Of me!
Of Life!
Of these questions recurring;

Of the endless trains of the faithless
wondering about existence with persistence
and resolve, trying to solve the mysteries, failing;

Of myself,
mired in thoughts profound, that surround
in a confused fog, a lone dog chewing on life’s flavored bone. Alone;

Of eyes that crave the light
of each new day, of each new idea,
of every struggle, the brilliance of wisdom glowing;

Of every poor result left to fester,
of the sullied crowds plotting
allotting me to surrender without recourse;

Of the empty useless years, no rest
on this life quest when I acquiesce to this folly,
no jolly expression left unpunished, unfinished;

Of the terrible doubt
that lingers with words left to languish in these fingers
poetic verses worsen as time passes, thoughts amassed and sequestered;

Of the uncertainty of what life remains
to offer to fill the coffers of one left bankrupt of ideas,
of ideals, of the feeling of relevance and some semblance of honor;

Of day and night awash in memories lost
of doubtless apparitions holding answers to questions unasked
or pondered, wonders of the world we possess and caress with our words;

Of course, nothing comes from nothing
and should nothing become something, we will dream and fly,
an eye on future tomorrows, of joys and sorrows;

Of the visages of things that bring into focus
what hearts envision; of piercing through every heaven,
every hell and the ability to tell the difference;

Of the ugliness of men to cast aspersions one upon the other,
making sister and brother enemies of that hated state.
Return to the sacred plate of communion, a blessed union of souls;

Of me?
Of life recurring?
Of Leaves of Grass and such!

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2020

Inspiration drawn from Walt Whitman’s works – Leaves of Grass, O Me! Oh Life!, Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances, Of the Visage of Things


Silence resounds, quiet sounds
never heard, lines blurred,
fine lines are absurd when less bold.

Cluttered desk reflecting
the jumble of his mind and muse,
(no muse is good muse)

words he chooses
lose their meanings,
demeaning his art

starting with any rhyme.
Time stands, still you
feel history repeats itself,

shelves full of books and periodicals
are illogical when left alone.
At home in a room for one

who writes what hearts express.
All the best from the poet in the big chair
who dares write such bizarre things!

Fingers flying to tie
loose ends, “friends” with
the likes of Whitman and Neruda,

and other poetic dudes who
he dares to mimic. His internally rhyming
gimmick, his saving grace.

Saving face by living to write another day.
Placard stands on his desk that says,
“The Poet is Way In, Man!”

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge 2016 – Day #18: “Office”