Author Archives: wfosterwelborn
Betwixt and Between
This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:
Betwixt and between,
Not here, nor there;
Betwixt and between
Existing somewhere.
Omniscient, invisible and
Transparent it seems,
Clinging ever so tenaciously,
Betwixt and between.
Although it can’t be touched,
Nor tasted nor seen,
Doesn’t mean it’s not there,
Betwixt and between.
Search the universe diligently
For mysteries so keen;
Efforts might be rewarded by
A fleeting glimpse of betwixt and between.
Choice
This thought is from Autumn Leaves:
I would rather be a poor man,
Rich in heart,
Than a rich man,
Poor in heart.
Winds of Change
This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:
Icy fingers on my spine,
Premonition of thoughts sublime.
Unknown fear entering on-line,
Tomorrow’s daydream, yesterday’s rhyme.
“Explain this feeling of mine,”
Command I of my brain,
“That has come stealing, creeping,
Cold and frozen up my spine.”
Searching all the hidden places,
Recalling memories, hazy faces,
Sifting, sorting, ever recalling,
Striving for an answer so evasive.
Then my brain, always kind,
Answered the question on my mind.
“This eerie feeling, troublesome, strange,
Is but the hard, cold winds of change.”
When Love Dies
This poem is from Autumn Leaves:
Words spoken in anger,
Forever enshrined.
Feelings mixed and scattered,
Emotions entwined.
Feelings torn asunder.
Thoughts agitated, grieved.
Words like darts, festering wounds,
Through time unrelieved.
No peace of heart,
Corrosive, eroded…
Flame burned out,
Tranquillity exploded.
Grapes dry out,
Dying on the vine.
Clouds blot the sun,
Pain heals with time.
Beauty of the rose
Fades away and dries,
Like love when it withers,
Is tortured, and dies.
Controlled Strings
This thought comes from Autumn Leaves:
Life, like a marionette,
One breath, one step, one day at a time,
Dancing to monotonous music, but—
Who controls the lines?
Love
This poem is from Autumn Leaves:
Love, like a garden, needs vigilant weeding.
Love, like a fire, requires constant feeding
To keep it in order and burning brightly.
Love, harsh words can often shatter.
Love, which wrong action can tatter,
But sharing and compromise bind it tightly.
Love is not honored by corridors of time.
Love requires daily attention to make grow sublime,
And words spoken in haste bring feeling contritely.
Love is soft spoken, building no dissension.
Love is feelings and touching, with full comprehension.
Many words often lose their savor; use sparingly, but nightly.
What is Love?
This poem, which I wrote some years ago, comes from Autumn Leaves:
What is Love?
Is it the twinkle in a young puppy’s eyes?
Is it soft-spoken words of promise,
Bringing a pretty maiden’s sighs?
What is Love?
Is it the quiet, understanding look in a mother’s warm smile?
Or is it the sultry eyes of a temptress
Who seeks to beguile?
What is Love?
Is it two lovers locked in rapture’s sweet throes?
Is it devotion or poetry,
Emotion or prose?
What is Love?
I’ve searched long and hard, looking for the answer,
Piercing through volumes
Like a hard-charging lancer.
What is Love?
Everything I’ve read or heard reveals nothing conclusive.
The answer is existent,
But very elusive.
What is Love?
I don’t know the answer–I can honestly state.
If you know, please tell me.
It must be fantastically great!
Brotherhood
This poem is from Autumn Leaves:
I’ll never be a big star, shining on millions where they roam,
But I can be a small candlelight in the darkness,
Helping to guide one solitary figure home.
This is the idea behind why I write, for there is always some good idea that is transmitted. Enjoy!
Continuation
This poem is from Autumn Leaves:
To each is given his portion of elixir
Or ambrosia of life,
And, like high-test rocket fuel,
Propels us in all endeavors, happiness and strife.
Changing tides bring flotsam and driftwood
Up from ocean’s deep measure,
Casting them on beaches to bleach white
And await nature’s further pleasure.
Thistle puffballs, blown by winds of change,
Are swirled and elevated,
Waiting patiently for sun and rain,
Settling quietly to earth, tempest’s flight abated.
Earthquake, flood and blizzard are
Simply nature’s greater forces,
Instilling awe, humbling man to an unknown source,
And given time, purges all from her chosen course.
Death ends all life, choosing no sides,
As force of nature erupts and collides.
Time is the unrelenting referee
In command of sun, moon, seasons and tides.
Flowers bloom, birds nest, and fish spawn.
Sunrise heralds another dawn.
Earth, streams, and ocean relinquish their bounty twain.
By His grace, the cycle starts once again.
Happiness
This poem is in Autumn Leaves:
The orchid can pale
Beside the rose.
Blue jeans look poor
Beside fine clothes.
Mercedes will win
Each status symbol race.
Homely old Ford sure
Looks out of place.
If money could buy it,
The rich would aspire
In all their surroundings,
Cars and attire.
The poor man’s left standing,
His feet in the soil,
Indulging in dreams,
Engrossed in his toil.
Whose life is the fullest?
Which philosopher can say?
Which path is best to follow,
Or who knows the right way?
wfosterwelborn 