PAT-A-CAKE

Elfin folk play pat-a-cake,
a tradition passed down
from small hands to small hands.
Passing time with elfin rhyme
sing-a-song of sixpence
and used as a self-defense,
they play. They never stray
from their merriment,
these scary men of minuscule means.
Caught in a blur, an inky stain
where the stinky little buggers
fester. They are sequestered
in their hovel homes,
pat-a-caking til the cows come.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Quickly – Visual

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TMI

How’m I doing?
I’m glad you asked!
My lower back is killing me,
sciatica and something
internal, I think. And this
infernal pain in my right shoulder
feels like a boulder
landed on it ,
it’s giving me fits.
And my left is starting to ache,
doesn’t take much over-compensating
to relay that pain across to there.
This weight loss may not
be the result of good eating
after all. Not sure what to call it,
and hope I can stall it until
after December.
I don’t remember things like I used to,
and I could use two Aleve to relieve
what ails me. It never fails me.
Once I figure out how to relate
to my prostate’s insolence…
you know, I should cut the violins
and quit complaining.
I’m serving up too much information.
How’re you doing?
Oh, I’m glad you asked…

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Poetic Asides – Prompt #411: Information

AUTHOR

Awards and background information,
and contact information for contacts; affiliations.
Memberships are credentials of experience; an
expert in the field of media. Marketplace credibility of
media appearances, connections.

Personal anecdote platform. Professional organizations
and the promotion of proven track records.
Public speaking and published works,
a publishing experience showing demand for their book,
a writing track record.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Poetic Asides – Prompt #411 – Information

CHANGE OF HABIT

They had dinner on TV trays.
They have been doing that for days.
It sort of plays with their order
but they didn’t care. It just felt right.
Every night, place settings for two
on separate platforms flying in the face
of familial norms and old habits.
Their kitchen table had become
a fable of decorum; they had one.
But, it had become their biggest shelf
upon which fragments of their lives rested.
Who’d have guessed it would be so?
The Wormwoods come to Buffalo!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Red Wolf Journal – Prompt #330: Change

 

CHALLENGE EVERYTHING

Do you take everything for granted?
And does your truth live within you?
Are questions that are never asked
ever answered?
Is it right to set your own standards?
Or should you demand to know how to go?
Is the road less traveled a good choice?
Does your voice ever come unraveled?
Do you allow no to be a solution?
Can roadblocks bring you to some conclusion?

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2017

dVerse Poets Pub – Poetics: The Answer is 42

WHY-BUN?

I am a moody bastard. And my mood drives my every moment. It dictates my words. The poetry I choose to pen is as moody as I end up being. Let’s face it; I can be a hopeless romantic. Think two words. Hopeless. Romantic. I can park on a snarky moment and squeeze the life out of it. I love a good laugh, so any gaff in poetic parlance does a happy dance within me. I can be whatever I need to be. I am the why I write what I write. Drips of conceit, but not really. I have learned long ago that the right words will come at the right time. Any rhyme bears no resemblance to anyone but me. I try to emulate myself with every new waking day, seeing if I could surprise or shock myself.

The autumn of life
Paints with a vivid palette.
The growth of colors

© Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Haibun Monday: Why Do I Write What I Write?

NOBODY GETS WHAT THEY DESERVE

“…you can’t always get what you want,
but, if you try sometimes, you get what you need.”
~ Rolling Stones

What is the worth of a well-turned phrase,
a line full of meter and rhyme?
How do you value a passage of prose,
a moment’s depiction in time?

What is the cost of a sentence or two
that rolls off the tongue so refined?
Is there a price to a word of advice
that sits in the back of your mind?

To live for today, there’s a price that we pay,
that is just “what the market will bear,”
we all set the value for our wants and needs
whether it’s fair or unfair.

We have some set notion of our own worth
commensurate to our dexterity,
and we sometimes feel slighted when the things that we write
get lost in our search for some clarity.

So, how is it as poets that we set the bar
to get the respect that we crave?
We beg and we plead for someone to just read
and accept in our minds that we’re “saved”.

But that phone seldom rings extolling the things
we offer the world, full of pride,
opportunity knocks rarely, we’re hanging on barely
and pent up our emotions inside.

So we just keep on writing while ideas are fighting
to be the next thought that inspires,
and use that spark to flame our muse,
to kindle our poetic fires.

We post our submissions with our kind permission
for those of our ilk to admire,
we bolster each other, poet sister and brother,
and encouragement is what stokes our pyre.

And so it is true this thing that we do
won’t always “pay” what we plead,
we will still plug away and pray for the day
and work hard to get just what we “need”. Continue reading “NOBODY GETS WHAT THEY DESERVE”

SNOWBIRD IN FLIGHT

The svelte owl flew upwind, it didn’t want to squander
the chance to wander above the generator for warmth.
Trying to abscond with bits of straw buried,
a harried attempt to begin nesting. A miraculous
skill of survival readying for the arrival of winter’s
biting breath. Squinting one eye into the bluster,
a feathered Cyclops circling the willowy branches
left barren; exposed to the world. The wisest of birds
mercurial, a nonpareil in avian wonder. Under
the rodomontade that December’s artillery could be
buffeted with a curled wing. Elusive and unobtrusive,
twice observed and followed, never allowed to land
all the sand, snow covered hiding his blankness;
a ghost bird, wings stroking the wind and its
ego, usurping cheese for a salty seaweed
and a truffle with quahog salad.
A bunch of clove evergreens, the hide-away
for the bilious dunderhead hawks stalking and preying;
vespers for the vultures. Cowbird eggs left to fester,
trenched and guttered, fluttered and fine.
Winter approaches to encroach on her flight.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

Poetic Asides – Prompt #410 – Weather

 

SHE, QUICKLY, SAID CHAIR

I had become chair.
Not a chair,
not the chair,
just chair.
Anybody can chair
if they’re in the mood,
Even if you dare,
how now brown chair?
I have longed to come to chair
for it is there
where a bit of sit
will fit my time
as I rhyme there about
chair. For it has been
second chair on the right
and straight on into the foyer.
Boy, oh boy how can anyone bear
to not need to chair,
I swear it’s a far, far better chair
than I’ve ever dared to care.
So in the corner I will sit
forthwith and forsooth
and give a hoot for
(as long as I’m chairished)

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Quickly – Schedule Revision: Chair

OF FREEDOM

Courage allows for our ethics to remain strong;
an idealism that is the antithesis
of what the common perception is.
A sense of decency and decorum.
A truth based in knowledge,
of good will, not bad faith.
Our punishment is the loss of freedom.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

dVerse Poets Pub – Quadrille #40: FREE