A MATTER OF MIND

It’s all inside her head, he said.
But for crying out loud,
she’s been in the clouds for weeks.
She speaks in volumes,
in decibels, not books.
It looks like her hearing
hangs in the balance,
her equilibrium is shot.
But she is not!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

dVerse Poets Pub – Q44: Quadrille #18 – Cloud

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).

NOVEMBER CHAPBOOK CHALLENGE – “Unexpected”

MUSE AND GUMPTION

I have felt for a while
that I had lost my poetic wile
and smile, but November
came to call and all that came back.
I claim my poet mantle
and give it another go.
I just hope my slips don’t show!

 PROMPT POSTING

No time frame can stop it,
it allows me to hop on it.
Getting the word to get
absurd or heart-wrenchingly
subtle seems to place me
right place; right time.
Ready to rhyme before
the world gets the word

 BLESSINGS AND DISGUISES

Blessings reign down, offerings
meant to enhance and entrance,
the beauty of the world in a
moment to make life better.
Some times the blessings
are hidden, meant to be found;
a revelation quite profound.
Some times blessing are left
in the open, tripping you up
to cause you to take a second look.
And some times, blessings
are just the people who you
have come to rely upon,
and who rely on you.
Don’t try to hide, because
you know inside, the blessings
we seek will find you on the first peek.
It’s unexpected wonder we’re under.

 FIRST SIGHT

I didn’t know you from Eve,
but I believe there was something
about you that attracted me.
Predictably, I reacted as I always had,
tongued-tied and bumbling, fumbling.
Mumbling something about your eyes,
or hair or the way you mangled the Queen’s English.
You appeared out of the blue and into view
of this hopefully, hopeless romantic;
a man of quiet confidence
and words up the wazoo. And you,
younger by nearly a decade
and a parade of failed relations
finding new elation in me.
I was looking to forget someone.
You were looking for a future
someone to forget. Our eyes met,
I had let my guard down;
you found that moment to confound me.
“What you looking at?” asked you.
“The hell if I know!” came in reply.
Smiles connected us. Who knew?
I wasn’t looking for you, and there you were.
The laws of attraction…most unexpected.

 WISDOM FROM BEYOND

Our old house,
empty then after Dad’s passing.
We were on a quest to get the place
ship-shape before its much put off disposal.
A brother still in residence,
an upper apartment meant to hold him over
between divorce and reconciliation (both came),
with everything including faulty kitchen drain
(which in illness Dad never got around to mending).
I became the pretending plumber; my brother,
an apprentice, snaking the pipe every which way but clear,
when I hear “under the stairs!”. My brother fully unaware
as I stare incredulously at his claim of silence.
“I heard you say ‘under the stairs’” I insisted,
but he resisted the notion with negative nods.
Mere moments brought a familiar sound,
“Under the stairs” it would resound, catching me
off guard and slightly perturbed. It disturbed me more
when my brother was sure he hadn’t uttered a word.
My faculties were not on Spring Break, my wits
were full about me. I was left thinking “Had I been drinking?”
But I would swear on a stack of pancakes
that what had me quaking in my shoes was more
of “Boo’s” than booze. “Under the stairs” once again.
I shout, “WHAT! WHAT”S UNDER THE STAIRS?”
Surely, a younger sibling witnessing the dismantling
of his older brother’s rocker would be more concerned.
But he yearned for the ‘project’ to be over.
I descend the ladder and end up under the stairs
amidst the cobwebs and dust balls there.
All these years since, I no longer wince
at the sound of my Father’s voice directing me,
his heavy metal plumbers snake wedged under the riser.
A wiser man would have snickered at my flicker
of insanity. But all of humanity would crave for
that sound one last time to etch firmly in mind.
My Father continues to keep watch;
me still listening for the wisdom in his whisper.

 ENGINE TROUBLE

                              Flying along,
skies clear with a few
clouds, but nothing to write
home about. Out of nowhere, the
turbulence kicked up her heels send
ing the airship into a raucous rock. Tossed
like a          worn      rag        doll        and
cont           rol       all        but        lost
the           obj      ect     as of      now
is            to       sa      ve       as
ma         ny       liv     es      at
any       cost.  But, look  ing
out        of      the win  dow
the       pil     ot’s ch   ute
ope     ns,   leav ing the
pan    icky  Pa ss en
ge        rs
S.  O.  L.
O
H
W
E
L L

WISDOM FROM BEYOND

Our old house,
empty then after Dad’s passing.
We were on a quest to get the place
ship-shape before its much put off disposal.
A brother still in residence,
an upper apartment meant to hold him over
between divorce and reconciliation (both came),
with everything including faulty kitchen drain
(which in illness Dad never got around to mending).
I became the pretending plumber; my brother,
an apprentice, snaking the pipe every which way but clear,
when I hear “under the stairs!”. My brother fully unaware
as I stare incredulously at his claim of silence.
“I heard you say ‘under the stairs’” I insisted,
but he resisted the notion with negative nods.
Mere moments brought a familiar sound,
“Under the stairs” it would resound, catching me
off guard and slightly perturbed. It disturbed me more
when my brother was sure he hadn’t uttered a word.
My faculties were not on Spring Break, my wits
were full about me. I was left thinking “Had I been drinking?”
But I would swear on a stack of pancakes
that what had me quaking in my shoes was more
of “Boo’s” than booze. “Under the stairs” once again.
I shout, “WHAT! WHAT”S UNDER THE STAIRS?”
Surely, a younger sibling witnessing the dismantling
of his older brother’s rocker would be more concerned.
But he yearned for the ‘project’ to be over.
I descend the ladder and end up under the stairs
amidst the cobwebs and dust balls there.
All these years since, I no longer wince
at the sound of my Father’s voice directing me,
his heavy metal plumbers snake wedged under the riser.
A wiser man would have snikcered at my flicker
of insanity. But all of humanity would crave for
that sound one last time to etch firmly in mind.
My Father continues to keep watch;
me still listening for the wisdom in his whisper.

FIVE SIDES

 

There were five sides to every story,

in a place where glory was the prize earned

through valiant effort and selfless sacrifice.

It would have been nice to face your attackers,

but cowardly slackers destined to fail their main mission

sat in a position to cause as much damage as they could.

Would they have succeeded, we would have pleaded

for mercy. But we don’t play that way. The heroes

in New York and Pennsylvania had back-up

in the Nation’s capitol. On patrol and wresting control

back from the faceless assailant.  Our own mission clear.

Do not lead out of fear. Defend out of honor and respect

of those who had given so much for the cause of many.

In any instance, there remains five sides to every story.

In honor and glory, they died for a cause,

earning our undying devotion and endless applause.

CONCRETE TOWERS: THE SHADOW OF MEMORY

                             I
                             t
                            w
                             a
                             s
                Late summer in                  NY. A day like
                any other;  New                  Yorkers   loved
                days such as th                    ese.  The   sky
                was clear; the air                was crisp  and
                life went on as it                 usually did.Taxi
                cabs jammed in                  traffic, and some
                commuters were                too. Pedestrians
                on the pavement                heading to  their
                nine-to-5 enslave               ment. A sense of
                urgency had gone              unnoticed but that
                was business  as                  it usually was. Men
                and Women head               ed to work, or to
                drop the children               off at daycare. Today
                is September 11th              2001 and all is right
                with the world. The            sun rises, casting
                the Statue of Liberty          in  seductive  and
                glorious silhouette;             a shadowed sentinel
                set in the harbor to              greet all travelers to
                the “Land of the Free”.       Like those folks on
                that inbound jet and         others like it. It holds
  the hopes and dreams of all aboard, as it does for all below. The airplane’s
 shadow is cast ominously across the expanse of concrete, metal and glass;
a close pass to the constructed mountains above. Most unusual on this usual
day. Nothing changes on usual days. Usually, but not today late summer in NY.

REMEMBERING THE TWINS

Tall and proud they stood,
brothers from the same design.
One taller than the other;
he wore his hat to distinguish them.
Side-by-side, they kept watch
over the multitudes with attitudes,
near the harbor, they held no ill will
standing still while liberty had shown the way.
Until that day, their futures bright together,
their fates tied to their function.
But their compunction was well founded
when they were grounded.  Encouraging to the last,
until the fast descent caused by one’s great fall.
The other followed shortly, two swept clear.
Ten years older if they were still here. 
Tall and proud they stood,
brothers from the same design,
holding lives and dreams for all
concerned in the balance.
Under a valance of dust and rubble
there remains no trouble remembering the twins.

MY SOUL IS LIFTED

Lost in that maze of doubt and uncertainty,
you emerged from the shadow of long ago
to take a hold of my precious words and cling
to them as if they were the most important thing,
most cherished in your mind.
How did you find me here? Why do you raise me up?
How did you bridge this chasm between
thought and word; between heart and mind.
I had become a poet lost in the mire of a dwindling pyre,
left to smolder in the ash heap of emotion.
And yet, you read my words; you devour them,
filling your soul with their beauty, and lifting mine
with your support and encouragement.
My poetic soul has found nourishment in your devotion.
My muse has taken flight as it soars; to the clouds my soul is lifted.