Poems by C. W. Wells
From port to sinewy mountain range
I have traveled this lofty country
searching for my special place to be
without concern for time or savoring where I'd been.
Wayfarer, wanderer, bearer of the faith
call me what you will, judge me by your measure
in a nomadic quest for peaceful slumber.
In my absence, each leaf unfurled unnoticed,
withered and fell to its seasonal folly
unseen by me, unnoticed by the wayside.
Whisked away. No… drawn by the invisible
tendrils of life to another soul. Another place,
some other space, to make me whole.
With restless dispassionate claims for the former
I rest here for a time and then I wonder
what lies ahead with wretched abandon.
Unaware of time elapsed, and the lesser time to come.
I am the wind, no more in my brevity than a dream.
Shortsighted, whimsical, a lilting note that hangs
precariously for a time in the air, destined to dissipate.
Bearing the same fate as that lonesome leaf,
unsure of the tree from whence I came.
The Mortal Tale
Chaos reigns in the midst of silence
Bedlam subordinates human defiance.
Cacophonous wails denote our fall
Burning desire to make sense of it all.
Scintillating tales of the life hereafter
Fire the imagination of sage and pastor.
Spark intellects to continue their searches
Pontificating jurisprudence in lofty perches.
Quests of liberation from life's sore spindle
All destined to unerringly dwindle.
Cruelly endowed with clarity of thought
Into the earth with all that we sought.
Minds and bodies ravaged by time
Robbed of vitality and youth sublime.
Tortured with the brevity of our existence
Desperately cling to the barest subsistence.
Our minds accept the end of all seasons
But wistfully embrace hope beyond reason.
Aspiring to be "the one", a holy exception
Victims of our own greedy deception.
Frightened by the inevitability of our demise
Believing ourselves above it or so we surmise.
Confused by issues of salvation and seduction.
Submissively resigned to moral destruction.
Forgetting we are part of a greater cycle
Unwitting participants of our own debacle.
For none may elude God's grandiose plan
Not the stars and surely not man.
Accept what is given, I will do the same.
But do not relinquish your mortal claim.
Embrace and rejoice in all that is given
Perhaps then, you will understand heaven.
Fresh Linen, Liver, Canned Preserves and Pumpkin Pie
Fresh linen, liver, canned preserves and pumpkin pie
or the green tomatoes she used to fry.
My mother was a country gal of unconventional manner
Raised rough, lived tough, I carry on her banner.
She's been gone now nigh twenty years,
yet lives on to allay my fears.
I feel the softness of her arms, nurturing and coddling my spirit
Covering me with a natural strength.
Warmhearted, kindred spirit….benefactor in life
with mercy, tolerance and encouragement
to guide my path along the way in times of woe and strife.
Her presence so palpable
I can almost feel her rocking me to sleep to this day,
while I lay silently against her warm bosom.
Never was God so kind to the earth
As when he created mothers.
Cryptic symbols on a page
Evoking peace, provoking rage
The tongue can issue them, sweet or foul
Cause a stir or raise a brow
Words have made me fall in love
Or taught me to contemplate the stars above
Words can be used as tools of praise
Nothing is stronger than a well-turned phrase
Betwixt siblings they can irritate
Articulated well, words will captivate
Want someone angry, they'll do the trick
They'll rock your world, uplift the sick
Words will breach any defense
Or just jumble them together without much sense
Elitists use them to condescend
Teachers mold them to transcend
Warmongers manipulate words to ignite
While bullies adopt them to pick a fight
Politicians employ them to persuade
The ignorant avoid words because they're afraid
Philosophers twist words in a Socratic tease
Liars take them back with ease
Lovers harness a phrase to share
Philanderers mold them to ensnare
The tongue is sharp and the heart is soft
So be wary of the words you throw aloft
Words are a blessing but easily abused
Each nuance of meaning can be misconstrued
Picture perfect pride and joy
He's my heart; he's my boy.
Bouncy, boisterous, bright and gay,
Lending life to another day.
Crying, laughing, yelling out
Running, sleeping, smile and pout.
Every expression on his face
Gives me solace, lends me grace.
When all of life gets me down,
I watch my impish little clown.
He lifts me up when nothing can,
And makes me love all over again.
Large brown eyes gaze into mine
Trust and wonderment intertwine.
I'm his father; he's my son
I'm his hero; he's my fun.
Good night kisses, sleepy grins,
Rehearsed prayers, yawn and then,
He says to me with lips so terse,
"I love you more than the universe".
He places his little hand in mine
Eyes flutter shut, releasing a sigh
I watch over him for a while,
Wondering how I deserved his smile.
Reluctantly leaving him to his dreams
I still see his silhouette or so it seems.
And when I question my real worth
I remember his arrival on this earth.
Biographical sketch: I hail from Hamilton, Ohio. I'm recently
retired from the Air Force and only recently discovered my love of writing.
I hope you enjoy.
C. W. Wells recommends:
In the Clearing. Holt, Rinehart & Winston by Robert Frost
Reason: There's a lot of great quotations. In one line, a
good quotation can encapsulate an entire emotion, query or pondering.
Recommendations for writers:
Use your emotions. When I am at my lowest low or my highest high,
poetry flows from me easily like water.