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..

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.

WALK LIKE A MAN (Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons)

Striding, head held high,
a strong classic chin leading,
your breeding shows, and she knows it.
You smile, pearly whites, bright they are,
each a shining star in your oral galaxy.
Broad shoulders and a chiseled boulder
for a chest. You're doing your best
to display the package; a knack you've had.
It doesn't make you bad as you nod,
an acknowledgment to her passing.
A beauty in her own right, you fight
the urge to speak; a mysterious smile
guides your wile. You look back
and as she strolls away without fail,
you exhale. Your chest drops
as does your belly, lapping your belt
like a bowl full of jelly. Short and labored
is your breath as you struggle to retrieve it.
Who'd have believed it...that you still
thought that act would get you noticed.
You trudge away, another day in anonymity.

NOT ABOUT THE BLING

Level headed, keeping eyes
close to the vest, at best.
Not drawn to the sparkle,
left in the "dark" for the most part.

It's a start when beauty is beheld,
a wealth for the eyes, as it decries
all that glitters. Never a bitter glance,
askance or other wise, it flies

in the face of reason. Coveteous I am
not, a guy blinded by bauble or bead
does not succeed. It distracts and retracts
from the grounding found in youth.

Finding wonder in a mystic smile,
Venus de "Milo" meets memory,
and all that he can see, inspires.
Fires of passion seek repose in poem.

And there beauty resides.
It hides in the shadow of worded rhyme,
in time it finds the bright light of day.
Not blinded by the bling; allowing hearts to sing.

WHERE ARE YOU NOW?

Lyrics by Walter J. Wojtanik - © 2011

Sitting here I watch your picture on the wall,
dancing to the gentle strains of melodies we knew.
Memories we've shared; the times that showed we cared,
fade away in thoughts of you.

All alone at night I wonder where you are
and I wonder if you think about me now and then,
thoughts inside my head are better left unsaid
since my heart fell from your hands.

Where are you now,
now that I need you?
Where are you now,
wishing somehow you still need me too,
the way you used to do.

Looking in your eyes was like a dream come true,
feeling all the little things I learned so hard to need.
But, now I look around and realize, I've found
just how much I need you still.

Where are you now,
now that I need you?
Where are you now?
I just don't believe in love anymore
since you've walked out my door. Now you're gone.

AT THE ZOO

Cramped quarters, and crowded to overflow,

you never know how these things are planned.

As it would stand, the animals had little say.

It was sad and upsetting in a way,

that the keepers made the choices and

those without voices had little to say.

The variety of the species was intriguing,

in a league all their own, over-blown

in scope, and that left little to say.

Everyday, the wild ones were forced into domesticity,

a simplicity to those cracking the whip. The zookeeper

fond of rum indeed, due to breeding and nothing constructive to say.

Four young lions, strong in spirit and vision,

but always in division over their birth right

and wrong as it sounded, they had little to say.

Gazelles, graceful and girlish, flanked the habitat,

concerned with this and that, did strive to survive the onslaught,

but, they ought to have been allowed more to say.

When it was feeding time “at the zoo”, the milieu

benefited the fittest, as we crowded around the dinner table.

You could label us as you wish, but each dish had something to say.

Life in “the zoo” offered sanctuary, with nary a worry,

for family gave you more than we “beasts” expected.

We were well protected, and that said it all.

STEPPING OUT OF PLEASANTVILLE

Beyond the bland, you venture.
Your adventure follows no norm,
trying to stay warm, but black and white
leaves you cold. It makes you feel old,
a vintage version of the you you know.
But, life is full of flavor, not meant
to be lacking the living it gives.
Lives are to be livid; vivid in scope
and spectrum. Color permeates you.
For flesh and blood looks better
the redder we are. Our palettes bloom.

LIFTING THE VEIL

Clouds converge, a conglomeration

of confusion and doubt. Out of reasons

for all that deceives and perplexes;

vexing me with the hazy illusion of life.

Rife with the desire to think in complete

thoughts; it ought to be easy for one

who chooses to use his muse to express.
And yes, the persistence of my mind

gives me the urge to shed this shroud

and shout out loud to all that will listen.

Thankfully, when you lift the veil, you find clarity.

It is a rarity that you seldom see. A vision

meant to stimulate you and allows you to emulate

nature's narcissistic nudge, inspired and confident.

The view obscured by the muted curtain is brighter for certain,

and your thoughts drape gracefully like a technicolor tapestry.

**Writer's Island - Prompt #24 "Envision"

THE EMERGENT SEA

A lone sailor; stargazer
and navigator, set adrift
in a calm and tranquil waterway.
The day is overcast,
and above the mast his banner flies.
Gentle ripples coaxed by
the lake's nautical breath.
The call of the gulls is garish,
nearly nightmarish in their persistence.
An insistence that they be taken
seriously. Deliriously, he tacks,
feeling the wind, aroused and rancorous,
a cantankerous caterwaul at the fall of day.
Waves awash; a wild wake churning,
a yearning to manipulate the canvas
that spurs his vessel on. He is tossed,
a lost soul in a sea of doubt. Shouts
for assistance go unheard; not a word.
He signals a frantic S.O.S.; a message
for salvation. For the duration of the torrent,
the Ol' Salt is battered and splattered against
the ebony night. Despite the norm,
this perfect storm is destructive,
counter-productive to the life
of a cast-away stargazer; navigator.
A lone sailor, gone.

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.