one son’s shine

a father’s pride and joy,
learned in woods, compliant in his words.
the skill witnessed in one; the other
missed, though blessed by the verses he wove.

the final exhale came at his death
and his name, the last bequeath to the boy
left to find his own way in that same name,
a glowing example of all that love

can do to nurture long connected souls.
his goal now to shine until his last breath
in homage to the Dad long passed,
seated in silent vigil from his lofty place above.

a sailor Father’s last ahoy,
sailing in one son’s shine, in love and faith.




a mother missed and cherished

near your stone in the mourning mist,
whispers of a voice ne’er forgotten
still echo in wisdom, a generation
since we stood at Christmas on your frozen ground.

photos of you splayed in memory, kept
close to heart and the soul of you penetrates
all of us left to recall and to be kissed
by your love long after your passing. the sound

of your lost lullaby fills our sad eyes;
tears in torrents to drown our aching, wept
jointly as these visions we shared through you
dissipate over the course of years. Still the joy of you abounds.

a mother long held cherished,
in heart and mind and soul you have crept.



I come to these grounds of your rest;
the best I can do to be with you today.
The sky is unsettled, and dreams long
since dreamed land clumsily shattering
like glass. I rub your stone; an image
of your name in charcoal remains,
stains of a heart broken, this small token
of the life you gave me. I listen and murmurs
blown though barren tree branches
whisper, waiting for the axe to fall.
And all at once it vanishes. Memories
of a mother departed still close to heart.

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014



REQUESTED (Izzy’s Sonnet)

Day 2 holding her pacifier



God graciously gives gifts that prove His love,

And this time used a cherished little one

Whose precious face is reminiscent of

The one who caused my heart to come undone.

Another set of prints upon my soul

Has made her presence known, and it’s sublime –

Just like a piece that makes a puzzle whole,

Or syllable that finishes a rhyme.

Upon three years of practice on my part,

You’d think by now it might have gotten old.

But every day brings wonder to my heart,

And now my joy has multiplied twofold.

Delivered straight to us through Heaven’s door –

The one her sister earnestly asked for.

 By Marie Elena Good

(Welcoming our newest little grandtreasure, Isadora Kathleen, born April 12, 2014.  We are all over the moon, including Sophie, who fervently wanted a sister.  Not knowing ahead of time whether they were having a boy or a girl, Sophie’s mommy and daddy tried to prepare her for the possibility of a brother.  Sophie seemed to know better, and unwaveringly kept reminding us all that she “asked for a sister.”)


Link to “PRINTS” (Sophie’s Sonnet):


Maumee, Ohio.
Never been there.
Never met her.
Never heard of her,
before poetry placed her in my heart.
From the start, she became a place
that held a face most familiar.
Never seen her.
Never met her.
Won’t forget her influence
and support. A poetic cohort.
She knows my skeletons
by name. All the same,
Maumee, how I love ya, how I love ya!


© Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014



Photo Credit: Pearl Ketover Prilik

“St. Thomas at Sunset” Photo Credit: Pearl Ketover Prilik

Anchored in silence,
shadowed in magnificence,
in the thoughts of peaceful being.
Seeing the world through eyes
to the beauty that surrounds.
The sounds of the onslaught of dusk
like the winds of change
to rearrange your position, upon the lake.
the cover of a clouded shroud,
it speaks loudly in anchored silence
in magnificence; lost in thoughts.
The peace of being adrift.






Six years ago we said hello,
neophytes in worded verse.
You’d think life would have been
a rehearsal for this gauntlet,
a daunting pace, a poetic race
through April’s thirty days.
Word plays and metered rhyme
will pass the time as we mark
the moment we embarked
on this partnership as poets.
A challenge to begin that has
kept us joined in purloined poetry.
We’ve carried the torch to light
each others way, a beacon
that spans an eerie Great Lake and back.
The distance seem massive
as the years pass and at some future
long last, it will have passed
from memory. I miss your words,
and it seems absurd to say it,
but it plays in my head. Your poems
are not dead, nor do they sleep.
They merely rest for another April’s play.
Until that day you return, I will yearn
to hear one more rhyme, one last time.