Photo by Walter J. Wojtanik

The prompt for Week 20 is based on this photograph. Could be a love poem, a dream sequence, a wishful moment, a memory. Whatever the photo says to you will paint this portrait in words.

Walt’s Vision:


Stretched out like a future bright
and promising, young love  rapt
in wishful dreams. Hopes for a life
ripe for the picking hang seductively
within reach. She is headstrong
and determined, a beauty in style,
her demeanor reeks of compassion
and an eye for fashion that augments
nature’s handiwork. He, a young man
doubtful, but very giving and loving,
a handsome lout, dark and chiseled,
charged and ready for action.
A class act  in her eyes and heart.
Their vision focused,  futures joined in unison
adrift upon the lake of wishful dreams.


We watch the sun set
Our love stealing away time
We watch the sun rise

As an “Aside,”  Robert Lee Brewer of The Writer’s Digest Poetic Asides has invited poetry in remembrance of 9/11.  We encourage you to visit to read, and perhaps write:  http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/poetry-prompts/10-years-of-911-poetry#comment-90775 .

71 thoughts on “WISHFUL, YOUNG DREAMERS – PROMPT #20

  1. Deus Ex Machina

    “Agnosco veteris vestigia flammae.” ~Virgil (The Aeneid)

    By chance, I saw you on the street,
    still full of self, with much conceit
    and still the same as you once were.
    I thought I might try to avoid
    you, but you saw me. That destroyed
    any thought I had, dear sir,
    of getting through this life of mine
    without you. Still, I would not pine
    but pray these run-ins won’t recur.


  2. I don’t think I’m enough of a romantic to write to this prompt – though somehow RJ’s poem could be described as cynical!

    Walt, is there a different meaning in America for the word lout? In UK English a lout is a vulgar youth, a yob, stupid and probably violent, none of which seems to fit the image the rest of your poem creates.

    Marie, Your senryu is a delightful interpretation of the photo.

    • Viv, noted. But the young man started out a lout, but couldn’t be anymore of a gentleman to me or my daughter there in the photo.

      Nice RJ.

      Glad you could make an appearance, meg.

      • ME – your poem was lovely! Walt – thanks for the explanation. That puts a whole different spin on your marvelous, honest poem.

        As for my snarky take on the prompt, it was meant in fun. I’m generally not as cynical as one might think, but I had a slumber party at my house last night, so I was reading DP to maintain my sanity.

        • Ooops, did I say that? I didn’t want to sway the work of the masses by divulging that fact, and I did first shot out of the box. The poetry is inherent in this photo. It could be anyone. Besides, you left off the “AND TALENTED”. She goes by “THE LOVELY AND TALENTED, Walt’s daughter.”


    If I could, I would name all of these flowers,
    Say which trees end before tall times begin,
    What starts the ducks to quack on Berwind Lake,
    Be privy to the secrets insects tell,
    And ride within an empty cellophane bag
    That sails its crinkled shape upon the lake.

    Today, like last year, and again the year before,
    We sat here at our familiar picnic
    Place of stone and wood,
    Witnesses to a West Virginia June
    Where nature plays out its green again,
    And the bridge, like a wooden rainbow,

    Spans the lake between the roadside and the wild.
    Here we are once more– the two of us
    Still locked in life’s embrace– same time, same place,
    Our love like seasons renewed, yet changeless
    Like this summer scene on Berwind Lake.


  4. “Wistful Reverie on an Afternoon”

    A breeze whispers through the
    Trees. I think I’d like to
    Fly away. Surely tree-top
    Conversations are much more
    Pleasant than anything to be
    Had in a fancy restaurant
    Full of towel-armed waiters?

    Ripples lap at the shore line, stealing
    Pebbles. I think I’d rather grow
    Gills and dive, deep down to a
    Place where words don’t
    Exist and we’d just shake fins and smile.

  5. Romance

    As they cuddle there
    by the lake
    to the tune of crickets,
    gentle lapping waves,
    and quacking ducks,
    he thinks of the stars in her eyes,
    her soft, silky shoulders
    the glistening of her dark hair, not
    her nagging him to take out the trash,
    pantyhose hanging on the curtain rod
    or PMS.
    She thinks of his deep, baby blues,
    the strength of his shoulders,
    the warmth of his body against hers, not
    Monday night football games,
    belches in front of company
    shoes to underwear scattered
    throughout the house.
    That’s why, my dear children,
    there’s such thing as

  6. Pingback: Wishful, Young Dreamers (a haiku) « echoes from the silence

  7. A poem for two voices


    In your arms I melt.
    My heartbeat quickens from your touch.
    It’s hard to concentrate on the view, It’s hard to concentrate on the view,
    when I lean my head into you.
    as your scent drifts in the breeze.
    I feel alive and free, our love is meant to be. I feel alive and free, our love is meant to be.
    I could stay here all night long, listening to
    the birds’ love song.
    I could hold you all night long and forever
    wouldn’t be too long.
    By your side is where I always want to be. By your side is where I always want to be.
    Are you saying what I think you mean?
    If you would be so kind to take my hand,
    I’d love to marry you. I’d love to marry you.
    Forever and ever, I do. Forever and ever, I do.

  8. Shivering
    (An octain refrain)

    Sometimes there isn’t a sunset
    No matter how long we sit here
    Shivering as the night draws near.

    Sometimes the only hope we get
    Facing the cost of all that’s lost
    Is in someone we’ve barely met

    A chest to which we breathe our fear.
    Sometimes there isn’t a sunset.

  9. Sunrise From the Moon

    wound around with the first sunrise
    arms like swans
    lovers seen from the moon pause.
    their hungers rest, too, exhausted.
    there is dew, becoming too, cool
    on separate things, grass, a bench
              when they close their eyes
    to one another, feeling nothing
               warm but one another.
    watch them from here on the moon
    the first time open their eyes together.

  10. Ordinary Days

    Just look at them, would you? Whole live before them,
    and they have the gullibility of youth to believe
    that this day is the pinnacle–the dress, the dance,
    the roses he chose without a hint from her.

    Should we tell them the truth—that years from now
    the days they’ll recall may be instead the ordinary days,
    that they’ll look back at what has yet to happen,
    feeling a lovely ache, not for the taffeta and bow ties,
    but the warm worn jersey out of the dryer,
    the surprise phone calls for no special reason,
    the flowers picked by small hands without permission
    from neighbors’ flower beds? No, let’s not spoil it now.

    There’s no way they could know how precious
    those indistinguishable days can be.

  11. The Morning After

    Romance lay heavy on the air
    as he arrived on her doorstep
    with a corsage in hand;
    She blushes,
    he chats
    and they pose for pictures
    before leaving;

    They joined their friends
    in the transformed room
    full of teenage hormones,
    and they danced
    till the shoes came off,
    the hair drooped
    and the lipstick was gone;

    Then seeking to forestall
    the inevitable ending
    of the senior prom,
    they drive off to the lake
    and share a few last
    dew drops of romance
    as the sun rises.

  12. Pingback: Lakeside Conversation, Poetic Bloomings « Sharp Little Pencil

  13. Ah, back to the wonderful world of poems after my editing break! The poem is posted on my blog and also at Poets United, which might help increase readers, too! Walt, a lovely photo the brought from within an exunpected conversation:: http://sharplittlepencil.wordpress.com/2011/09/15/lakeside-conversation-poetic-bloomings/

    Lakeside Conversation

    An autumn breeze caressed my cheek.
    A moment with no words to speak
    aloud, but softly, with great care:
    “The end of this; we know it’s there.”

    The carefree days, each careful kiss;
    I know that life holds more than this
    for me,” I sighed, and waited for
    response from him. Then, this he swore:

    “I’ll like you ‘til my dying day.
    Please be my friend, although we’ll lay
    apart, and in the arms of others.”
    This is love time never smothers:

    The gift of letting passion go
    because true friendship deems it so.

    © 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

  14. Pingback: BEFORE THE PROM | The Poet's Quill

    By Mike Patrick

    Before the prom, we had some time
    to kill. Twas happenstance Spring’s clime
    was ripe for love to finally bloom.
    And we, beneath the lake’s full moon,
    embraced within the scent of pine.

    Your beauty, in your gown sublime,
    was all I saw as lips met mine.
    The minutes ran away so soon
    before the prom

    We trifled then with love’s lifeline,
    not knowing how it would define
    our happiness, with children, strewn
    with laughter we could not presume
    before our lives did full entwine . . .
    before the prom.

  16. A Haiku taking a look at this photo from the “other” side!

    WIth a heavy sigh
    we realize the end has come
    to us and the day.

    • the “other” side of blooming romance, that is. After I wrote and posted I realized it all sounded a little macabre…not at all what I meant.

    • Kelly, we both saw the resignation possible in that pose… Yours was contained in a haiku! And Poetry & Icecream, I agree, “macabre” isn’t the word. Maybe “cynical”? Not all pictures are as they seem… it’s about getting into the minds of the characters, and you achieved that!

  17. I saw this photo on Mike’s blog and I really liked it so I thought I’d have a go too 🙂


    The lake as serene as her heart
    reflects her quiet joy.
    The soft breeze caresses her dreams
    as she breathes in his heady scent.
    Tomorrow’s hope gently
    ripples towards them.
    The future belongs to lovers.

  18. Pingback: Young Love « Poetry and Icecream

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