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.



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


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!


Salting Steps

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

© Marie Elena Good, 2022



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.



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!)



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


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.


On Edge

A young mom stands.
The four-year-old boy at her feet
sits in his unseen labels:
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



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


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!


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



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


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!



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.


Last week, I fenced you and your neighbors in. By the end of the coming week, I will have earned my freedom from the work force. June 3rd is retirement day. So whatever you perceive as freedom, make it the impetus for your poem. Freedom is not free. It carries quite a cost. Tomorrow, honor those that won that prize for you and remember their sacrifice as payment for the freedoms we enjoy!



She drips eloquence,
but her needs, desires, and core
are not free to speak.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022




Hidden in the darkest reaches
of a mind bursting with plans
and schemes; dreams that you never had the heart
to start expressing, lest you show your hand
and your soul. Lest you lose control.
In the end you stayed within.

Over the years, it was a sin
to really deny your true vision, wishing you could reach
the masses without being an a$s or classless dolt out of control
of emotions you never felt comfortable showing. Your plan
to stay silent failed miserably when your hand
took pen to page, opening a vein directly to your heart.

You had the words and the heart
but weren’t sure where to start; where to begin.
Your decision to ply your hand
with the brand of poetics that would pull you out of the breech
sounded like an outrageous plan.
But it was a salve to soothe an aching soul.

So, you were given control
to dispatch your words as sparks of the heart,
an inferno brewing, stewing within this man
and releasing the man within.
No star too far, no meteoric rise out of reach,
no thought held too long within hands

longing to be free of the burden. A poet’s hands
holding the power to move and cajole,
to elicit a smile or groan, any guttural moan, to reach
someone else’s senses. To touch their hearts.
And so it starts. Words are merely words when sequestered within.
They become the guiding light when allowed to shine. Any man

or woman seeking to be free must first release these fears as this man
has. Take your words and destiny into your hands
and disperse every wild notion of thought, the din within
your own expressive mind. Find your voice and take control.
Rip open your soul and rend your heart.
Shout “Free at last, free at last…” to all within reach.

The plan has always been to reach
every heart with a tender hand
by wresting control of the poet within.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022


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?


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




 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


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.


In Line for the Roller Coaster

Unease climbs in sync
with hills I see, and dwindling
line ahead of me.

© Marie Elena Good 2022

(Memories that make me shudder, lol!)



I turn each page gleaning all I can
from the information at hand.
But, it has become a time clockj
of late. Ticking down every minute
and second chance, a fated dance
with my mortality. The reality
becomes clearer the nearer the end
rears its head. Another birthday passes,
another Christmas looms.
Another year at a job
that has served the family well
(but not well off by any stretch).
Here’s the catch. I look forward
to the golden years (if they are granted me).
I’ll make no demands or make
outrageous plans. Retirement comes
and gladly before I’ve expired.
I’m starting to get tired. There’s a new
calendar in my future. I pray
there is a future in my new calendar!
I turn each page while I can.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2022


Quick question:  What would you do with an unexpected million dollars? Shower us with your poetic stash.  😉


Too Much

I’m just not the lottery kind.
I don’t have a rich frame of mind.
If my stash quickly grew,
I’d just give it to … who?
Guess I’d just leave that big check unsigned.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022



Money cannot buy happiness,
even the misery it buys isn't that great.
But for the sake of this debate
I'd take that million and buy a million people's dreams.
silly as it seems, I'd replace their dreams with a new reality
foregoing life's banality and offering
a better life than whatever strife they may possess;
turn their failure into great success, and I confess
I would be happy to oblige their whimsy
just to show them how flimsy their wishes would be.
Maybe they'll see that they never needed more than 
they already had. It's not that bad to have just enough.
Life is rough enough without the added burden.
It would be absurd to think otherwise.

© Walter J Wojtanik, 2022