Looking for the words – apropos, absurd;
unheard in the realm of what others say.
Trying to say things in a brand new way
that hasn’t been expressed as yet.
I get caught up in semantics, a frantic
search for a perplexing lexicon. I’m on
edge and hedge every bet where words are concerned.
I’ve yearned for moments like these, so please
forgive my manic meandering and my Houdini-esque
escape act. It is a fact, I am more random
than my fan-dom would like. Find me where you can.
I’ll be the poetic man with the out-turned pockets.
My words were once good. Will rhyme for food!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014


The fleecy pile
makes me smile

the way they’re cushioning my feet
keeps them dry and smelling sweet,

I like them short
I like them long

on my ‘dogs’
where they belong.

Be they crew or be they tube,
without them I feel like a rube.

My feet no longer perspirate
Your toe fetish will have to wait.



There’s a flag on the play,
the way things are going
there’s a flag everyday.
One thing after another
and no end in sight. It isn’t right
to fight this battle every second,
but I reckon this is what I signed up for.
Life is not a game, the rules aren’t fair,
but they aren’t supposed to be.
It’s you and me against the world,
and I’m not so sure about you.


You were merely a snapshot,
a moment in time preserved,
reserved for random viewing,
your candid doing, frozen.
Had I chosen to snap a second
sooner, your expression
would not be as expressive,
and your movements
may have been in motion, but excessive.
I took a flyer on your
ability to dance across my mind
in floating steplets two and three
ahead of where you were, for sure
a fortunate accident of a slow trigger
finger, had I lingered an instance longer
the moment would have gone and I would
be longing for its replay. This is a day
to celebrate in constant exuberance,
a mystic circumstance; a chance moment
frozen in the album of our history.
A mystery preserved in time, yours and mine.


Luck, be a lady tonight.
But be good luck. I’ve had it
up to here with your sister.
I’m a stand-up mister, but keep falling
flat on my face in this place.
Quit stalling, I’m calling you out.
Do you need me to shout it?
Can I do without luck? I doubt it.
So, would it be fine to you, if I wine and dine you,
candle and moon light, dimly bright?
Dancing, romancing; chancing all I have?
You could be the salve for what ails me.
Lady, don’t fail me. I’m the fella
you came in with. Luck, be that lady!


It’s how they raised me;
my background; genetics.
A frenetic romp through
those formative years,
a shyness relegating me
to a tool lacking function,
but with a passion to learn.
Lessons of knowledge,
lessons of compassion,
lessons of ability.
Honing the skills that
took me years to realize I had.
A way with music; a way with words,
saying what I mean; meaning what I say.
Far and away the sole purpose
of my art is to start expressing
all my heart had been silent to speak.
In each golden moment, a new reason,
a change of season to carry the year,
and it is here that I belong.
Poetic poser full of song, a head
full of ideas and pleas to the Power
that is, that what I feel is real,
and every life I touch is accepting.
A cleansing of all misdeeds,
and a need to make a difference.
Having been given the gift of life,
it is up to us to give it meaning. 


May 12th Prompt from Flashy Fiction:
Donal was not amused. Once again, someone in the Guest Care office (Mrs. Cooks!) thought it would be funny to photoshop his head onto a drawing. Of Donald Duck. Because that never got old.

Once again, someone in the Guest Care office (Mrs. Cooks!) thought it would be funny to Photoshop his head onto a drawing of Donald Duck, because frankly, that never got old. Donal was not amused.

He sat patiently, hands still lightly gripping his steering wheel. “Twelve and two”, he smirked inwardly as he waited. Three squad cars and the S.W.A.T. team flashed their semaphore behind him. The show of force afforded Donal some importance.

“They should see this, then they’d know not to laugh”, he thought, his hands clearly visible.

An officer approached on either side of his vehicle, pistols drawn as Donal’s breathing remained slow and rhythmic. He pressed the button on his power window, as it lowered fully open. Donal smiled.

“Problem officers?” he cracked, but the patrolman was far from playful.

“Get out of the car, Scumbag, and keep your hands where I can see them!” the cop shouted at Donal as the officer’s partner rounded the front of the car, revolver still trained on Donal’s chest.

He slowly pushed his door opened and stepped out into the crisp morning air, closing the door behind him. Officer Creedy and Patrolman Habib rushed the calm assailant, harshly pressing his face against the dust encrusted glass of his passenger window. Habib gave his handcuffs an extra twist as he slapped them around Donal’s wrists.

The two took turns shoving Donal toward their squad car. But at one point, Donal hardened his stance, glancing back at his car. Through the rear window she stared, her designer sunglasses covering her eyes. A grotesque smile was fashioned across the stiffening lips of Mrs Cooks decapitated head, which Donal had “pasted” on the rear shelf above his back seat.

He knew he would always remember that smile as he entered the police car harshly. In his mind, it would never get old.