HERE ALL ALONE

Here all alone,
writing; inciting.
Loudly, expressively, proudly,
with verses and rhymes to hone.
The only one to know what my heart is thinking,
dispatching those thoughts without me even blinking.
I revel in the silence; my sanctuary,
comforting and not scary.
Projected, protected.
Defined, refined.
Writing; inciting
loudly. Expressively, proudly
with verses and rhymes to hone,
here all alone.


*** The poetic form is called "Fabrique", reminiscent of the French forms with their repetition which is woven throughout the "fabric" of the poem. Devised by Walt Wojtanik for the Poetic Asides Poetry Forms Challenge.


Walt

NO MAN IS AN ISLAND

Set adrift.
Surrounded on all sides,
a man stands, aloof,
proof of his arrogance.
There is an ignorance
that precedes him,
An apathy that defines him.
Lost in a sea of self-import,
he'll resort to anything
to make his point. Annointed
in his mind, he will soon find
a need. Lessons of a life,
rife with pitfall and valleys,
he'll someday rally. Treading water.
Clutching to the life preserver called hope.
Survival awaits, as long as he stays afloat.

Walt

GLAD WE HAD THIS LITTLE TALK

“There is something I need to tell you”
as I lead her to a chair for a sit.
“Now, this won’t be to easy for you to hear
but I had better get on with it.”

“See, for over a year I’ve been ‘occupied’,
lost with my head in the clouds,
I wanted to tell you, but knew you would yell,
and Honey you yell fairly loud.”

“The moments at night that you wonder
where in the world I could be,
well, you see I’ve been sneaking…”
Her interest was piquing, with doubts of my fidelity.

“She’s quite a remarkable mistress,”
I heard myself starting to say,
“She gives what I need when I need it;
she’s holding my wild heart at bay.”

“I’ve taken her down to the lake shore
to walk in the wet wave swept sand,
with the sound of the gulls acapella,
She’s quite magical here in my hands.”

“She shows me that life is a wonder,
most precious of gifts to behold,
with mirth and emotion, and puerile devotion,
she fills me right down to my soul.”

“I whisper sweet things in the night time
only to hear how it sounds,
she rolls off my tongue, and when I am done,
I’m ripe for a couple more rounds.”

“A few of my friends think I’m crazy,
the rest think I’m wasting my time,
but, the ones most approving can feel the earth moving
without knowing the reason or rhyme.”

“In the darkness of my empty old homestead,
We get lost in a heartfelt embrace,
With thoughts of me growing right there, and knowing
the intimacy of that vacant space.”

“I can’t break away from her power,
A spell cast from the very first word,
You’ve given me chances, but this new romance is
The most beautiful thing that I’ve endured.”

The hurt in her eyes was heartbreaking,
the sound of her voice mixed with sobs,
she sought her composure to give her some closure,
while I felt like an insufferable slob.

But she gathered herself in an instant,
I could see the words form in her head,
when she started to speak, I turned rather meek
and just listened to what she had said.

“I don’t know why you need to torture me,
my heart is about to explode.”
The hell and the fury of this woman scorned
is about to make her thoughts implode.

“Who is she?” she said. ”No, I don’t want to know,
Just leave me to process this scene”
Now fire and anger soon put me in danger
I never had seen her so mean.

“Are you telling me, you’re having an affair?”
I panicked, “Yes, all right? It’s the end!”
“Oh good” she exhaled. “For a minute there,
I thought you were writing again.”


Walt 

...AND SPEAKING OF FOOD

No cream in my coffee,
No chips on my plate,
Don’t tempt me with donuts -
I won’t take the bait.
A full thirty minutes
Each day on my bike,
And coupled at times
With a walk or a hike.
My portions have shrunk,
But my body's the same.
I’ve not lost a pound -
I need something to blame!
Decided it must be that
I’m at “that age.”
With Easter at hand now,
This war that I wage
Will go by the wayside.
Then what will become
Of me and my hips,
And my thighs and my bum?

Marie Elena

CZARNINA

I’m proud of my Polish heritage, and all that it includes,
for as all ethnic celebrations, it all reverts to foods.

For the palette of the Poles, the tastes are quite exotic,
for someone quite obsessed with food, they are almost deemed erotic.

The Christmas time Wigilia, a meatless feast celebration,
puts me in a festive mood and fills me with elation.

The foods apparent are the best, the breads, the fish, the pierogi,
all serve to wet my appetite (I’d even eat them soggy)

The Easter time Swenczonka, for all the epicurious,
involves a different taste for sure, they never make me furious.

Blessed on Easter Saturday, kielbasa, eggs, and hams,
veal, and cross bread; horseradish, and sculpted butter lambs.

But not all Polish delectable’s suit my heart, I find,
there is a bit that just won’t fit, it makes me lose my mind.

For in the day when I was young, my mother made this dish,
that made my stomach wretch and hurl, though my grandfather’s favorite wish.

A soup they called czarnina, a ruddy, bloody brew
fashioned out of duck’s blood, a taste that I would rue.

My granddad and my father, liked the soup just fine,
but the six of us just hated it; this sweet and sour brine.

My mother called it “chocolate soup” since that was how it looked,
but every time she’d serve it the sibling nearly puked.

So for the benefit of the few, the many had to suffer,
and Mom’d resort to force feeding the nasty stuff for supper.

Don’t put in on the menu! Don’t force feed your food “agenda”!
But in her eyes czarnina was a real deal ender.

We tried with civil discourse to make our feeling known,
but Mom and Dad and Grandfather were the ones that wore the crown.

“You don’t know what is good for you, so we’ll make that decision!”
And every time the soup was dished, it prompted our derision.

It never came up for a vote, we were forced to take it well,
the pushing of the “chocolate soup”; this nasty goop from hell.

I’ve hated it for all these years, I never try to eat it,
my parents always won the war, but this issue was defeated.

This one Polish despicable, offends my conservative taste,
it's put a fear within me, it's really just a waste.

I pray one day somebody, could reverse czarnina’s harm,
not everyone needs “chocolate soup”, it doesn’t hold a charm.

I’m no better off for having it forced straight down my throat,
it’s prompted nasty memories, I think it missed the boat.

After eighty-five years, my grandfather passed, Czarnina finally got him,
I blame the horrid mixture for the times I’ve hit rock bottom.

It’s left a nasty taste in my mouth, it just won’t go away,
seems history repeats itself, and will till end of days.

  

Walt

SAVE FERRIS

It feels just like a sick day,
I feel it in my bones,
my hands, they shake and tremble,
it won’t leave me alone.
My throat seems sort of scratchy,
these eyes are red and burning,
my joints are badly aching,
as far as I’m discerning.

I won’t waste my vacation time,

it really isn’t fair,

I’d pray for a touch of fever,

so my boss would know it’s there.

I don’t take a lot of time off,

it’s really not my style.

I’d save myself some trouble,

but I’ve got it all on file.

The other guys around me,
look like they are susceptible,
there’s hacking, sniffing and malaise,
it truly is perceptible.
It appears an epidemic,
Has broken out with sadness.
I wonder if it has to do
with a new bout of March Madness?


Walt

ME AND POETRY (A Sestinacci)

Me.
Walt.
A man
mired in poetry,
given to expressions of words;
a sharing of emotion and fits of rhyme.

Rhyme.
Me
and words.
A guy Walt,
a muse full of poetry
and too much time for just one man.

Man,
rhyme
is poetry!
It moves me.
It takes this guy Walt,
and fills his expressive soul with melodic words.

Words.
Men
like Walt
can make rhyme
sing, and totally move me
to slather my heart with the sweetest poetry.

Poetry.
Words
within me.
Women and men
come to read my rhyme
and leave comments about the madness of Walt.

Walt.
Poetry
in rhyme;
painted with words;
offered to the gentle women;
and thrown down as a gauntlet by me.

I am Walt, this is me,
a verbose man of poetry.
Giving these words of rhyme my time.


Walt 

1969

My voice changed.
That fact defined the year which brought me
to the precipice of adulthood.
Unsure of foot and teetering
on the weak knees of youthful thought.

All of thirteen, a bit green
and ignorant to a changing world.
I found myself transforming into
someone I barely knew, realizing
I would find myself soon enough

as long as I tuned in, turned on
and dropped out of the norms of a
distilled upbringing, wringing my hand
at authority and standing up to the "man",
still yielding to my mother to take out the trash.

Short on cash and stature, and the nature
of the beast was the least of my concerns.
The females in my realm of thought
made funny things happen to me.
My hands shook, my stomach churned,

and I learned that they were the cause
of my voice fracturing every time they came near.
I had a fear of the war lasting forever,
and having to learn to speak Vietnamese
or Canadian, knowing I'd look bad in fatigues.

Why is it we could put men on the moon,
but couldn't keep guys like John
and Martin and Bobby safe from hatred.
Isn't anything sacred anymore? Did we even know the score?
But one thing always delivered the goods. Music.

Music did it for me. I know that now.
We were lighting fires for Morrison,
while Hendrix did fine all by himself.
Mick was gathering no moss, and the cost
for freedom was very high, but worth every penny.

And if anyone would tell me that the Beatles
would argue and break up over an avant-garde Ono,
I would tell them the were crazy. I stopped being lazy
in '69, ever since I found this thing called "muse",
and how expressing it, gave me and those around me

joy and peace, a good release in a lyrical sense
under the false pretense of ever really being
in love, above all else, music and words lived in me
but I was just too ignorant to get that clue.
Besides, my voice changed.


Walt

OUTLAW JOSIE WALES TWICE REMOVED

Marie and I, our connection is groovy,
we could be an Eastwood movie.
She is "Good", it's plain to see,
"The Bad and The Ugly"? That be me!

Walt