Roses smell sweet, and their beauty
is their sworn duty to nature.
In any nomenclature, their stature blooms
filling every room with their fragrant fare.

Shall I call a woman a rose?
By any other name she would be as
sweet and beautiful, a dutiful inspiration
in any nomenclature. A flower amongst thorns.

Well worn on a well-worn sleeve, she leaves
an impression, that says her heart, the blush
of a rose, has chosen you to be her gardener.
And you are blessed to hold her bloom.

Her perfume, like the rose, flows to your nostrils,
filling you with her heavenly scent, for she was
heaven sent. She was meant to be nurtured
and cared for, and what’s more, to be admired

and loved. Above all else, she will grace your life
brightening your days as long as she stays in view.
Just like roses too, a women is most beautiful.
A woman is a rose. What’s in a name?

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

QKJ #15 – A Plant With Thorns


I watch her struggle with herself,
her health is on the wane and it is insane
that one once so vibrant can’t function
as she once had. The past two months

have been bad with no relief in sight!
Every night her medication dulls her
and lulls her into a stupor that Superman
couldn’t punch through. You view

her as if in slow-motion and any notion
that she’s improving if behooving you
to rethink your position. This condition
has her doctors befuddled as she becomes

more muddled and unbalanced.
The challenges of life that my wife must face
have replaced every day living
giving us a thankfulness for each day of hope.

But our angst resides in the tragedy of her slow fade.
She, a shade of her former self.
But I remain here to help. She needs me near each day.
And I am here, not wanting it any other way!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides November Chapbook Challenge – Day 10: Tragic


Forgotten acquaintances foregoing
fun, fun, fun to head for the warmth of the sun
would be nice, wouldn’t it?

I’ve been busy doin’ nothin’
but thinking about the fairer part
of this sad kokomo I have become.

It was a sin how lady Lynda
found the need to break away and say nothing,
a sorry soul more lost than I had become.

God only knows why I chose to be
the hero and villain in her serial life.
But, would I do it again? You bet I would!

And is it possible to forget Caroline?
No! I was amazed how one woman
could make this place we shared a better

place than was served up on this platter
of life. She would have been a great wife,
But she liked the ocean, she was free flowing and

growing impatient with my muse.
I’m waiting for the day when I can say
I no longer miss her. I would kiss her

in a heartbeat were she here, the dear.
Then there’s the darlin’ Barbara Ann.
When I get around to her, I can hear music.

That’s why God made the radio!
But she was another of those California girls,
free of spirit and on life’s surfing safari

with nary a care in this whole world.
When I said “Don’t worry Baby” she must have
taken it to heart. A wild honey.

I always thought that when I grew up to be a man
who needs a woman, it would work its way around
to happening. I wonder. Please, let me wonder.

So help me, Rhonda. I can never learn not to love.
Isn’t it time I come out from in my room for you?
Don’t fight the sea, sail on, sailor!
This child of winter needs you here with me.


(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014

Based on the songs of The Beach Boys