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!
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
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.
AS THE DAYS DISSIPATEThe 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
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.
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!
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.
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 here. So, I stand on the cusp of a new adventure in my life. I will be retiring in June (June 3rd to be exact). And being within the month, I’ve been keeping silent count of the remaining days. I figured that’s a good point to use as reference, so here’s what I propose..
A COUNTDOWN TO ______________
Write of the anticipated something in your life in a countdown to that momentous occasion. That’s the theme, but you can word it however you wish to convey your thoughts. I’m counting on you all to do me proud (you’ve never let me down!) I don’t anticipate you’ll start now.
We’re thinking animals this week. It’s a fact that animals are blessed with certain instincts and traits to aid in their survival. We know a cheetah is very fast. We’ve all heard of how “wise” an owl is. Squirrels are gatherers. Dogs are loyal; cats aloof… Take an animal trait or instinct and use that as your inspiration for your poetry. Mild or wild, get “animalistic” on us!
WHERE THE BUFFALO ROAM
Silently they graze,
and suddenly in a dusty haze
they kick up their hooves
and raise the roofs,
a guaranteed stampede indeed.
You can hear them rumble,
yet they remain humble,
they hear nature's call
as one by one their obstacles fall.
And from the deepest of chills
you can hear them shout,
Go Bills!
It’s a new year. Hopefully we’ll experience changes in a positive way. (Not anything like the past couple of years). And as we think of changes, who knew change better than the Thin White Duke, David Bowie, who would have celebrated his 75th birthday yesterday. Bowie was instrumental in changing music. He changed his style (think Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars vs. Little Drummer Boy with Bing Crosby). He had changed his persona on a few occasions, always morphing into different versions of himself. Then there is one of his hit singles, “Changes.”
We’re writing a change poem. Change can do you good. And the aspect of change, from spare change, to loose change, to whatever change you can imagine. Perhaps change your poetic style for this one. You decide whether bad or good, but make your Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes flow!
I've found myself slowing down a bit,
pitching less of a fit and finding the groove
I'm in moves me in a whole new direction.
I'm in no hurry of late, not looking to become
the late, great Walt. It's my fault, bringing
so much passion to my words that you've heard
before. I'm more sedate, (that's debatable)
less stable with all my cards on the table.
The best cards held close to the vest
have long been played. Not looking
to cash my chips in just yet. I forget where
I had left them. I'll get them neatly stacked
and be back for the final deal. So my steps
have faltered a smidge and Walter by the fridge
is where you'll find me. Don't mind me.
As long as I've got a few arms up my sleeves,
I'll leave here writing verse. It could be worse.
I could be riding in the back of the hearse,
instead of giving the funeral director directions.
As we close in on Christmas, we are surrounded by the trappings of the season. Pick an item associated with Christmas and write a Christmas poem from that item’s point of view. It could be an ornament, or a branch on Christmas tree. It might be an angel tree topper or a figurine from your nativity creche. What does the donkey see? The Star of Bethlehem? Christmas from a different perspective.
We are fortunate this week to get an early Christmas gift, in the guise of our Marie Elena Good rejoining us. It is a Good present indeed!
MARIE’S VIEW:
Cross of Christ
My place atop the Christmas tree may seem a lofty place for me, but humbly, I point down below through greenery and lights aglow to manger scene that holds the Christ who paid the price in sacrifice for every woman, man, and child – this perfect Lamb – this undefiled Rescuer, Redeemer, God I represent, and richly laud.
Each year, they bring me out to celebrate,
and I wait in silent vigil, keeping watch
over everything Christmas. My uniform
is well appointed and my double jointed
jaw may have me cracking jokes
or other nutty things. Mouse Kings
and sugarplum faeries complete my circle.
I do enjoy the joyous music this time of year.
My job is to protect and serve with nerves
of oak, just like any bloke who chooses
to enlist their service. Yet, I'm nervous.
I'm suspicious of that elf up on that shelf!
(c) Walter J Wojtanik - 2021
POETIC BLOOMINGS 