ANGEL VOICES AT DAWNING

I hear it gently,
and I mentally
take note of the lilting song.
Angel voices sing
the soundtrack of Spring.
Their chorus is loud and strong.

Morning brings their sound,
and it is around
dawn’s first light that I hear it.
A poet’s heart sees
the living beauty
within euphonic spirit.

I begin each day
the exact same way.
I am thankful for this gift.
My whispered prayer
rises through the air;
as their harmonies uplift.

Copyright © 2011 Walt Wojtanik

MUSIC HATH CHARMS

Melodic memories, triggered by random turns
of phrase, a new page in your book of dreams.
It surely seems that a mind can be shaken or stirred
into a whir of activity. You possess a proclivity for
drawing upon the past long enough gone
to notate upon the staff of your life;
it is a song composed with ethos and verve.
Steeling your nerve, thrown caution becomes windblown
and all are shown the power of your voice.
A flash-back to a day when music was an ally
to rely upon, a trigger for thoughts nurtured
in the womb of your fertile mind. Gestation,
born of elation for all your songs relate;
it is never too late to write your score.
The more you remember, more tender the melody.

CHRISTMAS LIGHTS

Blinking, twinkling.
Red, yellow, blue.
Green and white,
all night, bright.
Beacons of light
in a mid-December
snowfall. Offering
a brilliance not seen
since early fall.
Silently accenting
vignettes of serenity.
A Christmas amenity
strung and hung,
eclectic and electric.
Blinking, twinkling.
Red, yellow, blue.
Green and white,
all night, bright.
Christmas lights.

YOU WOULD THINK I'D LEARN

I keep coming back.
In spite of myself at times
penning my rhymes in the night
right up until the early hours,
hopping in for a shower
and heading off to work.
Sometimes berserk; a jerk
of outrageous fortune,
torturing my muse to
respond with something new.
Evey day in April,
every day in November.
And every day in between,
I have developed a keen
poetic sense, relieving
tension, and not to mention
expressing, in a non-oppressive way.
You would think I'd have learned.

LEFT IN SILENCE

I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.
But, my mat remains
pristine and untried.
I strain to hear any noise
that I might construe as a voice.
Such familiarity would soothe
a soul time worn and exasperated,
but those I seek have left
only a residue silence that
assures to smother my thoughts.
I ought to shake the cobwebs
from the rafters of this mired mind.
Yet, I find that memory is nothing
but a smoldering ember
languishing to rekindle into a pyre
of poetic preponderance;
a reminiscence that placates
the love that lingers still.
A finger pressed to lips
that long for passion's kiss,
secures the void on which
my thoughts have relied.
The silence inside deafens.

**Without straying anywhere near Middle Earth, “I Sit and Think” by JRR Tolkien, sparks my muse this day.

A CHILLED WIND

Morning breaks,

moistened by the evening coolness.

Misty fingers meander

across the grassy knoll, touching

every blade of grass in tender caress. 

A slumbering sun lumbers over the horizon,

rising to prominence by degrees.

The wind wafts over the spreading green,

a scene witnessed time and again.

Summer breathes its last gasping breath,

a cough and a wheeze in a cold autumn breeze,

and an expiration expected, but sadly endured.

Autumn falls.

 

THE FISHERMAN

Afloat.

On life’s lake languid,

lost in contemplative moments

of nature’s whispers and the ripple

stirred by each minuscule motion.

No nibble besets his anticipation,

but visions of a soul dancing freely

upon every sun glinted wave,

show the change inherent in each

breath of a restless and longing heart.

Nothing else matters. A bad day fishing

Is the best good day life offers.

The line stretches taut as

serenity soars. A fisherman,

lost in the moment.

Afloat.