PROMPT #466 – TRANSITIONS

We’ve gone through the Thanksgiving holiday with nary a scratch (although a few pounds heavier for some of us). Now we prepare to change gears for the Christmas bacchanalia. I wish you all a smooth transition. Speaking of transitions, write of one!

WALT’S CHANGE:

BRIDGING DAYLIGHT

There is a small window
where light and night converge.
We get this urge to ignore the transition
and take the position that day is day
and night is night; meeting twains
pass when darkness fades. In the shade
of a stone monolithic bridge there is a smidgen
of gray where the bright light is emitted.
You are committed to cross over into
the next tomorrow with joy! No sorrow
rests within its scope. You hope to bask
until dusk crossing over a bridge to daylight!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2023

PROMPT #449 – IT’S ONLY FAIR

We’re at that time of year when festivals abound. Be they church lawn fetes, ethnic festivals, county fairs, state fair or other celebratory gatherings, they all offer experiences and enjoyment that can make memories. Consider an aspect of such an event – a ride, a display, the food… anything is FAIR game. Write your poem with this in mind.

WALT’S EXAMPLE:

FAIR FARE

Polish sausage and a beer
fit the bill and gives a thrill.
Music fills the air and there
is a joyful mood within this dude.
Raise a glass and give a cheer,
the crowds of revelers are here
to celebrate their heritage.
The Polish festival is in full gear,

(c) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2023

PROMPT #443 – SHALL WE DANCE?

When you get the chance, dance. Cut a rug. Trip the light fantastic. Step lightly. Dance.

And so we go. Write something related to dancing. A step, a gathering, dancing around a issue, a phrase, anything involving a dance move puts you in the groove.

WALTZ TIME:

LAST CHANCE, LAST DANCE

Will you, won’t you join this dance?
Won’t you take this one last chance?
Would you, could you use your words,
write some poems (quite absurd)?
Will you take the steps you need?
Won’t you join us? Plant your seed?
Will you? Won’t you take my hand?
Move your feet to beat the band?   
Feel the music move your soul? 
Let the rhythm take control? 
Tell me, can I have this dance? 
Will you, won’t you take the chance?

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2023

***

A TRIBUTE TO DAD:

100% MY FATHERS SON

He was Walt as I am Walt,
and his father was before him.
We shared so much, our ways
and such, as I carry on today.
He, a man quite good with wood
but didn’t say a lot.
Me, a man quite good with words,
but as with wood, quite not.
He taught me things,
he bought me things,
he wrought me with his demons.
And I was swell,
and I rebelled
and inherited his demons.
But, there was a man, despite his flaws
loved his family just because
we gave him joy. Every girl,
every boy, and Mom the glue
that mended us, nurtured and befriended us
and protected us ’til we knew better,
she’d make him a saint if we had let her.
But, Dad was rather quite assured
that mistakes he made would not be cured,
we learned to live within his world
until he up and left it. And now,
bereft it we hold onto all he gave.
I got his eyes, artistic style,
I got mom’s nose, her sighs, her smile,
I got his skill and sad addiction,
I embrace her warmth, his dereliction.
But all-in-all, one helluva guy
in his workshop in the sky.
I have his name, I have his fun,
100% my father’s son.

© Walter J. Wojtanik

PROMPT #429 – SHHHH!

This week, we venture into a writer’s sacred space – the library. Been spending time researching (and seeking a quiet place to fill my days). Head to the stacks and write of something associated with a library. Be it the shelves of books, the silence, a specific section or the atmosphere. It’s an inspiring place and not used nearly as much as it used to be or should be.

WALT’S PEACE:

CHARACTER SKETCH

I find a table in the back room,
across the way a woman waits,
studious and refined. Exchanged
smiles and a nod, a recognition
of each other's condition.
Both on a mission to discover
and uncover our truths.
I delve into my notes, random lines
and quotes of poetic potential,
a vocabulary as a credential.
She primps and organizes,
text books and journals, pages
put forth by sages of knowledge 
and education, her trained station.
Shortly she is joined by her charge,
a student of adult age, unsure 
and uncertain, shrouded by a curtain
of doubt, out to prove detractors wrong.
Treading on trepidatious feet
he meets the one who will guide him,
a black man wanting a better life,
an understanding in undemanding tones.
Grasping small bits of truth far from
the youth of his days, he plays slowly 
with words a struggle undertaken.
He battles the language valiantly, 
stepping cautiously from word to word.
Yearning for a chance to better himself, 
willing to learn what she offers.
I look over again and we all smile and nod.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik - 2023

PROMPT #413 – A BLIZZARD OF THOUGHT

We’re in for a nasty time weather-wise over the next few days here in the Great Lakes area. A mountainous amount of snow the likes we haven’t seen in a few years. Using a form of weather event, write your poem! (Example – A Flurry of Activity, A Storm of Decisions, A Blizzard of Thought…) Stay safe and warm!

MARIE’S OUTLOOK:

Salting Steps

Lord, season my words,
and salt my path so that I
will not slip from You.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

WALT’S WEATHER:

A DELUGE OF MEMORIES

Memories come flooding in,
a deluge of thoughts that haunt
my heart. I start to reminisce,
that first kiss, that last caress.
This pulsing in my chest
that tells me I am still alive
because of you. It is true
that you had revived this sorry soul,
and I lose control of emotions.
And just as fleeting, you are gone 
again, to linger in my heart and mind,
waiting to emerge when least expected,
flowing unimpeded as memories can.
 
(C) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022

.

PROMPT #404 – THE FALL OF AUTUMN

Summer is ready to slip away quietly. Not with any parade or marching band. It just beats a hasty retreat. And with its departure, we herald in the autumnal equinox. So we will write autumn poems. But…Your poem will present the essence of autumn, full of descriptive language and imagery. Replete with the colorful sights and aromas. However, your poem will NOT contain the words Fall or Autumn anywhere in your verse. Not in the body and not in the title. We will know it is an autumnal poem by your words alone (as long as none of the words are Fall or Autumn – or any derivation of either!) Take us into the season which is upon us… whatever it’s called.

MARIE’S DEPICTION:

Ponderings

Smacks of death, say some.
But I smell Mom’s pies. Hear Dad’s
marching band pre-games.

Feel crisp air against
my sometimes still-a-bit-tanned-
from-summertime skin.

Marvel at the sky’s
puffy white and charcoal clouds
in deep blue setting.

Relish the jewel-tones
gradually gracing trees,
begging wonderment.

Enjoy leaves crunching
beneath the tires of my bike,
or cute-boot-dressed feet.

Experience leaves
raked in a pile over my
head, then jumping in.

Savor the taste of
a hardy stew with biscuits,
or bowl of chili.

Memories bring smiles,
like the Robbins Avenue
Pizza (a rare treat),

enjoyed on our porch
after walking home from a
nighttime football game.

Smacks of death, say some.
But my senses are filled with
what I’ve fallen for.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

(An extraordinary piece, Pard! IMHO!)

WALT’S PRESENTATION:

AS THE DAYS DISSIPATE

The sun's glow doesn't last long past seven,
and all the splendor of Heaven descends
in a rapid cascade of color and shadow.
Archangel's wings stir the winds of change
and coolness becomes the shroud that engulfs you
in hues of crimson, and rust, and brown decay.
The scents fill your nostrils; burning leaves, stew
brewing, and you wish you could capture it all 
in your imperfect words. Birds prepare to head south, 
without much to carry but their songs. 
Before long, winter will approach, encroaching on all 
who mourn her sorry demise; her eyes, vacant and sad.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022

PROMPT #403 – LIVING ON THE EDGE

Every day we inch toward the edge of a precipice. Summer is on the downward spiral. Daylight is a waning commodity. It seems we’re living on the edge of something. We’re looking over the edge to write our poems this week. Edge of sanity, edge of reason or the edge of a ledge, what fuels your poetry? Give us a view from your lofty position. It’s true. We’re living on the edge.

MARIE’S LEDGE:

On Edge

A young mom stands.
The four-year-old boy at her feet
sits in his unseen labels:
Autistic.
Nonverbal.
Sensory-impaired.
She holds one end of a leash.
The other is attached to a cute backpack
he wears, as he fidgets in a small spot of dirt
in an otherwise flawless lawn of the public library that is, 
today, being used as a venue for celebrating diversity.  

The morning is perfection.  
People of different cultures and languages together,
sharing their talents and being offered a public voice.
This mom does not move from her spot
for hours.
The darling boy pays no attention to the speakers
the music
the dancers
other children.
His focus is only on his patch of dirt.
He sits in it.  Lays in it.  Plays in it 
with his hands and feet.
Feels it with his cheeks.
He pulls a bit of the grass around it,
increasing his speck of space.
A woman with a long dress gets close.
He reaches out to touch the fabric.  It is the only thing
I see him pay attention to, besides the small patch
that grounds him.  
His momma tells him
don’t touch the dress.  

When I am leaving, I approach her. 
She stiffens. 
I smile.
“A sort of sandbox, I see,” I say.  
She tells me nothing soothes him quite like
a patch of cool dirt. 
She tells me his labels.  
I place my hand on her shoulder briefly,
and assure her she is a strong, good momma.
She says the only other woman
to approach her this day sternly told her, 
“I pay taxes for this grass.”

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

WALT’S GONE OVER BOARD:

THE STORM APPROACHES

In the distance, a rumble,
a tumble of thunder as the truth approaches.
Standing on the edge, the storm is here,
a torrent of rain coming to wash away the mud
and slime slung as the truth keeps brimming
to counter the lies pushing to level the people. 
Its ferocity will shake the world,
a swirl of wind in forceful retribution.
The solution is clear. Hear what you choose; 
what your heart wishes to believe.
Seek shelter from the storm.

© Walter J Wojtanik, 2022

PROMPT #401 – THE SOUND OF SILENCE

Simon & Garfunkel

Think the Simon and Garfunkel mega hit of the sixties. Silence has a sound. It is up to us to describe that sound. What do you hear as the sound of silence? Is it eerily strange or quietly cacophonous? What sounds do you consider silent? Take the challenge and make us hear the noise!

MARIE’S QUIET:

Ears to Hear

She sits in silence,
listening for God to speak.
But she hears no one.

She sits in darkness,
watching for God’s appearance.
But she sees nothing.

She grasps at the air,
trying to feel God’s presence.
But she feels nothing.

She raises her voice.
“Abba! Father! Where are You?”
He, soundlessly, speaks.

She closes her eyes,
absorbing His attention,
knowing who He is. 

Her heart hears His voice
in both silence and sound. He
gives her ears to hear.

She opens her eyes
sees Him everywhere, in
all He created.

The air wraps her up,
blankets her in His shelter,
fills her lungs with Him.

She knows she is His.
She sees and hears and feels Him.
She knows what she knows.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

WALT’S VACUUM:

CRYSTAL STILLNESS

Here amongst the evergreens,
a scene I relive every year
with the fear this immortality
will wear off and folks would scoff
at the fat old man in red.
It is said that those who believe
will receive more than material
gains. It is then that the real
gift of the season comes through.
But I listen, here amongst the pines,
and I’m surrounded by a cold silence;
a whispered wisp of unthawed thought
that soothes this wondering heart.
As I start to think of December
I remember echoes of the past that
blast my memory, and there is no
remedy for this reverie. Names
and faces are revisited on this
mental list that have kissed my
spirit and I hear it once more:
the arctic air, frigid and frosted,
in stillness amongst the evergreens
and marks of reindeer paws,
in crystal silence, I am Santa Claus.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2022

PROMPT #398 – SAILS FOR SALE

Sitting on our shore and watching a solitary sailboat navigating the Lake Erie waters. Made me wish I were manning the rudder and unfurling the sails for a trek. In lieu of a boat, we’re writing a sail poem (or a sale poem). That’s a bargain for sure!

WALT SAILS:

SAYLES HALF OFF SALE

They’re there at Sayles
selling their sails,
sail sales always prevail!
From here to there
they sell their ware,
so the boats can go 
from here to there.
You can see them 
lined up in a row, 
but without a sail
that’s the only way they’ll go
merrily, gently down the stream.

(c) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022

***

Apparently you notice Marie’s absence. She’s taking a poetic pause to spend some Nona time with her beautiful granddaughters. She’s earned a Sunday off, so I’m going it alone.

PROMPT #386 – NEW HORIZONS

We’re looking off into the near distance, searching our horizon for the next big thing. Every adventure is out there for our taking as long as we’re making a concerted effort to reach for it. Of course, writing a horizon poem will work for you here as well. Or take a new look at an old thing and make it new (relatively) again! We stand on the cusp of that brave new world. Where will it take you?

MARIE’S OUTLOOK:

Fog may blur your view
of hope on the horizon,
but it’s no less there.

#seventeenintwentytwo

WALT’S SCAN:

BLUE HORIZON SKIES

 I return with regularity. To empty my mind; to achieve clarity. And it is a rarity that I can attain both. But along this shoreline, life reveals itself. It pulls memories from my mental shelves and splays them before me in these azure skies. Sights for my weary eyes, it is no surprise that I return. These thoughts inspire by my mind’s mire! 

 I find a place, a space where I can plant myself. And vacate the moment, searching the horizon for some semblance of beauty that reminds me of you. The sky is blue. But, it is not maudlin, nor melancholy. Brilliant and bright and jolly, cloud pocked and wholly enveloping. And portraits of you start developing in my heart.

 seagulls take their terns
 we are birds of a feather 
we soar to the clouds    

 © Walter J. Wojtanik - 2022