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Walter Weinschenk

AuthorPoet

Of Note:  Walter joined other writers at the MoCo Underground Writers Showcase for the National Day
on Writing at the Sandy Spring Museum, Sandy Spring, Maryland on October 20, 2022.  He read his
poem "For Edna St. Vincent Millay".  Great turnout, wonderful stories and poems read by the authors. 


Also, an interview :  Walter discusses his writing style and the writing process in an in-depth interview just published in THE GATEWAY REVIEW! Here's the link:    https://gatewayreview.wordpress.com/current-contributors/


Coming Soon:    

The Death of Weinberg:  Poems and Stories
 

Walter's first full length book, a collection of prose and: poetry, will be available
this winter.  The book can be purchased on Amazon and Kelsay Books libraries.


 

Old Book

Walter Weinschenk is an attorney, writer and musician. Until a few years ago, he wrote
short stories exclusively but now divides his time equally between poetry and prose.
Walter's writing has appeared in over forty literary publications and his first full length
collection, "The Death of Weinberg:  Poems and Stories",  will be available this winter.
Walter lives in a suburb just outside Washington, D. C. with  his wife and children close by.

Old Book

Walter Weinschenk is an attorney, writer and musician. Until a few years ago, he wrote
short stories exclusively but now divides his time equally between poetry and prose.
Walter's writing has appeared in over forty literary publications and his first full length
collection, "The Death of Weinberg:  Poems and Stories",  will be available this winter.
Walter lives in a suburb just outside Washington, D. C. with  his wife and children close by.

Three Poems . . . 

Chrysanthemums

I am gone,

A memory,

A broken beam of light,

Diffuse in time,

A fading afterthought

But, even so,

A part of me

Still lives:

A silent remnant

That can’t be seen;

It roams the earth,

Rises through the silver sheen

Of jeweled spring nights,

Races through clover

And grassy thickets,

Flies like leaves,

Falls from the sky

Like grey rain,

Lands in a twist

And floats again,

Swirls in the breeze

And surfs the wind;

This is how it is

And always will be;

No one knows,

No one sees

But, strange to say,

I am still alive

In the hearts and minds

Of chrysanthemums

Over which I fly;

Living seas of chrysanthemums,

Thick across the fields,

Grand nations, yellow and red;

They call my name,

They sing,

They comfort me

As I pass by,

Each and every time

And this is what

They say to me:

 

“It’s warm today,

Quite perfect,

And the breeze is right;

The earth is moist,

It soothes our roots;

We don’t know who we are

But we love the day,

Embrace the night;

We breathe and love

And love each breath;

Nurtured, cossetted,

By earth and air;

We are alive

And life itself

Surges through

Our stems and veins;

We stretch our leaves

And gentle petals

Of our floret coats;

We dance in the rain,

We salute the sun

When he comes around;

We don’t know

Who we are

But we stir,

Turn slow

In the world in which

We find ourselves,

Some world, this world

And you as well,

You who are in the world,

One in the world,

Like each of us.”

 

I can’t reply

But they know me well,

Better than I know myself;

They tip their petals

On sunny days as I fly by,

Each and every time.

["Chrysanthemums" first appeared in The Elevation Review, April 2022]

              Lighthouse

 

 

I was lost, but then, by chance,

I found the beach; I walked upon

The scrabble sand; I climbed the rocks

And knew that I would never leave.

 

I found the lighthouse by the shore;

I climbed the tower to the top;

I lit the lamp and scanned the sea

In search of lost and scattered souls.

 

The sky was black and ruthless;

My heart broke for the thought

Of sailors trapped in broken boats,

Their draughts of hope consumed.

 

It was, indeed, a powerful light:

Stately beam, rhythmic reach,

Back and forth like a metronome

And out of darkness souls emerged

Like pearls upon a velvet sleeve:

In perfect line, they sailed toward me.

 

A shattered armada drifted in,

Staggered toward the shore,

Ripped sails and broken masts;

Their figureheads had lost their heads.

 

I am no god, a shepherd at best

But it doesn’t matter who I am,

For I will climb those steps again

And every night I will shine a light

To bring those children home.

["Lighthouse" first appeared in Flumes | The Haberdasher,

 May 2021]

Underwater

I tumbled through

A school of fish,

A swirling horde,

A silver coil

That danced

Around me

Like a circle of light

While, below,

Green lobsters

Trudged along,

Wary and deliberate;

Storms of seaweed

Fell like snow

And gathered in piles;

I saw, as well,

The bones of fish

And the bones of men;

They roll like tumbleweed

Across the floor;

I mourned the loss

Of those nameless souls.

  

II

The sun is weak:

Its blinding light

Succumbs to the water,

Gleams meekly

Through shadows

That pervade the ocean’s

Rooms and corridors

But, even so,

I now can see

As never before:

I see the flicker

Of distant fins

And grains of sand

In every inch

Of the seabed’s

Grand mosaic;

I see sharp corners And subtle bends

Hidden in a shadow’s edge,

And I see colors

That can’t be seen

In the atmosphere;

I have found clarity

In the darkness of the sea.

 

The weight of water

Is soft against my skin:

The cool of it

Reaches my core,

Runs throughout

The essence of all I am,

An essence I never knew

And could never know

Living life on land.

 

I hear the song

Of bells in the distance,

A strained echo

Reverberates in long,

Deformed tone,

Chimes from beyond the reef:

It could be the music

Of an ancient buoy,

Long ago abandoned

Or, perhaps, the song

Of currents as they cross:

Sober tone,

Holy melody,

A lonely reminder

Of something lost;

The crabs and eels

And angelfish

Listen and live

In keeping

With its rhythm

As I drift, spellbound,

Toward the sound

Of that lament.

["Underwater" first appeared in Lighthouse Weekly, April, 2022]

Photos . . .

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