SAME NAME - NEW LOOK, NEW ATTITUDE

"THROUGH THE EYES OF A POET'S HEART" will be moving to its new digs starting August 5, 2011.
In conjunction with these pages which will be run simultaneously until Sept 1st.

All the old feature will move there, with added material and media to make for a more entertaining and comprehensive blog. I hope you will join me there.

THROUGH THE EYES OF A POET'S HEART

WIND IN MY SAILS

Un-billowed and furled
color splashed and swirled
across the nylon stitching
it stretches. This wretched
contraption missed the boat
and sits afloat my shipping table.
Have I a reason to be prone
to such treason as to let this parcel,
a morsel of sailing finery, sit unshipped?
Destination: Down under and his boat
sits asunder. Without the means
to make it go, this damn boat will
go real slow. I’m glad to regale ya,
NOW OFF TO AUSTRALIA! HAIL YEAH!

SECRETS BEST KEPT?

No one knows.
And the best kept secret remains as such.
How much is it worth to know things
that your heart can confirm,
but you can not communicate,
this declaration of fact lies hidden.
Distance spanned and water
under the bridge between then and now.
How do you live a life with this burden?
She couldn't know; you gave no indications,
your stagnation and debilitating fear
brought you here with nary a lead.
But indeed, you have known.
You will carry it until you'll have grown
feeble and cold, just an infarction from
the chill's permanence; it hides in residence.
Do you declare to the world and hope the rooftops
can handle your exuberance, your happy dance long buried?
This poetic prompt brings you to wonder
that if under this guise you can reprise
what your heart conceals; the real feel of its mystery,
your history until now untold and you let the story unfold.
The question is posed; "Did you have a high school crush?"
Touching secrets with probing fingers, the memory lingers.
You held the best vantage point in the room to see all before you,
a chance at a glance always revealed her lilting smile
and her warm Serbian eyes; your soul cries
at the top of it's lungs, but your unsung song
has kept her anonymity. Though your proximity was close,
you chose to let fear dictate, sealing your fate.
Never a clue did you expose. You chose to fade,
finding comfort in invisibility. Indignantly you proclaim,
"What purpose would this knowledge serve?"
You have held your nerve and your secret this long.
It can't be wrong to release your burden and breathe again.
She couldn't know.
Unseen for thirty-two years, no one knows.
You wonder if your existence evaded her detection then.
You are certain that it does now.
Unseen for thirty-two years, she couldn't know.
You are prompted to think of her and how you felt.
Your memories melt flowing onto this page as you engage your feelings.
A poem gets written of your smitten past, and at last you come clean.
I mean, really, it's not as if this poem will ever be seen.


POET'S NOTE - A response to a poetic nudge five years ago that I saw as ridiculous and unnecessary. But for some reason I relented and presented what lay hidden, fondly. Time and distance can surprise and sometimes re-introduce warm Serbian eyes and lilting smiles. She didn't know. Those memories stay with you. Writers feed on their marrow. Histories come full circle..

RECLAMATION PROJECT

1.) Phase One – Losing Myself

Rev up the Delorean, I’m going back. We all have that defining moment, pointed and prescient that had set our course. The forces of nature were strong and one wrong turn could have sent me reeling. I have a feeling it did.

My temerity was the social end of me, for as far as I can see, High School defined that moment in time, where I had let the ball drop.Not regret per se, but sadness now for those would have, should have, and could have moments so fleeting. Those errors of omission were well hidden in my condition from which I’ve been extricated. Celebrated now for my abilities to see things, and write things and expose things about me that without, would not be me. Debilitating was this fear to connect, rejection not something I handled well, or handled at all. So my fall from grace saved me from the disgrace of “embarrassing” myself by letting loose and living my life.

The perpetual lost boy languished in Neverland.

2.) Phase Two – Righting the Ship

Looky, looky, there goes Hooky!

The ribald Captain has been dispatched with a swift kick in his steering mechanism. A discovery, a long time in the making has taken a stand as well as command of my journey; a life’s worth of yearning for solid footing and a direction much easier to navigate than blindly following burned out novas in the cosmos of my mind. For in the stars, paths that crossed each other unnoticed have found a circuitous path to intersect once again.

Older now, more aware of selves and of this moment and what lead each to move to embrace it. In the kindling of a reborn kinship, acquaintances long removed and left unseen, find a connection that closes unsure circles, and opens the world to new adventures. Both stand, with eyes open like the wide-eyes kids we were when we began. A familiarity which neither knew, comes through to ground us as the friends we never realized we were.

The gathering of spirits once left to roam those hallowed halls has stepped back to touch base and begin anew, assuring us of the fact that yes, you can go home again.

EULOGY FOR JANE F. BURKOWSKI

I had been asked to deliver the Eulogy for Jane. She lived a different life than most in the family. And at 90 years of age, she had earned it. She owed nothing to anyone. Half the family that still loved and accepted her for who she was, took comfort in my words. The ones that looked down their noses at her all their lives, rolled their eyes and did not appreciate my candor. Bottom line: I liked Aunt Jane for the reasons listed below. But also because there was plenty of reason to like her. She was a human being. I could relate to that!

THE EULOGY

Today we celebrate the life of Jane Burkowski. These brief words touch on one small part of that life. It was a life that she lived by her own dictates. Whether people understood or agreed with her grand plan did not matter. The fact is we are what we are, and Jane was who she was. Being quick to judge her took the spotlight off of our flaws and imperfections. But what can I say about a woman from my perspective of as “outsider” looking in?

What  do we remember about Jane? That she worked at AM&As? That she was an avid sports fan? She love the Buffalo Bills, the lay of the land at Fort Erie Racetrack and the ponies that played there. That she held her heritage and language and faith close to heart? That she loved her brother John, and although they had their differences the love always shone through. I’m sure there was a time when she probably could remember more about us than we did of her. Maybe we could have tried a little harder to achieve that familiarity. Jane’s life had become just a matter of existence; a daily cross to bear, unwittingly.

She did no more or no less than any of we do to survive in the life we were given. She was no better and no worse than anyone in this church. In her later days she was made comfortable and Jane was afforded the dignity of passing as she had lived. In her own way; in her own time.

On a personal note, I liked Aunt Jane. I liked her independence and I liked that she pushed people’s buttons. Good or bad, she got people to give her attention whether they intended to or not. I loved her laugh, a cross between a cackle and a cavort; when she was filled with joy, her presence was known.  My regret is in not having taken the time to know her just a little better. In my eyes, she was good people; better than most.

In the final analysis, you didn’t care that you had been forgotten by her. You embrace the brief flashes of lucidity that graced her and accept that life had caressed her heart.

This week, life stopped caressing Aunt Jane’s heart and placed her in the caring hands of her Heavenly Father, her Boze (Bo-zha - Polish for God/Jesus) to whom she talked and prayed. Her nephew Kenny Rompala cleared her way and held the gate opened for her as she returned to the eternal warmth of her mother, Frances, for whom she cared in her later years, and is once more in the embrace of her beloved father, Jan, and siblings Mary, Rose, Bertha and Emil. Thankfully, there remains an empty seat in this family grouping for the moment. Jane has gone to a better place where she will always remember and hurtful words cannot denigrate the life she chose to live. She is home again; a new home.  May God bless you, Aunt Jane. Rest in peace.

NEXT PROJECT: I AM SANTA CLAUS

Cover art for "I Am Santa Claus"

My latest project has taken a wonderful new turn, and a new collaboration is being forged. The chapbook,  I AM SANTA CLAUS is under review by a good friend, Cathy Milosevich Crepeau with an eye on providing illustrations to enhance the poetic text. Cathy is a talented and progressive graphic artist and a friend since our days at Lackawanna High School. She had studied at the Art Institute of Pittsburgh and was owner of Downstairs Graphics. I am extremely thrilled and honored that Cathy has enthusiastically agreed to be a major contributor to this book. A publisher will be sought to undertake the newly enhanced material.

The text of I AM SANTA CLAUS will consist of poems I have written from the Santa Claus perspective. Release information has been delayed, but updates will be posted on these developments. Please watch this page for details.

NEARNESS OF SPIRIT

I hear it in the darkness of a dream filled sleep,
my Father’s voice. Reassuring. Comforting.
Directing my every step in choreographed
mimicry of his own journey. I feel a hand
placed lovingly on a shoulder slouched
and weary from the burdens life provides.
It is an affirmation that my direction
is right and forward moving, all learned in the
spirit of his nearness. Nestled in this son’s heart,
respect and reverence are his, burnished
with love and temperament that his example set.
No regret comes with my genealogy.
I am my Father’s son. I will carry his torch.

UPDATE ON WOOD 2

The CD recording of my chapbook, WOOD, is completed. It contains all poems from the book and included two bonus tracks, my "A Poet Sees Things" and a reading of Yehuda Amichai's "A Man In His Life" followed by my short story inspired by it entitled, "Procrasti-Nate".

The books and CDs are $10 each. If both are purchased together, the cost is $15 for the pair. Payment can be sent to:


Walt Wojtanik
c/o Hesse-Reynolds Sales
3372 North Benzing Road
Orchard Park, New York 14127

Please restate which item(s) you requested and I'll have them out ASAP. Again, thank you for your interest and support.

A HOUSE OF CARDS

Brick by brick we assembled
this life we've come to know.
Mortar provided strength,
but little else to solidify
these emotions. A devotion
cemented and inflexible;
an expected result of
living and learning
and burning all bridges behind us.
If they find us outlined in chalk,
the talk would be that I wore you out.
But I doubt your facade would crumble
as easily as that. Pointed and level,
every detail possessing its own devil,
dishevelling all your efforts
to build it better. Give yourself room
or your doom will be certain,
veiled by a curtain of doubt.
Maybe brick by brick is flawed
Each terra cotta block is rigid and hard
not like some wind-blown house of cards.

FINNEGAN, BEGIN AGAIN?

There's that song.
All along I've held this animous,
an anonymous dislike for its root
that burrows into every furrow
of gray matter. Mad as a hatter
and twice as worn. I was not born
to listen incessantly to this melody.
And just when it appears to disappear,
I hear it. There's that song.

UPDATE ON WOOD

I have the books bound and ready. But, I've needed to re-recorded three of the poems for the CD which will include two bonus tracks of works not found in the printed version. I have had an unsavory experience with Pay-Pal and am resistant to use this function for payment. A check or money order will satisfy all conditions. The books and CDs are $10 each. If both are purchased together, the cost is $15 for the pair. Payment can be sent to:


Walt Wojtanik
c/o Hesse-Reynolds Sales
3372 North Benzing Road
Orchard Park, New York 14127

Please restate which item(s) you requested and I'll have them out ASAP. The CDs orders will not be delayed at all. Thank you for your interest and support.

THE BLUSH OF SPRING

Her cheeks flush;
the crimson spreading
to her heart
and her lips.
A young man’s fancy turns with
the blush of her cheek.

ANNOUNCING MY FIRST POETRY COLLECTION

After three years of intensive poem composing, I've finally found my nerve to compile my first collection of poems into the limited edition chapbook entitled, WOOD. The inspiration for WOOD was two-fold. Of the poems included, the majority is about my Father who was a very skilled carpenter. It is fitting that Dad worked his mastery of woods while I have developed a mastery of words. Along, with that connection, we lived at 76 Wood Street.

I had gotten a bit ambitious in offering 31 poems in this collection, but strung together, they actually tell the story of my relationship with my Father and that place near the Erie Tracks where we lived and grew up.

I will initially be releasing a limited run (76 copies) of the First Edition of WOOD. I plan on also issuing an audio CD of a reading of the book. The price of either will be $10. However, the combo will be made available together for a special $15 price. Further information will be posted soon. Anyone interested can submit their queries to Walt at  wojisme@roadrunner.com  with the subject line "Interest in Your Chapbook"

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

UNENCUMBERED SLUMBER

The weather forecast delivers as predicted;
a wicked downpour, torrential and damaging.
All the while, I keep managing to sleep.
It is a deep doze, nearly comatose is my brain
as the rain continues. It appears she brought friends.
The lightning flashes and the rumbles never end.

Thunder rattles my windows, but it does not disturb my slumber.

Oddly, insomnia escaped me when the rains came.
The same can be said of my apnea, I wonder
if the hum of the thunder plays into my slumber?
Does the electricity cause static that makes it cling
within the ring of its timpani; a "drum" laden symphony
that pacifies my eyes allowing them to not be breached?
Does the lightning beseech my heart to remain still
until the thrill of thunder's wonder subsides?

Thunder rattles my windows, but it does not disturb my slumber

and therein lies my answer. Is it right every night
to pray for the rain that offers my tired strain a respite?
For the hypnotic roll takes full control as I lay in a heap,
awash in dream filled sleep, unfettered and undisturbed.
But, the silence of the night supplies a fright that says I will lay here,
awake all night. It is then, I thank the forecasters call for rain with thunder.

Thunder rattles my windows, but it does not disturb my slumber.

PRECIPICE

The crossroad ends at this juncture,
a puncture to you psyche; a stab to
the heart and soul. Toes straddle
the point of no return, it is up
to you to discern your next best move.
Not long ago, you held your groove
slotted for success. But lest you forget,
you are now in a rut and your voice
cannot hoist you out of every predicament
you encounter. The pressure mounts
and you can count on one hand every stand
you had ever taken; shaken to your core
and wanting more. The chasm is wide.
Can you afford to ford its expanse?
Then again, can you afford not, too?

FALLETTA

Baton tapping,
a gentle rapping
to bring instruments at the ready.
Steady guys and gals,
she will dictate the pace,
this is not a race to the finish,
so don't diminish her worth.
Nowhere on earth has
the music sounded as sweet,
and she stands replete with looks
and style; a smile
that makes beautiful misuc
all by itself. Some great composers
have inspired her and the Buffalo
Philharmonic Orchestra hired her
to resurrect a great ensemble.
They follow her lead,
indeed JoAnn Falletta deserves
the accolades for the melodies played.

TAKING FLIGHT

Poems

are kites.

We wait for the wind 

to be right and delight to bring 

them out to fly and display, and we 

play like children, releasing our words into
the air. Sometimes they struggle to lift off the ground,
and we run dragging them behind us. Stopping 

and starting until the wind shifts and it catches. 

It stretches our muse like a taut string,
a connection from our common 

grounding. High and higher 

still, bounding; seeking
altitudes that defy 

logic, and find-

ing attitudes

that mimic 

yours.
An 

                                                                                 expres-
                                                                                          sion, 

                                                                                 airborne 

                                                                             and

                                                                          soaring.
                                                                                Bringing 

                                                                                        delight to 

                                                                                                  others 

                                                                                                          who
                                                                                                       find 

                                                                                                  kite 

                                                                                             flight 

                                                                                      fascin-

                                                                                 ating.
                                                                        Release 

                                                                           your 

                                                                                words 

                                                                                        into the 

                                                                                           wind.
                                                                                   Poems

                                                                           are kites.

CHATEAUNEUF DU PAPE

All that was left from the shipwreck
was a tin of caviar and the wine.
A bottle of the grape and a can of bait.
You hated the taste of the caviar,
but the fish it had lured to your
make-shift fishing pole were a treat.
All you could eat until the can was drained.
For an ungodly reason, you kept the cork
intact for a special occasion, and today
was that day. The day you lost all hope.
The bottle popped with a resonance that was
a perfect counter point to the waves lapping the shore.
A sip.
A swig.
A gulp.
That label read "Châteauneuf du Pape, 1951"
Probably French for "Water from 1,951 Sewers".
Your inebriate binge lasted long enough
for you to scribble something on the back of a leaf.
You stuffed it into the bottle.
Your last will and testament.
All your worldly possessions.
An empty tin can and your father's watch.
You heave the bottle into the surf and watch it bob,
praying for death to rescue you. Your coconut just stares.

NO CRY FOR HELP ( A Trillonet)

A boy, the age of seventeen,
still standing on the cusp of dreams,
wandered lonely in his despair.

A handsome lad; athletic, lean,
not bound to someone else's schemes.
Eyes, a bright blue; brown shaggy hair,

kept to himself, no one had seen,
Troy coming apart at the seams.
On the surface, without a care.

Who would have guessed that this bright teen,
would end his own life amidst screams,
his final breath with no one there.

A bullet blast, and now he's gone,
A promising life had gone wrong.



"Troy", a boy in my youngest daughter Andrea's English class
ended his life yesterday afternoon. He sat in front of her in class
and although they weren't good friends, had sided with her in a discussion yesterday morning; aside from a shy hello when they passed, verbal exchanges weren't a part of their routine.
Now, my bright seventeen year old daughter doesn't understand
why life is "so fucked up". Me, a man of words, had few answers.