Fake friends find forever fleeting,
Falling, failing, foundering.
First finely formed,
Flattering, fast faltering.
Former friends find fault,
Fiends, finally finished.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

Written for Poetic Asides Poetic Form – Tautogram Poems



Please don’t look for me. I will not be there.
If my spirit lingers, it’s out of fear
of leaving this place unattended.
My worn and ravaged heart has been mended,
      but the scars are much to much to bear.

In the shadows I stay, lurking here where
I remain covered and concealed there.
My heart torn actions have been defended.
      Please don’t look for me…

You fail to see me, and you do not care
that I had given all I had. But dare
I ask for its return it would end
terribly. You can see nothing, my friend;
there’s blankness in your eyes, that distant stare –
      Please don’t look for me…

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019


Grey shades become a blur, they stir an uneasy feeling as they’re stealing all tonal cohesion, freezing your ear in unsavory ways. It plays on your sense of composition. Your condition does not translate well and you dwell on its sound. You’ve been around these keys enough to know you can throw a klinker here and there. But that is where it rests. Stay sharp and do your best. Roses are red. Love is blue. We all live in a yellow submarine. But shades of grey rule the day as long as I play.

Nature’s symphony
playing across a grey sky
In the key of C

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

for Twiglet #112 – “In the Key of C”




I hear it clearly. For years now the sound of silence has become a trusted friend. My head clears when I near its fringe. Any hinge unlatched becomes attached in this peace. A place where space is abundant, and a writer can be inspired, synapses fired and reloaded, goaded into action. The attraction is most wanted, a welcomed invitation to find the inspiration I seek. As others begin to stray, here I will stay. Surrounded by the sound of silence. This trusted friend. My words never end in this place and I find my peace in my solitude.

the meadow of thought
the great expanse of silence
only peace invades

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

Written for my return to dVerse Poet’s Pub – Haibun Monday: Solitude


Poets write of love, singers give it song,
and bright creative souls cannot be wrong.
Feel love! Feel Love! Its tender touch
reaches so deep to mean so much.
And in the end, ones so loved are so blessed
but they are envied by all the rest.

Yet, love is not meant to be locked away.
You can bet words of love will have their say.
Give love; get love, equal measure,
and know that it is life’s true treasure.
For in the end, others will share this prize,
It is perfection in the poet’s eyes.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019


Another verse that’s written from my heart,
a true emotion searching for repose.
Just a room in which it can take comfort,
a soul museum to display my art.

A biting poem piercing like a dart,
a loving poem like a lover’s kiss.
The saddest poem anyone could read,
to let a foolish poet play his part.

For in his heart is where his poems start,
expressions written from the poet’s soul.
They all come home to live inside his words,
a world in which all reason will depart.

Another verse that’s written from the heart,
these poems live and breathe in every rhyme.
A soul museum to display my art.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019


A serie of poems I had written in tribute to John Lennon. Remembering this day.


John Lennon sang,
“All You Need Is Love”;
died from hate.

John Lennon sang,
“Happiness is a Warm Gun”.
Sadly he learned.

John Lennon sang,
“Come Together Now Over Me”,
and people did.

John Lennon sang
to “Give Peace a Chance”.
Rest in Peace.

John Lennon sang,
to a generation that believed.
Living through music.

© – Walter J. Wojtanik


Once behind a milk maid bleary,
I beard a Liddypoolian surly,
sing-song pop/rocks, yeah, yeah, yup,
with good dog Nigel, me soiled pup.
Richie-ringy, drum, drum, drum,
whilst Petey lands upon his bum,
Paulie wally doodles all day,
and Georgie puts pied pudding away.
Meanstyle, Yokie loudly bang she slaved,
a New Yorkshire in me final daze,
avant garded must too grately
amongst the scruffy beat alls lately.
Banded four we combed to stage Ed,
we was all the bloody rage, Ed.
Maniacal, the screamies fainted
as were the mused sick; badly tainted.
Writey, writey, Bob all-mighty,
pose’em, storied; all humoured slighty.
From me pen me wordies stumble,
in me own write does muzak crumble.
Go salve the Queen!

© – Walter J. Wojtanik


His glasses were round
and he fostered a profound way
of seeing the world as it should be.
It was he who gave passivity
a fighting chance. At every glance
he saw possibility; a hope for futures
bright. It wasn’t hard to see in clear vision.
It was the division of ideologies
and theologies that put up barriers.
That was clearly visible. The problems
were not hidden; solutions were obscure.
It was for sure his legacy languishes
in rose-colored number nine dreams

© Walter J Wojtanik


I ruled the world, you see,
and then the world ruled me.

A singing jester, a bloody fool;
one of those lads from Liverpool.

We came to America, land of the free,
our music grew, but it stifled me.

My choice of partners made a stir,
and the world had come to ravage her.

But we made a home and found our place,
without all that screaming in our face,

to settle into a life of seclusion,
and perpetrated this fantastic illusion.

So a glad househusband I became
while Yoko worked to make a name.

And I, a Beatle, husband, dad,
was happy in the life I had.

But music, still my love and passion,
had lured me in a rhythmic fashion,

to feed this “Double Fantasy”
and brought the world right back to me.

But, a yellow bastard made his name
by stealing someone else’s fame.

Mark my words David, he was a mean chap man,
crouching there with a steady hand,

I sang that, “Happiness Is a Warm Gun”
“Mr. Lennon?” bang-bang, shoot, shoot. I was bloody done.

© Walter J Wojtanik


December 8, 1980

A busy night in the jungle,
it seems every bungled
suicide attempt and
accident picked today
to play out their dramas.
Street punks and pistol
packing mamas and pops.
Everything stops when they
wheel the shooting victim in.
It’s a sin, they got him in the back.
His jacket soaked in the outpouring
of his life’s force. In the course of such
events, life takes a front seat,
we meet it head on. That Beatle
guy was dead on. But, “Happiness is a
Warm Gun”? Tell that to this guy…
He looks like… Lennon?

(C) Walter J Wojtanik


I remember that it snowed that day.
     Don’t you remember? 
I remember it was on
     a Monday night in December. 
I remember I picked you up at a half past three, 
     and you were waiting by that old maple tree. 
I remember the wind was blowing rather strong, 
     and I had you waiting out there far too long. 
I remember you thought you should have stayed in bed, 
     but came out with that horrible cold instead. 
I remember we had some dinner, we saw a show, 
     and we made some angels in the snow. 
I remember I drove you straight home to get some rest 
     and offered to rub some Vicks® on your chest. 
I remember we finally got there a bit after nine, 
     and I remember you said you had a really good time. 
I remember we chatted briefly watching the snow 
     and we listened to music on the radio. 
I remember the announcer broke in with some bad news, 
     and that shroud of sadness covered you. 
I remember. Don’t you remember how you cried 
     that night we heard that John Lennon had died?

© Walter J. Wojtanik


He had the paper,
pressed, preserved; reserved
to read when the pain was less
palpable, and he’d be able to grieve.
He couldn’t believe that twenty years
stood between this heinous act, a fact
he had struggled with greatly. But,
lately he felt closure. He was sure
that John was near, it was clear that
in the music and moments of release,
his elusive peace was just a piece of the puzzle.
His New York was empty without his big spirit,
the heart of this metropolis beat
in the stately brownstone Dakota.
Back to bring song back to the maniacal
masses. A cold December to remember,
Central Park aglow, and the World Trade Center
continued to tower tall twenty years since his fall.
They’ve killed John, and life went on.
He had the paper, pressed, preserved;
reserved to read when the pain was less
palpable. Maybe tomorrow!

© – Walter J. Wojtanik


He stood in amazement
so much had changed.
It was a strange epiphany;
his once stoic symphony
had been knocked to its knees.
The Central Park trees failed
to hide the absence of
the majestic twins. The brownstone
once home was a Mecca for
tourists and purists who needed
closure. The exposure wrought
could not be bought; a recluse,
a self-abused; self proclaimed
Caulfield in search of fame
and a name to remember.
That cold December, he could
not see past the last place
he had seen in life, leaving
a young son, a wife and
an adoring nation that came
in adoration of his journey.
Seeing it again was hard,
in the Dakota courtyard
a stain remains. Reliving it
again and again he hears it.
“Mr. Lennon?” Bang, bang,
shoot, shoot. A warm gun
and a Double-Fantasy.
New York City gone wrong.
His city was gone.

© Walter J Wojtanik