"wherefores" poems
He can’t explain the pain
Like boot prints on his brain
And it only seems to subside
When she is beside him.
Then, it begins to slowly dim.
When she is not around
He can be found on the ground
Screaming just like his head,
Full of frenzied villagers instead
Of what everyone else feels
And thinks, as he again sinks
Into that swamp of horror
And anguish. Moreover,
He knows he is alone in this.
This is not from her kiss
It is from its absence.
He’s not addicted to absinthe
Like some Victorian poet.
He’s insane now and knows it.
But she can calm mind
In the deluge he always finds
When she goes away a while.
First he loses the desire to smile
Then he can’t talk any more.
He forgets what words are for.
He only howls and raves.
He knows nobody can save him.
He has but to swim to shore
From the wreck that is his peace.
It is his only real release.
It’s all that heals his soul.
She has become the goal
His only purpose in the world
Is in the hands of this one girl;
This woman, elevated to deity.
His only true reality.
How can this happen, he cries.
He doesn’t understand the whys
And wherefores that turns love,
Completion and fulfillment
Into horrifying derailment
Of all his hopes and dreams
And fills his heart with screams
Like a little boy on a wrong bus.
And nobody there to discuss things
To help him see what is happening
And why the one thing he cares for
Doesn’t fulfill him anymore
Unless she is here to hold his hand.
He fails completely to understand.
Brent Kincaid
2/13/2015
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
i feel i am an acquired taste
maybe i'm not everyone's
cup of tea
i am one who will
not always
have the right words to say
but will search high and low
even down the back of the couch
to find ones that will fit
to make you smile
just so i know
you are happy
i won't always have the answers
to life's whys
and wherefores
but if you give me reason
i will believe in you
and follow your lead
to the ends of the earth
my only pleasure
will be in
my giving you
pleasure
i seem to be
wired
that way
it's just how
my heart works
i'm soft
and i can't change it
no matter how hard
i try
i guess most others
want the one
they share their life with
to have spirit
to be feisty
to be strong
but i am very often
none of those things
but
in my own way
i am them all
so
i come as a package deal
complete with fairy lights
a quiet soul
and a sunny disposition
i don't know if that's annoying
probably is
but like i said
i'm not everyone's
cup of tea
but i like coffee
so maybe it doesn't matter
all that much
so for now
i will keep it
to myself
for when the moment comes
and someone asks
to take me out to tea
until then
i will wait
patiently
with hope
behind my eyes
eyes which will always
look upon you
in wonder
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC
Yeah, I know all about your people
How they worship drunken image
How they've exalted you to the status
Of a hero, a legend
A mythological god
Bacchus best buddy
You keep good company
but swine follow you
Different as day and night
Yet they all clamor for a good seat
They fight and swing fists
For a place in the front row
For the chance that a stream of gin-soaked spittle might splat on one of their faces
a soothing balm
a gob of stench and sputum
They gather it up
They mix it with mud
Thicken it into gel
and bow down to a snot green idol
a pus dripping idol
They'll worship it at the foot of the mountain
The towering landfill where you've brought them
Or they'll bring it to your ceremonies
They wave your banner in the air
A colorful representation of the Beefeater
Proud of their devotion
Proud of their status as "The Chosen"
Not necessarily
Sure
Of the WHYS or the WHEREFORES
You just seemed to be worth the trouble
Worth a laugh to watch you
To see you falling down
To hear your words of wisdom
(True wise words they are, too)
Slurred into gibberish
You are their man
Whose oracles remain silent
Lost in a deep dream that swirls through your sleep-dizzy mind
Whose glory and honor
Fall down
From your pulpit
In the center of a room full of people
99% of whom see YOU
Not as a profit
Not as a beatnik
Not as a poet
Not as a sage
Not as a seeker
Not as an asgst ridden agnostic
No idol
No god
99% know exactly
What you are
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 6:55 AM UTC
You’ll find them in all such establishments,
(Be they graceful small-town former Victorian homes,
Or cinderblock edifices mindful of some campus multi-faith center)
Sitting in the basement, cheek-to-jowl
With moldering burial records and banking statements,
Yellowed newspaper clippings, faded prayer cards
Small squared-off boxes hastily tabbed together,
Ostensibly temporary containers which have acquired
An unintended and wholly unwelcome permanence.
The whys and wherefores of their subterranean placement
A mixed bag of foible and outright foolishness:
Unresolvable squabbles concerning possession and burial,
Families that skipped out on the bill, leaving mom behind,
Cases of outright not giving a good-goddamn.
And so they remain, in lieu of repatriation and redemption,
To sit for something akin to perpetuity in some cases
(Members of the profession resolute in their respect
For the dignity of life,
Though their sincerity enjoys less unanimity)
While others wait for mass burial
Once legal niceties have been satisfied,
While still others, in care of firms not so scrupulous
About crossing their t’s and dotting their i’s,
Are flung, albeit somewhat surreptitiously, out the back door,
The remains to take flight if the grass is dry and the wind is brisk,
Otherwise to be left to the vagaries
Of curious birds and creped soles.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
messing with perfection,
you critique yourself,
why do it yet again,
a single choice, *******
yet every time them words,
penetrate, they instigate,
and you want to let~vent,
burst busting out in glory
bible student, we both. so
understand that titled reference
instantly, the secondary hid, secreted
a hurting with hallelujah familiarity
I weep. missing the singer,
his poetry delights, paralyzes with
a *********** indescribable, ecstaticly
indebted to him, his chosen words
he chose, I chose,
this decision to accept,
the need to expiate, explain, to better
understand our whys,
therby grasp our wherefores,
to give ourselves up entire,
thereby making, giving and even
t a k i n g,
the very chore so human to accept,
that surrendering,
f o r g i v i n g, one
accomplishes a chance to uncover the godliness within
that sparks
our frail humanity
to blossom to fruition, that our
fragility is the thinnest tissue of
diamond iron strength
encasing and encoding us unique
but yet united by
a single commonality,
that we are holy,
born to be
to be celebrated
and to share our voices
so differing
in an
unceasing
harmony
Sep 16, 2024
Sep 16, 2024 at 9:11 AM UTC
its birthplace, its origins, the where the whence,
these clues are inclusive of
sources of inspiration which
are like handholds,
Even,
"incidents and accidents /
There were hints and allegations"
but you knew, you knew in advance,
you,
Can Call Me Al"
eye easing offerings, kindly giving kindling,
to the overwhelmed reader burning eyes,
ease the struggle, hire/higher the insights,
just hints of the wherefores, if the whys so
desperate must remain secreted in your heart alone
you are so right!
the greatest poems ever
go oft, without stepping stones,
why not mine?
If you anticipate scholars centuries later
explicating your poems, well then, they
most of all, will need a leg up about your
disco~
graphy
Sep 1, 2025
Sep 1, 2025 at 4:04 PM UTC
*Every time I see your face I remember,
Every single moment we had and wonder,
How could you become so cold and dull,
How come you changed and I dwell,
On keeping you in my heart's core,
To abide your promises among the lies,
Neglecting the wherefores and the lies.*
© copy right protected
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 4:24 PM UTC
She is the living embodiment of the cliché,
The song where the male sub-lead
Returns from some second shift, some third drink
To find she has gone, leaving some scrap-paper note,
Hastily scribbled and wholly incomplete,
Some variation upon Don’t try and find me,
And so she is suitably unfound herself,
As she has given great thought to her froms,
But rather short shrift to her tos,
Finding herself north of the Thruway,
Looking for somewhere to spend the night
(The twin motors of adrenaline and anxiety running on fumes)
Happening upon, as if almost by some beneficent magic,
A Travelodge bordered by an expanse of cornfield
(Long since gone to seed, the stalks bowed and spent,
Waiting for the patently overdue cob harvester)
And after she is checked in and somewhat unpacked
(The bored, bemused woman who slumps about the front desk
Mercifully sparing with the small talk)
The skies, which had been late-October slate blur-gray,
Slightly malevolent but only implicit in their threats,
Open up in a cold and unwelcome drizzle,
And, whys and wherefores being things for a later date,
She runs outside and begins dancing in the parking lot,
Unseen and unremarked upon,
And even though the rain is cold, soaking, grim in portent
(The forecast dourly noting the possibility of wet snow,
Nattering that accumulation is possible at higher elevations.)
She is seemingly unaware and unconcerned
As to the upshot of this drenching,
Any whispers of the two or three other occupants of the motel,
Any judgments passed upon her mad danse pour un,
As she has passed beyond any notion of admonition.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
The whys or where's
nor the for art thous
or the perhaps now
I know not
the love me nows
nor loved me then
or even the when
I know not
the cerulean sky
nor the indigo goodbye
or the softest sigh...
I know not
when words tried
nor when the rhythm died
or Poetry became a lie
I know not
the how's or wherefores
or keeping score
but
I know when
love of something
begins to end
bleeding from lacerations
bashed against rocks...
I know then...
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 3:41 AM UTC
They met in a secluded lane
Though didn't kiss, or touch exchange
No kissing was there to be done
For he felt the sadness in her voice
For life had so far run its course
Leaving only sadness in its wake
Exchanging thoughts and views
The why's and wherefores
Of how and when their lives had broken
Then as chance they met,
They parted same
Only to go their separate ways
It was rather nice he had to say
To look once more upon her face
Imagine days and nights gone by
Emmbraced in passion in a former life
But part they did in stiff lip fashion
Parting with no kiss or embrace
Home to bed and thoughts to race
He awoke having made love the whole night long
But when he turned to kiss her she was gone
He realised then it was all but a dream
Nothing in life is as it seems.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 6:09 AM UTC
Don’t stare,
but
don’t look away
as if we don’t exist or
will disappear.
Don’t judge.
“So glad that’s not me”
It could be.
Don’t assume
“drugs”…”lazy”
“offer a dollar
it’ll go for *****
You don’t know
Don’t presume to grasp
the reasons,
the whys the wherefores
don’t write us off
as useless,
worthless,
less…
If you can’t help,
don’t want to help,
are afraid to help,
don’t trust,
then
Just offer a smile,
A good wish or prayer
But acknowledge we exist,
we, too, are human.
We breathe, we feel,
We need…
trust and love,
Not disdain,
not even pity
if that is all you have
to give…
don’t…
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 9:49 AM UTC
Time eternal, time translucent of light
Time in our hands
Who would believe
That we were once borne in a lifetime
All by itself and the many generations
That came after..
Time eternal as they say
Yes..there is always a time for us
But memories however vague
Still color our world of make believe
Reminiscent of an era not so long ago
Taken by light as another dimension
The wherefores, and henceforth
Man so solid in light
A time for us..time as you guessed
It is in our hands
Whether you open it
To welcome opportunities
Or when you close it to finalize matters
To stand and corrected
And be at peace with God.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Here are the wherefores and whys
Alternative facts are just lies
Projected as strong alibis
To misdirect the unwise
The photos offer us the proof
That alternative facts aren’t the truth
From the mouth of the liar and chief
It’s incredulous beyond belief
Admittedly she’s a real jewel
Convincing to those she can fool
But she’s being used like a tool
And that is unusual and cruel
The universe she’s living in
Is ruled by an ocean of spin
She does it because she can
Can we have the church say amen
The press is truly amazed
How she instantly coined the phrase
Alternative facts now replays
In interesting and varied ways
Like no one wants to see his taxes
When the opposite is where the facts is
But I guess she’s had so much practice
At the prestidigitation she waxes
She’s his spokesperson, as it were
Her words rarely represent her
Over time it becomes a blur
Though that thought might not occur
His taxes remain on a shelf
So blame him and nobody else
If he de-legitimizes himself
Like Kramden, I’m talkin’ ‘bout Ralph
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2017. All rights reserved.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 8:22 AM UTC
---
is it the forest or the trees
where the real truth lies?
is it in elephant graveyards
where a true heart dies?
and how can sages ask
the wherefores and the whys?
*there's only One who measures
the circumference of the skies.*
soulsurvivor aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc
(C) 8/26/2015
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 11:55 AM UTC
If wishes were prayer
Saturday, January 28, 2023
12:06 PM
let me go wry or right, let me
be as one you witnessed falling,
and for that breath, believed,
wishes work as wonders do,
with very little help from things
thought truer.
I think of you, reading words I write,
I thrill a little at the intimate point of wedom,
the thoughts I fit to words, and sent into the
other
state, to wait, and wait, and become too tiny
to make any change not made,
at the time, when we touched as words do,
and held the hope that words hold.
Being as an event, we be apart, we be all one.
And we cannot unbecome.
----------------------
Inner being, being in me, other than I,
guide me, today.
I am willing to be useful, I do not have an aim,
I hold no hope of fame and recognosis,
I live to become a memory, at best,
and less than a memory, eventually.
I lie if I deny the joy I take from any sign, I see
you, thinking whys atop wherefores and how comes,
sudden otherness
occuring in a wedom framed by grand imaginations,
a new form of governing mankind, a new reason
to be defensive…
earnestly contending for pride of place, top of the pile.
------------------------
My Saturday, as all my days are now,
a day of rest,
a day of being after growing old enough, not, too;
but plenty old enough,
to reason with war,
face on face, as if, war
and I were forces of the same sort.
Ideas, grand wads of thought threads, spun
from times last chances,
grabbed with all I have to hold, huggishly,
for comforting knowledge,
I am not alone in wishing prayers were left being,
answered on reception, now, then, left being
alright. Amen.
-----------
It is in the thousands, tens of thousands, even,
Even, everish, same old, same
balanced on the upright,
walking,
past any hope to become one of those, the greats,
not even a billion to one, the odds of me becoming,
by the time I survived, the odds were even worse,
not a chance.
I bet, I said, I bet I won,
my race already run, by now, you know,
the results are pending
review,
and then I died,
and the results were these remaining
lines you take in,
as though you heard me talking, and thought
you might
over hear and know, all the songs of us, are about you.
The most self-centered man I ever met, said
my therapist to me, as I spun dervishly on my point.
------------------
Jan 28, 2023
Jan 28, 2023 at 4:41 PM UTC
The most learned of astronomers, philosophers and medical men state man is born to die.
Timely sands starts flowing, in-vitro.
Before you first open your beautiful eyes.
Opening those eyes, to first see the light.
For, as a child, odd moments occur.
You could potentially be dying of fright.
Just me having a chuckle.
Not wanting to believe life is minute.
Oh, so scared of dying.
At some stage in life.
Children can't conceive the fact, one day all men have to die.
Once upon a time.
I was said child.
I grew.
I started to ache knowingly.
My worry dispelled.
Dying was fearful.
I became tearful.
Not scared anymore.
Now my fellows in life are falling like flies.
No whys or wherefores,
Nothing's wrong.
Life's an eternal wheel.
Rolls on and on.
What follows life on earth?
Find me a dead man who can confirm the truth to those who still live.
Welcome to the land of wait and see.
(c)LIVVI
Inspired by the untimely death of VICTORIA WOOD.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 7:01 AM UTC
Such raiments would be the province
Of those gated and corniced places
Up on the hillside, and even that milieu
Living on residue and recollection,
The glories of the past
Fading like so many past-peak October leaves,
Beautiful in the sense of such colors
They heretofore possessed,
Though in any case, the whys and wherefores
And relative merits of thens and nows
Secondary to more prosaic matters:
The price per gallon at the Gulf station down on Route 17,
Seasonal temps at Bear Mountain
Trying line up some other gig or side-hustle
Once the land locks and the leaf-peepers and hikers go home,
Those hoping corroded propane tanks and curled shingles
Can make it just one more winter,
And if the worried and wondering
Enjoyed the luxury of philosophic musing,
They might ponder upon what those earlier residents
Who had lived at the apex of Manhattan society
(And possibly even those earlier residents,
Jumbles of Patroon and Lenape blood
Who crouched forlornly in the Palisades
As that skyline came into being)
Would think of what became of this place,
Yet as they look up there are no ghosts of the ancients,
But merely the impassive, lazily circling turkey vultures,
Implacable, enduring, constant.
Oct 14, 2022
Oct 14, 2022 at 4:09 PM UTC
Her parentage was a thing of considerable comment
Though a good deal less circumspection,
Mama's identity relatively sure, as everyone knew her mama,
Her father one of a laundry list of unpromising gardeners,
Yet she was a child of grace--no, more than that
An outlier in every sense of the word,
The dazzling unintended consequence
Resulting from a series of unwise and unhappy choices.
She sauntered (though there are those romantically inclined sorts
Who would insist she outright floated,
Her feet rarely if ever touching ground)
By the courthouse in Okolona most afternoons,
And though her dress was from the house of Ralston and Purina
And her jewelry courtesy of Sailor Jack and Bingo,
She neither shrunk nor slunk self-consciously
Nor walked with eyes ablaze and fists clenched,
In a manner asking Mebbe you wanna make sumpin' of it?
Simply walked her own walk,
Such things as poverty and pedigree
Trvial matters beneath her concern,
Though she was always provided for, as a seemingly chosen child,
Judge Hibbard giving her a store-bought doll from Jackson
When she turned seven, others providing her pop and bubble gum,
And later Miss Lucille Brisker sewed her a bright-blue silk dress
Plus gave her forty-two dollars for a Greyhound ticket
To Los Angeles via New Orleans
(When she hopped the bus in front of the K &B,
She gave her a peck on the cheek, and said
*Miss Lucille, you take care, but I doubt
I'm much likely to pass this way again.*)
Her whys and wherefores after that were lost to time and tide:
Perhaps she made it in L-A, perhaps she thought else-wise
And hopped off the bus in Hattiesburg or Bogalusa
Though most were of the opinion that it mattered little if at all,
As she allowed them, leastways for a little while,
To be in her orbit while she shone in such a manner as pleased her.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 4:27 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Words have meaning (oh yes they do)
But some of us act like that isn’t true
Out of our own mouths we degrade ourselves
And call it a term of endearment
But that’s hoping and wishing
That the definition no longer means what it meant
Isn’t it strange that nothing has changed
Except the user’s intent
Ain’t it absurd people died for a word
That we openly use today
It never occurred that to be referred to
As sub-human is not okay
A term of affection (or misdirection)
Which do you think is in play
When you use that word that is so often heard
Out of young mouths today
Who can deny (or try to justify)
The use of a term born from hate
Open your eyes your wherefores and whys
Aren’t creditable things to debate
Too many fatalities come from the realities
Of the words that we state
We have to change course by influence or force
Cos the hour is getting late
Ain’t it absurd people died for a word
That we openly use today
It never occurred that to be referred to
As sub-human is not okay
A term of affection (or misdirection)
Which do you think is in play
When you use that word that is so often heard
Out of young mouths today
Why do you figure Jay-z became Jigger
And gave up his first claim to fame
It was his ambition to defy definition
Besides that wasn’t his name
It was a non-starter for Mr. Shawn Carter
That he wasn’t willing to barter
Ain’t it absurd people died for a word
That we openly use today
It never occurred that to be referred to
As sub-human is not okay
A term of affection (or misdirection)
Which do you think is in play
When you use that word that is so often heard
Out of young mouths today
So let us aspire to (remove or retire)
A term that we’ve come to abuse
I swear I’m no liar we can aim higher
Than some of the words that we use
Let’s give conscious thought to the thing we had ought
Not to do that we can refuse
It an offense that doesn’t make sense
And we’ve already paid the dues
Ain’t it absurd people died for a word
That we openly use today
It never occurred that to be referred to
As sub-human is not okay
A term of affection (or misdirection)
Which do you think is in play
When you use that word that is so often heard
Out of young mouths today
Words have meaning (oh yes they do)
But some of us act like that isn’t true
Out of our own mouths we degrade ourselves
And call it a term of endearment
But that’s hoping and wishing
That the definition no longer means what it meant
Isn’t it strange that nothing has changed
Except the user’s intent
(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester. All rights reserved.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC
He'd always been able to slip it on and off,
Puttin' the tux on, as he put it;
He'd often told his wife
(A legit beauty, real glamour top to bottom)
*I may be scruffy little wop-ass Walden Cassotto in here,
But once I go outside, I'm Bobby Darin
And I ******* well make sure they don't forget it.*
But it was a garment much like the ones he wore
Back at All Boys in the Bronx, a hand-me-down thing,
From some third-tier department store or Army -Navy,
A little too worn here, a little patched too often there,
Unable to mask the real whos and whys and wherefores
Of a decidedly gilded-cage existence,
And while he was musing ad infinitum
Upon the vicissitudes of Sukey ****** and Lotte Lenya,
There there were things going down
Away from The Flamingo and Golden Nugget,
And begun to suspect that he was on the wrong stage,
So he chucked it all in-- the cars, the studio sessions,
The club gigs, even the sequin-sparkle wife,
Opting to hunker down into a small camper
(A decidedly acoustic model at that)
Eschewing the hairpiece and putting on glasses,
Looking like just one more Summer-Of-Love refugee
Wandering down the coastline
Seeking some pastoral pot-primed epiphany,
And he was looking, suspecting it was more likely
That he wouldn't know it for sure until it snuck up on him,
So he waited, plucking a dime-store six string
In a ratty old lawn chair by the door of the cub camper,
The tuxedo inside, either as a hedge or habit,
Though as he invariably told the occasional visitor
*Thing ain't no more empty on a hanger
Than it was on my shoulders*.
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
If you observe occurrences in Nature
(The way a stone ripples the water,
The arc of a cormorant descending toward its prey)
You will note a precision in the movements
Which is utterly Pythagorean in its pattern
(Not that the natural world is without its inconsistencies;
The progress of a conflagration, for example, seems entirely random.)
It would seem that such a thing is good;
No, more than that, entirely holy,
All that is necessary and sufficient to prove beyond doubt
That which is equally necessary and central to our belief:
A plan--His plan--which governs all things under the sun.
Such notions, I have found to my considerable dismay,
Do not sit well with viceroys and archbishops,
Who have a vested interest in the maintenance of certain mysteries
(To be fair, they are not evil or necessarily even impious;
They are men, nothing more or less,
And have to navigate perilous, unmapped straits
Between the secular and the sacred; at their appointed time,
They will have their own commissions and omissions to answer for.)
Nevertheless, none of us can escape the certainty
That the root of our faults can be found at our own doorway,
And I cannot deny that the attempt
To reduce God’s works to a schematic of formulas, diagrams and triads
And then, preening and squawking as a peacock,
Trumpet the results to the world
(As if the mystery of faith would be no more
Than a handful of equations and charts)
Is simply the manure of arrogance, the flotsam of sinful pride.
I have had, these past few weeks,
Considerable leisure to pray and reflect;
My thoughts have not drifted, curiously enough,
To the great and sweeping, the grand and all-encompassing
(Perhaps that is due to the whys and wherefores of my current predicament, Perhaps due to the narrow window of my enclosure),
But rather to the most pedestrian of things:
The clarion of the wind in the trees prior to a brief summer storm,
The lover’s dance of the hummingbird and the lupin,
And I am comforted (and, I confess, a bit amused)
By the notion that Our Savior may take a moment from his labors
To watch them as well.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
He is unsure at this point if the soft pings and dings
Which inflict themselves upon his ears
Are courtesy of the wired-up grotesqueries
Stuffed cheek-to-jowl by his bedside
Or from the ubiquitous phone perched forlornly next to him
(Even at this stage, he has his inevitable newsfeed,
And he imagines he will be tagged in Facebook posts
Long after he has been exorcised
From the concerns of this workaday world)
Chronicled nattering of people
Tethered to him in the most tenuous of manners,
Or the fifteen or so seconds of flashing come-ons
Purveyed to capture what passes for our attention
On those three-inch billboards
Without which our very existence
Would have only the most speculative of meanings.
As he totters toward the final reckoning,
Remaining breaths perhaps few enough
To be counted upon his desiccated fingers,
He would, though he has nothing left to pawn,
No collateral left to barter upon,
Give all for just one more trip around the sun,
Even though he remains nonplussed by the notion
That we leave as we arrive,
Bereft of clues or whys and wherefores,
Not unlike those came before us,
Whose weathered and indecipherable stones
Stand as mute sentinels as some staid convoy
Brings our pitiable refrain to a full stop.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 12:20 PM UTC
Do you ever wonder
Is there’s any thing to find
In the wide world
Outside your mind
The whys and the wherefores
The reasons and the rhyme
For dreams of the night
And the daytime
There is coming and there’s going
One day things will end
All the walls will fall
All the wounds will mend
There’s a space between every thing
A cushioning of air
Everything will be OK
If we stay in there
In the crevices and cracks
In all realities
We will find a deep
And everlasting peace
March 25 2017
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 7:08 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Let’s get down to brass tacks
And ask ourselves the whys
Are we savages or civilized
In other people’s eyes
We take death for granted
Of course everybody dies
But they go a whole lot faster
When the bullets start to fly
Guns are everywhere
To their advocate’s delight
And they’re quick to sprout-off
About Second Amendment righs
While another lone assassin
Puts out somebody’s lights
And the argument continues
Throughout the days and nights
One thing is for certain
‘Cos the point's made very clear
The only place it’s happening
Appears to be right here
Is it something in our psyche
That we need to learn to fear
Or are we just violence prone
‘Cos we’ve had more than our share
As we look for answers
And engage in a frantic search
Nine innocents at Bible Study
Are shot down in their church
He was there to take those blacks
Off the face of the earth
And turn the tide for his own kind
In a search for his own worth
Copyright © 2015, Cedric McClester. All rights are reserved
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 5:14 AM UTC