REFINISHING WOOD

I’ve finally gotten around to redoing my first poetry chapbook collection, “WOOD”.

My “first” poetry collection –        WOOD

Nicely bound with a slick new cover and an added introduction, I am satisfied with the results. This second printing blends in nicely with the rest of the collection. Just like Dad, it felt good to rework (refinish) “Wood”.

Now, the companion follow-up “Return to Wood” makes a bit more sense.

THE BOY WHO (WHO WOULD BE DOCTOR)

A TARDIS (Police Box)

Around the neighbourhood he would roam,
saving civilisation close to home.
A boy sized TARDIS was a great deal,
(equipped with TARDIS training wheels).
Just a lad, he was glad that righting wrongs
was a noble fight, as long as it didn’t take all night!
Even young time-lords were quite punctual
as long as the street lamps were fully functional.
Science fiction, or science fact could not
detract from the popularity of this
bi-polarity. The young man, for certain no fool,
light years away from medi-school.
A dozen Doctors have transpired,
the Who’s just a boy, too young to be hired.
But let him play. He’ll grow someday
to be the Who, in every way!
From generation to re-generation,
thanks are due to the BBC station
for giving minds a chance to expand
and travel with this time-travel man!

© Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014

POETIC ASIDES PROMPT #261 – “THE BOY WHO______”

TIMEPIECE

“Tarnished and dented; a bauble from a bygone day”

Tarnished and dented; a bauble of a bygone day.
In a wooden cigar box; keepsakes both, with
little more function than that. The stem fused
to the casing, the workings have retired. But,

it has inspired me to find the link. The contents
of the box play like a road map; clues to unravel
the mystery that is my history. The key, worn and
encrusted with years of dirt and oils from feeble fingers.

It lingers in my hand for a moment, its uncertainty secured.
Papers, folded and bound with a frail rubber band
line the bottom of the box. A visa document,
possibly a first issue wrapped in a tissue to protect

what it meant to an old Polish immigrant determined
to become all that America had to offer. Naturalization
documents, meant to pronounce his acceptance
of a lifestyle long sought, and their acceptance of him

as one of the free and brave. The camera buried amongst
the treasures, bellows cracked and torn, a forlorn
instrument with which a part of his life had been preserved.
It all deserved a better fate, but it is too late to shed

a single tear from your eyes for its demise. The puzzle
is splayed before you, the detective of your past.
A torn swatch of a fabric, hues faded but shades
of blue and red and white pressed between pages.

Finally, one last piece remains. A photograph.
a dark and handsome young man; heavy jacket and
a fedora pulled down across the brow. Intermingled
with other similar folk unconcerned for their purpose.

But the subject stands tall. Proud. Posed to save
this moment in memory, and upon this daguerreotype
for long after. In the background, Lady Liberty stands strong.
In his hand an American flag clutched to his chest.

A chain from buttonhole to vest pockets and a key as a fob,
a cinch to keep his pride from bursting. It insinuates
the only part missing was the watch that sat tucked
close to his left hand. A trinket; a remembrance

of the father he had left behind in Igolomia, Poland
to claim his dream. It remains strong in your own heart
as the box that holds your Great-Grandfather’s declaration secure.
You are sure the timepiece marked his life as well as your own.

 

Presented at dVerse Poets Pub – OLN Week #104

BIOPSY

Symptoms came to the fore
knocking me to the floor. A knee
and a supplicant plea
were all that made me see the pain
wasn’t just in my brain,
but it did leave me drained and scared.
If I had only dared,
then I might have been spared this fate.
And it’s never too late
(or so they say). I wait for word,
but so far all I’ve heard’s
something a little bird told me.
Right now it’s wait and see
what this next biopsy will show.
The process is so slow
as far as these things go. Can’t wait
(I hope we’re not too late).

BECOMING MY FATHER

 

My elbows hurt. Years of swinging
a heavy framing hammer takes its toll.
Just like my father, the first thing to go.
To extol the virtues of hard work
hardly works for one bred and raised
into it. A good fit for a blue collar guy.
Big plans and ideas; a mental diarhea
that clouds the here and now. How did
I not see it before? Sure, I’m enough
of my own man to matter, and still
enough of my old man to not care.
Where do I draw the line? It is a fine line
at that, and that begins the tale. The travails
of this life, rife with pitfalls and victories
are visited upon the son; the one most like
the man he aspired to be. My shuffle is
more deliberate. My vision waning.
My voice, still strong on paper dissapates
like vapor when I speak. I seek approval
to verify my insecurities. The purity of
thought and deed in need of a boost. No better
place to roost than in his shoes. These blues
sound better with a strong drumbeat; a sweet
syncopation to drive this transformation homeward.
The signs are tell-tale. The change is nearly complete.
I mailed my registration to AARP today.
All for a six dollar savings on a safe driving course,
to get me a ten percent discount on insurance rates.
I am becoming my Father. My elbows hurt.

OCTOBER SAVES

Fighting a battle often lost in the darkness
of a weary mind. There is no rest there.
Cursing the single candle lit to offer
its illumination; to infiltrate this
mental stagnation. Accursed slumber
why do you wage against my will?
Will you release me like the leaves
of October’s colorful flurry, left
to scatter in the cool winds from place
to place; a migration to discover the peace
that I crave. You have found me, October.
You have extended your lifeline in fine fashion,
a saving assist for one clamoring for control
over heart and soul,
over heart and mind.
I clutch your hand as I am flung over
the edge of reason. Your season is here.
You want me near, October, where I belong.
Anything else would be just wrong.

YESTERDAY LIKE TODAY

It’s funny how thoughts of the past cleave themselves to the present, flavoring every last savor of an idea with familiarity. Poems rewritten become new like a freshly woven thread through the old swatch of fabric. A cloth well-worn but still stylish. transplanting a smile laced with remembrance. In the final analysis we weave the old and new into an enhanced rumination that serves the ear and the eye. Why not leave well enough alone? It is shown in your history. An unraveled mystery and genealogy. We are all a re-written story. We are a tale of glory that spans a timeline of an infinite nature. Call it what you will, it still links the old with the new; the past and the present. Yesterday is today.