heart. I fall apart and land
flat on my face. Traces of tears
grease painted here, just in case!

© copyright 2013, Walter J Wojtanik

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

AN ISSUE OF INITIATIVE

Project Technology” was intended to merge

people in unity; to sing the mantra of life.

Inquisitive minds always have the urge to question

this stellar commitment of delicious harmony.

We tolerate those who would leave the smudge of indifference,

but we activate our inherent need to make a difference.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

103

THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #103

SCRATCH THAT

You reach when my arms fail,
and bail me out in a pinch.
Prickly sting, you bring me
comfort and ease. Please
don’t let me down without
the courtesy of a reach around.
I’m glad I found you, but there’s a hitch,
a little to the left is where I itch.
Irritant catcher; back scratcher.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012

WE WRITE POEMS Prompt #116 –  Unexpected descriptions

PICK-UP IN AISLE X

Take a few extra moments, be good to yourself.
Your satisfaction is always guaranteed.
There, near the produce introducing
her light aromatic blend. Just don’t breath
in the spray. We stand behind your fresh taste;
we never waste paper (from responsible sources)
and of course, it makes ordinary meals extraordinary.
No Preservatives.
No MSG.
No artificial colors; flavoring.
Savoring it with every last bite.
What are you hungry for tonight?
No doubt about it, we love our midnight snack;
she’s more of a “morning person”.
Shake well. Satisfy your ravenous craving.
Massage pouch until desired consistency,
bring your meat to room temperature.
Put into a 350° pre-heated oven,
it’s easy to get off. Feel it working;
know you’re protected.
Serve hot; refrigerate after opening.

Written for WE WRITE POEMS Prompt #113 Supermarket found poetry

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).

LIGHT FROM A DISTANT SHORE

She sets herself; a life raft for wayward
sailors navigating life on a tumultuous sea.
Her beacon shines brightly,
a nightly sweep with eyes searching
and a smile that provides great light.
Lost souls find comfort there.
Every heart beats more sure;
no hazard is too great to bear.

Far and away she stands,
a gentle lady of a kind and nurturing soul.
Her goal remains within reach,
nature’s friend and confidant.
A mother’s caress never so sweet,
nor guiding hand so tender,
making a mental effort to present
her precious gift; melancholy’s true mender.

For she becomes the friend in which you place your trust,
the “embrace” in which you find comfort.
She is a beautiful soul,
a manifestation of every good thing.
She brings her smile to soothe your heart
and you start to believe in all of her charm;
a shield protecting and projecting
is the sanctuary disguised as her arms.

Secure in the shadows
miles from your eyes, you are wise
to rely on her heart being your rudder.
For the heavens give her direction
and her faith gives her solace.
Her face, an angel’s desire
and the smile she burns throughout,
with love’s unquenchable fire.

© 2012 – Walt Wojtanik

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.

WORTH OVER BETRAYAL

All during the interview, she remained one of the cool customers,
keeping her thoughts private. Confidential.
The memories of that moment were a blur, but clarity
unmercifully came to lift her fog. Emotions washed over her
in waves; once again she felt violated, ransacked –
leaving her again to feel broken and isolated.
She sits weeping inconsolably, his hideous face revisits
her with all the charms of a tire iron to her purity.
Wishing she could trade that visage for a vision
of one more caring and compassionate, offering
a healing touch, a sensitive ear; a glue to mend her fractured self.
She felt the fool to think there was a man whose love could make her feel
whole and clean and mended. But there she was, cinched by his caring
arms wrapped around her heart like a belt holding up her psyche.
It made her feel brand new, like a sticker declaring her “Improved!”
Love heals all!

 

 

Written for The Sunday Whirl – Wordle #43