Archives

IT WAS SUMMER

Pool days, Daze of youth.
To tell the truth I miss that time.
I felt fine; felt alive, running with good friends,
relaxing on the shore late nights by the lake.
Memories take me back. It was summer.

Bare feet or flip-flops, we were non-stop,
under blue skies. We had our fun
where the green grass was emerald,
and the sweet tea was refreshing.
Life was hot! It was summer.

Star gazing as moonflakes shimmer
on the rippling surge of Erie’s offering.
Near the bonfires of passing time,
feeling as if I’m on permanent vacation.
This was my station. It was summer.

Neighbor kids had lemonade stands,
red solo cups filled with sunshine
elixir, a mixture of tart and sweet.
A nice retreat from the heat in the shade,
this day was made for it. It was summer.

Late lightning and thunderstorms,
fireworks of nature’s provision,
star-crossed hearts start each evening
with the hope of true love to coming to call.
All was all right at night! It was summer.

Backyard barbeques, sweet peaches
and watermelon. People sellin’ their stuff
as yard sales pop up along the street.
Mr. Frosty’s ring jingle made you tingle
for ice cream. A young man’s dream. It was summer.

Pool days, daze of youth.
To tell the truth I miss those times,
I felt fine. Mom and Dad were still alive.
Life was perfect despite our flaws,
all for the cause of family. It was summer.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

 

Added words: Lake, moonflakes, heat, shade

 

Written to Poetic Bloomings “An Entertaining Summer” – Day 22: WORDS, WORDS, SUMMER WORDS

Offered at dVerse Poets Pub – OLN #176

Advertisements

MADE OF THE MIST

Maid of the Mist

Maid of the Mist

The air below churns and yearns
to dance in the foamy wake.
It takes a circuitous route
as cascades crash, smashing
against the rocks below. Thunderous
wonder of the world. Your winds
swirl as your micro-droplets
collect. On a boat so close
you can taste Niagara’s mist.
This is the epitome of awe
and wonder. Under the rainbow,
a new world transcends
below the mighty falls,
down where the Niagara River ends.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik, 2015

For Phoenix Rising July P.A.D. Travelog – Destination: Poetry – Niagara Falls

 

FRONT PORCH, AS THE THUNDER APPROACHES

End of day plays Jekyll and Hyde,
it’s a bit warm to remain inside.
A hasty retreat is beaten to the cover
of awning with a rainstorm dawning.
Deck chairs edge closer; the center
of the porch as ground zero.
Clouds dance, lightning brightening
the horizon. Hearing in the distance,
rumbles tumble, a cacophonous cascade;
nature’s serenade played in tympanic
tumult. Nearer the furor approaches.
Rain showers encroach on late spring.
A brilliant display on the front porch at the end of day!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik, 2015

FRONT PORCH, AS THE BREEZE BLOWS

Freshly repaired and painted,
deck chairs stained and remain
side-by-side. Bamboo screen
hiding the world from the view.
Fields, a dream come to life,
grass undulating in waves
waiting for the next breath.
Cloud pocked skies azure
in hue, through the lattice
the breeze finds its way.
The front porch on a perfect day!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik, 2015

SHIFTING SANDS

Little one, your journey
has taken a turn and you
yearn for your course to
remain unchanged. But
by some deranged act of nature,
your stature has been diminished.
You’re finished with holding on
and your tragic song is a cry.
You’re losing your grip and any
slip of the tongue sends you
reeling and feeling less than
zero. And it appears I am no
longer your hero. I have few
answers that make sense to you.
Your sink hole is drawing you down
in a profound shift in your footing.
Usually the hard and strong one,
you’ve done little to show your flair.
You sit and stare blankly; angry
at your world and your mother and me.
All you see is a destructive path,
a road less traveled well. Tell me
what you need! Mr. Fix-it can’t
do his job if you don’t tell me
where it hurts. Stop your brashness
and please don’t trash the life you love.
Don’t panic and flail in the shifting sand.

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 hands
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 price
of freedom was very high, but worth every cent.

And if anyone would tell me that in a year 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, power, peace; a good release in a lyrical sense
under the false pretense of ever really being
in love yet above all else, music and words lived in me
(but I was just too ignorant to get that clue).
Besides, my voice changed.

Walt

Presented at WE WRITE POEMS – Prompt #166 – What’s it like to be your age?