Love.
she sleeps in the other room
across the way through
the living room
across the kitchen
near the bathroom
Love
sleeps there.

I take no comfort,
for my afflictions are fueled
by my disorders
sleep in the other room
furthest away from love.
sign post up ahead reads
no vacancy
as love sleeps.

breathing is ragged
twitch and buck
movement raucous
I snore
apnea laced imperfection
sleep heading in
the wrong direction
of up all night.

legs flailing
restlessly.
I can't wait to see
what the night holds,
what the mind unfolds,
yet love sleeps
down the hall
in another room.

I toss and turn
I can't discern between
sleep and wide awake,
they become the same
eyes that despise night
looking for love in all
the long faces.
Besides, love sleeps.

And I don't.
up all hours, it devours
rest and at best
I must confess
I eschew it for sleep.
I say screw it for sleep,
to be knee deep in R.E.M.
I long to be

knee deep in R.E.M.
A dream would suffice
but thinking twice
it gets lonely in here.
If only my joy would keep.
love sleeps in the distance,
mine's met with resistance
as I toss and turn.

Yet, love sleeps
in the other room.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik - 2024

It is what it is
It was what it was.
History is his story.
History is her story.
The journey of life 
is rife with ups 
and downs,
and these clowns
who look to rewrite
the narrative are scary.
History is not what 
we’d like it to be.
It was what it was:
It is what it is!
It’s a thing of the past,
It’s our history!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik - 

Fifty years over the bridge,
the summer of’74
was the door to my adulthood.
It was a good year
although not everything was roses.
I graduated that summer
(Our reunion just passed)
I can’t believe the time went so fast;
It passed in a flash.
Shortly after, my grandfather,
my mentor and life guide
succumbed to his age
and all sage advice in his
thick Polish accent was silenced.
Before autumn fell, I did.
I fell for a bright toothy smile,
deep cocoa eyes and a mane
of blazing auburn who would turn
into the love of my life.
I would lose her years later,
In heart the greater part of thirty years.
But amidst the tears
I realize there was no surprise
the Summer of 74 would stand
as the most memorable of this man.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2024

She smiles with her eyes,  
sweeping in with her radiant expression. 
A smile within a smile 
bringing her joy to the fore.

She spreads her sunshine. 
She smiles with her eyes,   
piercing the darkest day 
when her smile comes out to play.

A fresh face around this place,  
her countenance becomes her beacon. 
She smiles with her eyes, 
it is brightly apparent.

A much needed injection  
to cure your afflictions. 
I am glad for her smile.  
She smiles with her eyes!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2023

Night has fallen 
And it’s calling me 
To dance in silhouette 
Cast by the moon. 
It follows my every step, 
Tentative as they may be. 
It is stalking me, 
Talking me into falling back 
Into her embrace. All I know, 
Is I’m being followed  
By a moon shadow.

(C)  Walter J Wojtanik – 2023

She took the breath 
Of an unguarded heart, 
Leaving me gasping 
For the air I crave. 
I cannot save myself 
So I sit still in silent 
Contemplation, 
my station Is my prison, 
a decision 
To inhale deeply rests 
On an uncertain heart. 
You start to pray for 
A resuscitation to recover 
From the strangulation. 
Amorous asthma rules the day. 
In silence, breath wheezes loudly.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2023

From PONDERINGS OF AN ASTHMATIC by William Preston 

In silence, breath wheezes loudly.

I stepped in love once. 
I came out smelling like it for a long time. I was fine. 
but I couldn’t get the stink 
out of my head (or heart). 
I started to think in poems, 
totems of words stacked 
one upon the other. 
It became a tattoo worn obscenely, marking me for life 
as a hopeless romantic. 
I become frantic because 
that love lingers like it lives 
on my fingers. It possesses me. 
Falling in quicksand should feel so liberating. 
In fact it is even more. 
But you can’t get rid of the smell.

(c) Walter J Wojtanik -2023

She found she couldn’t compete with love. 
It sounded wonderful in a neat little poem. 
But love poems are just words 
and she didn’t believe words anymore. 
He found it hard to express his heart 
and so he didn’t even try to anymore. 
She found she couldn’t compete with love. 
She just didn’t care.

(c) Walter J Wojtanik – 2023

I find a table in the back room,
across the way a woman waits, 
studious and refined. 
Exchanged smiles and a nod, 
a recognition of each other's condition. Both on a mission to discover and uncover our truths. 
I delve into my notes, 
random lines 
and quotes of poetic potential, 
a vocabulary as a credential. 
She primps and organizes, 
text books and journals, 
pages put forth by sages 
of knowledge and education, 
her trained station. 
Shortly she is joined by her charge, 
a student of adult age, 
unsure and uncertain, 
shrouded by a curtain of doubt, 
out to prove detractors wrong. 
Treading on trepidatious feet 
he meets the one who will guide him, 
a black man wanting a better life, 
an understanding in undemanding tones. Grasping small bits of truth 
far from the youth of his days, 
he plays slowly with words, 
a struggle undertaken. 
He battles the language valiantly, stepping cautiously from word to word. Yearning for a chance to better himself, willing to learn what she offers. 
I look over again 
and we all smile and nod. 

(C) Walter J Wojtanik - 2023

We think the thoughts we think
wondering if we really know
that of which we speak.
At the peak of our knowing
we realize that we really don't
know what we think we do,
and it's true. We flow contrary
to the facts that show,
against all knowledge.

(c) Walter J Wojtanik - 2023