22 November 2016

       “There is never enough time to do or say all the things that we would wish. The thing is to try to do as much as you can         in the time that you have. Remember Scrooge, time is short, and suddenly, you’re not here any more.” ~The Ghost of Christmas Present from Charles Dickens, “SCROOGE”

When you’re not here any more
and Christmas has gone on without you,
will I wish to have done and said all in your cause?
I languish in these thoughts built upon our wistful hearts.
Repentance is a sad and lonely dance when every chance
we have to assume that mantle is left as a pathetic wallflower.

The Christmases we have shared
cannot be compared to the joy this boy found
in the discovery of love that you had brought in open arms,
as all the charms of your warming smile for the while you are here
cheer me. I lament for you. Yet, I eschew utterance
of your name lest my soul implode and eradicate your image.

But, still it will fade. With the passage of time, I’m less inclined
to rely on your saving graces in lieu of other places.
And any traces of memory dissipate in foggy dissolution,
an intrusion to the here and now by the here after.
I shout to the rafters to be left to my devices
and suffice it to say I will fail in that regard.

It is hard to remove you from my past where you are ingrained.
Even more difficult to allow you to escape this present in which we find ourselves.
When you are no longer here, it will be clear.
There is much to do in this time allotted. Minutes are slotted
and when I am no longer here, my memories of you will die
once again within me. But, never allow me to be free of you. For it is true,

I continue to love you in my way, but choose to stay forward facing
and pacing towards every new Christmas yet to come.
Some call it folly to be so jolly at this time, but I’m accustomed
to living in this spirit. I hear it whisper in terms of peace and goodwill.
If you stand still and listen, it will glisten like the freshly fallen snow.
Every new sunrise is a Christmas present in this Christmas present.

So we prepare for the coming yuletide, with this feeling inside,
that says; make this the first best day of the rest of our time.
Choose to let it shine from within and it will make us grin.
Let us give this gift to mankind; this offering becomes our mission.
On the condition of anonymity, I will choose to undertake this blessed cause,
under the name I am using. This is solely my choosing. I am Santa Claus.

 © Walter J Wojtanik – 2016


19 November 2016

Ever since I was a young boy,
I was told that I always brought joy
into every life I could grace.
To see the smiles on each face
tells me they might be right.
I am up through the night
on that special flight that might
just be the best job in the world.
Or at least around it, and in one night!
This sack of toys for the girls and boys
seems to fill a longing they all have,
a salve for their wanting souls.
No lumps of coal, just a major dose
of the one thing that I bring the most!
I bring joy, just because.
(And yes, I am [really] Santa Claus!)


© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016


19 November 2016

Oh my dear little reindeer.
I love to see you flourish.
I feed you those nourishing grains
(and those secret things
that make you fly!). I love
to come to the stables
to tell you fables and tales
of legendary deer that were here
before you. I adore you for your
skills; every thrill you’ve given
for as long as I’ve been living,
enlivens my heart and starts
my motor running for our
stunning ride. A run, a jump,
and a glide and it’s all night
we ride! And it all starts right
here as it had centuries ago.
Don’t you know a stable
once housed the manger in which
The Child was born. He is the
reason for our cause. Rest well
my deer ones, I am Santa Claus!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides November Chapbook Challenge – Day 19: Common Place


12 December 2015

The clock winds down.
Crunch time is nigh and I
have every elfin minion
keeping me on track.
My sack sits empty, but there
are plenty of gifts to be presented.
In some demented way, I live
for this “passion” play.
Reindeer are rested and ready,
for it’s steady as we go through the snow.
The seconds do tick and I’m quick
to note (and I do not gloat)
the big push is on so save
your hems and your haws.
Just put your faith in Santa Claus!

© Walter J Wojtanik, 2015


9 December 2015

In our string of triolet poems, DeJackson and I, Walter J. Wojtanik, use the last lines of each other’s poems to begin our next entry. Here is a partial exchange of ours. (The triolets authors are color coded!) Take it away, De!


A Caroling We Will Go

Until he got serious and belted out the words,
the whole group of carolers was flummoxed.
His participation was really quite absurd,
until he got serious and belted out the words.
In the 12 days of Christmas, he left out all the birds.
See, a whisper and a hum just don’t cut it.
Until he got serious and belted out the words,
the whole group of carolers was flummoxed.



The whole group of carolers was flummoxed,
someone changed the carols lyrics.
Who would be such a dumb ox?
The whole group of carolers was flummoxed.
It might have been the lummox
who went laughingly into hysterics!
The whole group of carolers was flummoxed,
someone changed the carols lyrics.

My Blue Love Craved of Me?

Someone changed the carols’ lyrics,
so the dancing ladies came after the leaping lords.
It didn’t even follow the laws of physics
when someone changed the carols’ lyrics.
It was a song void of birds and full of misfits,
and “13 golden rings” just sounds absurd.
Someone changed the carol’s lyrics,
so the dancing ladies came after the leaping lords.



The dancing ladies came after the leaping lords,
the maids a-milking jumped clear off of their stools!
The bird pairings sang in one accord,
so the dancing ladies came after the leaping lords.
These ladies were aggressive. Submissive? “HA!” they roared!
The drummers drummed like drumming fools,
The dancing ladies came after the leaping lords,
the maids a-milking jumped clear off of their stools!

A 5 (Golden) Ring Circus

The maids a-milking jumped clear off of their stools!
The pipers piped a silly swan song.
Every bird, lord and lady broke all of the rules,
as the maids a-milking jumped clear off of their stools!
Milk everywhere! Birds squawking! A carnival of fools!
Even the turtle doves shelled it out wrong.
The maids a-milking jumped clear off of their stools
as the pipers piped a silly swan song.



The pipers piped a silly swan song,
it was Santa’s favorite tune,
a little jingle can’t be wrong,
the pipers piped a silly swan song.
Not too short and not too long,
just something he could croon!
The pipers piped a silly swan song,
it was Santa’s favorite tune.

Sing It, Santa

It was Santa’s favorite tune,
a fa-la-la-la-lullaby.
The one that made the Misses swoon,
it was Santa’s favorite tune.
He’ll sing from midnight until noon
when the reindeer graced the sky.
It was Santa’s favorite tune,
a fa-la-la-la-la-lullaby.



a fa-la-la-la-la-lullaby
sung in a hush-hush tone,
something for when the babies cry,
a fa-la-la-la-la-lullaby.
they will fall asleep by and by,
and stay so after Santa’s gone.
a fa-la-la-la-la-lullaby
sung in a hush-hush tone,

First, Christmas

Sung in a hush-hush tone,
the angels lull a boy to sleep.
His parents know his power, alone,
sung in a hush-hush tone.
An old feed trough becomes a throne,
as earth welcomes a baby King.
Sung in a hush-hush tone,
the angels lull a boy to sleep.



The angels lull a boy to sleep
while visions of sugar plums dance
and as the dreams begin to seep
the angels lull a boy to sleep.
The night is calm, dark and deep,
a visit from St. Nick, perchance?
The angels lull a boy to sleep
while visions of sugar plums dance.

© De Jackson / Walter J. Wojtanik, 2015


2 December 2015
Neil’s wife reads to excess.
Tome and volume turned up and blaring
not caring the space they replace on her book shelf.
I myself read when I can. Just a man whose obsession
with words comes from within. It is a sin sometimes that I’m
not more of an explorer than she.

And soon, she replaces the placeholders,
removing the older books for new. You’d think
the local library had opened an annex.

Neil spreads them on the table at work,
gifts given to those who take solace in books.

I look at the titles. One thin bit to entice me.
I rediscover Poet McKuen’s “Twelve Years of Christmas”.

It speaks to lost childhoods and
long lost friends buried within me.

That I could be Father Christmas isn’t far
from the truth. The days of my youth linger
in memory. I cherish this “gift” adding to my collection.

It gives my spirit direction.

Thank you, Mrs. Neil!

© Walter J Wojtanik, 2015


30 November 2015

It’s almost here.
Starting from here it’s nothing
but glad tidings and Christmas cheer.
Not everyone finds the spirit
for I hear it is not everyone’s cup,
but I’m gearing up nonetheless.
It is the best time for me, because
I see hearts change (even if only briefly)
and I’m chiefly heartened by this metamorphosis
each year at Christmas. Sadly, it goes too fast.
I wish it would last, but such is life!
Reindeer are trained and ready to be reigned,
and the “strain” of the hustle starts to subside.
The tide that is Yule driven has given me
a good life with my missus at my side,
and every elf is in stride. I’ve tried to cut some slack
and have kept track of the naughty and the nice.
Suffice it to say, we’re ready for that day.
So, be reminded that the nearer Christmas draws
we are all a little bit of Santa Claus.
Starting from this moment!

© Walter J. Wojtanik, 2015


25 November 2015


The crested moon lays shadows softly
across the pristine blanket of white.
It is another perfect December night.

It is quite the site, blue spruce and evergreen,
pock the scene, elf couples on a stroll.
Everything under control near the North Pole!

And I look out from my comfortable chair.
It is there where I settle for a quite respite
before the activities get hectic. In spite

of this night, my mind is busy, moving
between naughty and nice, no roll of the dice,
I take that decision seriously so I do check twice.

“Momma” comes with more cocoa. She knows
when my mug is empty and my heart is full.
I pull her in for a gentle kiss. I would be a fool

if I was remiss in that simple show of affection.
She knows. She all ways knows. Again it snows.
Laying a finger aside of my nose, she knows.

Back to work in the placidity of my thoughts.
No words need to be spoken, just that one small token
And she knows. Christmas approaches, no joking!

I sip down the frothy brew, watching for signs.
They reflect my love of the season in this silent pause.
This is my annual cause. I am Santa Claus.


© Walter J. Wojtanik, 2015


25 November 2015


I happened a chance to attend the Caribou Corners
Winter dance before I’d taken up the cause.
She stood near the punchbowl, a young beauty
with the duty of replenishing the sugar cookies.
I watched her, not in a creepy way, but they say
I was mesmerized. She held my interest as well
as she held my heart. And I knew not her name.
But all the same, I would catch her eye often,
and her smile would melt the marshmallows
in my cup of cocoa! I don’t know why I did,
but I hid my interest from the woman in the
red velvet dress. I was a mess. Going to sip,
I missed my mouth, spilling hot chocolate
on my frosted beard and white fur collar.
She came with a napkin dabbing at my stain,
and the burn on my lip. Up on her tip toes
she reached up to kiss and take away the pain.
Demure and gentile, I made a mental note
to devote more attention to the young miss
beneath the mistletoe. I blame the holly,
it keeps me jolly. And it is surely the cause
she would eventually become Mrs. Claus.

© Walter J Wojtanik, 2015


23 November 2015

I’m sorry that you made the list,
and not the one you wanted,
the things you did just can’t be missed
and ‘til Christmas you’ll be haunted.

I’m not sure why it is 
that I need to apologize,
but I find it hard to be that guy,
to come down with this surprise.

If I’ve checked it once, I’ve checked it twice,
and my numbers do not lie.
You’re on the fence, that should suffice.
If you have “nice” in you, please try.

For lumps of coal are hard to tote,
they take a toll on my back.
In spite of the letters that you wrote,
it’s your job to get back on track.

Yes, I’m sorry that you made the list,
but you’ve brought it on yourself.
If I were you, I’d be really… mad,
all your “good” gifts remain on the shelf.

So mind your manners, be polite,
it will help you in your cause.
And do what you can to make things right,
I believe in YOU, signed Santa Claus!

© Walter J Wojtanik, 2015