Christa Charles

This Place I Call My Own

By: Christa Charles

The sun rising and setting over the undulating horizon,

in the vast wooded area,

my roots embedded in the forest floor,

inhaling the pure, better-than-filtered air.

The crackling of dried leaves beneath my tired feet.

Pine, Oak, Birch, Elm; even Apple enclose me beneath their wide canopy

as they stretch to meet their goals.

The meandering trail,

guiding me to a familiar location.

There the doe is standing: silent, still, innocent.

This place, a representation of the younger days before I grew ripened and mature.

Digging in the cool, soft dirt,

only to discover newts and salamanders scurrying for their lives.

Dappled mud strewn in sundry areas.

Reminisce: the suction cup sensation; the slurp of my toes evading its detainment.

A dissonant sound penetrates my inner thoughts;

The creature hurries over the decomposing chloroplast layer upon the ground.

Stopping and staring for just a moment: insignificant particulars becoming undeniably evident.

The abrasive bark on the towering chestnut;

the oozing sap from the colossal evergreen;

the indecisive motion made by the snake around the cedar sapling.

The cerulean skies that stretch eternally; draping over the mountains and valleys—

an endless rolling thunder.

All the colors of nature’s beauty ubiquitous: so sublime.

But as day fades into night, I realize;

I must return to the reality in which I belong to.

A world I now share with technology, with pollution, with war.

Incessant battles with gas prices, globalization, and global warming.

Living days with stress, anxiety, and hatred,

growing established and less naïve; impending new situations in society.

When it’s finally all too much to handle,

I can go back to that place hidden in my memory;

still breathing the air in its most natural state,

crunching shriveled leaves in a recognized fashion.

Sinking my toes in the wet soil.

For here there are no worries,

no hatred or war.

Technology is nonexistent,

and gas is not a need.

How can a world here be so serene and tranquil?

Yet there; so inadequate and mystifying?

I may never understand the reality of such diverse universes,

so until then, I will re-embed my roots in the forest floor,

allow the branches to embrace me,

and become as peaceful as that doe I once saw upon my journey.

All in this place I still call my own.

Where I’m From

By: Christa Charles

I’m from Yorkshire Way and

back roads where people are polite and courteous.

I’m from the strong scent of coffee in the morning as I walk down the stairs, plodding through the kitchen and the lingering taste of iced tea after a long, busy day.

I’m from the pressure in my ears and sight of blurry blue under the glittering pool water.

I’m from splashing in the creek and the soft pinching of crayfish at my toes.

I’m from outdoors where the smallest sounds echo for miles in a great circumference, where the animals are many and their natural habitat is slowly disappearing.

I’m from the sound of the train’s clamorous whistle

and the screeching of tires at the 4-way intersection.

I’m from the pungent smell of a fresh plowed field, the sight of silos towering high above the horse barns, and the distinct sound of mooing cows and cock-a-doodle-dooing roosters.

I’m from the smoke off the grill from the grease fire caused by the sizzling hamburgers and plumping hot dogs. Food brings the family together and crowds of those you love are plentiful.

I’m from upgrades and technology where communication has a whole different meaning and texting has created a new way to say speak our language.

I’m from freedom and expression where anyone can speak their mind at any given time.

Where I’m From

I’m from “Never Back Down” and “Step Up.”

I’ve learned to always overcome.

I’m from knowledge, growth, and wisdom

supplied by many previous generations.

I’m from bright colors, peace signs, and polka dots,

a place full of imagination and creativity.

I’m from a place where words can be helpful or hurtful,

silence is scarce, and beauty is cherished.

I’m from one place I call my own,

home sweet home,

no other can claim the same as I.

Ars Poetica

Pedals fly around the chainwheel.

In sync parts create a smooth motion.

Every component is different,

yet all fit together to form a unique structure.

Balance is maintained to display success.

Training wheels are expunged and

the collection of interchangeable parts takes off.

You must share the road,

choose a path a travel,

point and go in a certain direction.

Speed it up or slow it down.

The meaning pushes forth the idea

behind the centrifugal force.

Illusions, curves, and unexpected turns,

happenings occurring throughout every line.

You never know where you’ll go.

Poetry is strength,

the strength to push the words forward.

Images pop off the page like a wheelie.

Ideas flow like the chain through the rear dropout.

Sit on the saddle to settle in.

Stand on the pegs for a wild ride.

Coast to enjoy the panoramic pathway.

Adjustments made on the cable housing and front derailleur.

The implementation of subtle changes in spring tension and

air pressure are just the start.

It may cost some time, but hard work pays off.

Tweak and modify,

polish and shine,

the expression of individuality.

All you really need is some open space and a work place.

Peak your visual stimulation and observe that

in the end, the person behind the tool has total control.

Cocoa Dreams in December

By: Christa Charles

So rich in taste

too good to waste

all warm and steamy

thick and creamy

brown and dreamy.

Marshmallows melt

the feelings felt

Christmas is near

less worry and fear

listen can you hear?

Bells ringing

people singing

Santa’s bringing

every toy

oh the joy.

The love surrounds

things we’ve found

to keep the world going ‘round.

Miracles today

who’s to say

this can’t be the way

to live day by day?

Harmony and peace

hoping never to cease.

Take another sip

got some chocolate on my lip

Caffeine galore

do you want some more?

I know for sure

I do!