Morning becomes her,
she languishes like the sun
rising to fill him with her warmth.
She owns his heart.

His heart is strong,
holding her closely to his chest.
She echoes his beat –
the pulse is shared together.

Shared, together love grows
in the rising of emotions.
The day begins in her embrace.
Morning becomes her.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014



“See you next season!” she would call,
excitedly boarding the bus for home.
It was a joy to envision that warm smile
through cold winter nights, counting the days
to when Summer replays her refrain. The anticipation
made the Winters seem so cold and long.

Camp Good Days made a special time for sick children who long
for the adventures that their conditions would not allow. Call
it a service. Think labor of love! Young folk in this station
battling Hodgkin Lymphoma, living with cerebral palsy, Downs Syndrome,
find a Summer home here. And for one so dear, Leukemia filled her days.
And yet she was never fully dressed without her beaming smile.

As I said, a labor of love, but never a chore – service with a smile,
you can’t call it work if it’s something you love. It wasn’t too long
ago that Kathleen was a “camper”. Becoming a counselor, she spent Summer days
giving back the love she had long received. I believe it kept her whole. Call
her a good soul; a saint. An angel when the message came from her home.
Katie had taken a turn. In her mother’s voice…consternation.

For all she had anticipated,
I could find no elation; no celebration for the new year. No smile
to brighten sour days. No way to remove the shackles of home
for the escape the camp afforded. No boarding for the long
bus ride – songs and secrets, conversations silenced. The call
of roll without a familiar ring. A different Camp Good Days,

without the friend made and nurtured through Summer days.
In many ways, it feels strangely isolated,
yet knowing Kathleen answered the life’s Last Call
with her usual grace and humility, made me smile
at least briefly. She was chiefly responsible for my long
tenure as a counselor at a camp that gave these kids a home

away from home. And it felt like home.
There is a labor of love to perform as I remember the days
when Katie made her illness disappear a little, even though not for long.
We had a song that the kids sang that celebrated
the life they embraced. Each word will be laced with her smile.
Right up until Kathleen’s “See you next season!” call!

Children need a place that they can call sanctuary; a home.
An brief escape from their realities to fill their days with smiles.
For Camp Good Days, a moment long anticipated.


(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014


I am out in the rain,
therefore, I think that I am all  wet.
If it gets any more violent, I will relent
and run for cover. But I’m a lover
of a good rain shower. It can rain
for hours and the flowers will be
the better for it. I do not abhor it.
An eighty percent chance that rain
would come. Odds were not good;
it surely would rain. But then again,
I will take the chance. I’ll hear the rhythm
of the rain and dance. I think I am wet.
Therefore it is raining stronger.
I hope it rains much longer!


(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014


The best of both worlds, an escape.
For a day or a week, the peace you seek
awaits you. It takes you far away
while keeping you near. It is here
you can pitch a tent and reinvent your psyche,
an isolated place near the lake. It makes
your nerves settle and sends your mettle packing.
You’re only lacking for convenience.

Nearby is Darien Lake amusement park, a stark culture shift
from natural to man-made mayhem. Thrill rides,
hiding spots for picnic lunches and bunches
of kiosks and games; some of the names escape me.
Amphitheater for big name acts; they really pack them in.
Set betwixt Buffalo and Batavia, a short ride for a long day’s
journey to joy. Every man, woman, girl and boy knows
that by the close of day, they’ve seen something good.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014


Underneath the moon she sleeps,
keeping his heart close and feeling
safe and comforted by his presence.
He is the essence of love to her,
the glory of love for which she had sought.
She sleeps beneath the moon.

She is his shining star, an orb
of such brilliance that she blinds him.
Of the many stars in the sky, his eye finds
her. No magnification is used. How do you
expand on the infinite scope of this bright light?
He just continues to be blinded. He is fine with it.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014


Euell Gibbons you had this plan,
(you were the natural eatin’ man!)
out there stalking wild asparagus,
in your thinking you took care of us.

But turn the cameras to off,
and E.G,’s menu’d might make you scoff.
Big Macs, Slurpees, Malomars,
Whoppers, Chalupas, Chocolate Bars,

salted snacks in plastic wraps,
mouthfuls full of fast food crap.
With cameras on, a bowl of twigs,
and pure lake water by the swig.

Maple leaves to make you yearn,
for the days in which you’d burn
this foliage, they don’t taste half that bad.
it’s the only roughage that he had.

Dripping sap from tapping trees,
fresh honey from the hives of bees.
Tapping trees, will fill the bill,
but the bees will sting you (yes, they will).

Forest critters are off limit,
they’ll claw your ass, they are not timid!
Hiking here will stoke your hunger
but your search for food will put you under.

So, when on expeditions pack
every kind of super snack.
Screw the clothes, bring loads of food
(you’ll be well fed – just in the nude)

Mr. Gibbons, we salute you,
your advice was more than fruitful.
You’re long gone, we have not forgotten you,
but just look where all that clean livin’s gotten you.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014

Euell Gibbons [Click Here For Video]
Euell Gibbons 1911-1975
[Click Here For Video]


Quiet. Serene. Soft and gentle
calling to the soul seeking refuge,
solace in the silent sanctuary.
It’s a feeling that rises up, touching
every fiber of your being.

As the sun rises, you are seeing
things in the light of a new day, another
way to capture the beauty of a world
left to your own devices, It is nice
that the vision of that first sun, shines through.

You fill your lungs with as much fresh air
as you can inhale and without fail, the scent
of the pines brings a tear for it is here
that the world began. Your heart beats
more true as you stand and listen

to the awakening that began
with the rays of the sun as it raises its hands
to glorify all that it touches. A symphony
of avian arias and woodland creatures
alerting the world they have arisen.

There is a sweetness that exists in nature,
a honeyed palette that quenches your thirst
and satisfies your hunger for each new day.
You savor the flavor of what your senses reveal.
You believe this is the most alive that you will feel!


(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014


Camp Hike


There they stand hand-in-hand
traveling to another land.
Not a one is in command,
but they walk together to explore.

Entering through nature’s door,
across the bridge’s mossy floor,
step-by-step they work, these four
together on their way.

Knowing soon there’ll come a day,
when they will go their separate ways,
but for now, and come what may,
they’re together hand-in-hand.


(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014


I come in solidarity
a misplaced face
in this girls world.
Lest I be the brunt
of vitriol when the moon
rides in on its cycle, know this:
I cramp a lot,
I’ve got perky moobs,
I retain water, and
have a weak bladder.
I get mad as a hatter
when the things I bought
last week, go on sale this week.
But the solution is easy.
I’ve come “Double Stuft”.
“Oreos, Ladies?”


(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014


Condescending diatribe,
incendiary words meant to consume
the essence of all in its path.
A logical progression
in the succession of all things in sight.
Leaving nothing behind,
an endless string of pathos and heart,
a man who could fashion line,
chapter and verse, and what’s worse,
stand by his convictions to rise
above the smouldering ashes,
proverbial phoenix of passion’s pyre.
The fire within becomes his sin,
leaving nothing in his wake,
taking stock of every nuance
of worded profundity, the undoing
of a finely crafted association,
no celebration; no elation.
Just the station to which he has
himself resigned. For in his mind,
he holds the flint that will spark
his survival; a revival. He will not
look back lest he turn to salt.
Poetic Gomorrah is burning.
He will not fan the flames.
Just let the bastard burn and walk away.