These Woodlands: Poems

By C. G. Schalk

In his first volume of poetry, C. G. Schalk contemplates nature, meditates on faith, and observes Western culture. Wrestling with a sinful nature, he finds resolve in the grace and salvation offered in Christ. God is celebrated as Creator, and emotions evoked by the changing of the seasons are explored. The tension of living in a world that is both beautiful and affected by the fall of man is pondered. For readers seeking simple verse to enjoy with coffee, this book is sure to invite reflection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Nov 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781666762945

C. G. Schalk

C. G. Schalk is a poet, songwriter, and musician. He was born and raised in Missouri, where he currently lives. The landscapes and seasons experienced in the rural countryside there have provided inspiration for many of the musings found in his poems.

Book preview

Basking

It is autumn,

And the musky dust from fallen trees

Mixes with the steam from my coffee.

I listen to the gurgling stream, as pleasant as a child’s laugh,

And the groan of ancient cedars,

Imparting wisdom in the creaky way of wizened elders.

Nothing hurries. Nothing worries. Not a voicemail,

Nor a text, or a buzzer, or a bell, or a siren, or a schedule

Or a calendar notification, or a time-card, or a yell.

A squirrel perches, twitches, curious on his oak bough,

Then scurries off.

The only burst of motion in this serene sagacious space.

Swwwwwwish, ccccreeaaaak, slowly sigh the branches of the oaks

Leaves all ruddy, orange, and brown.

It seems a shame, how many modern man hacks and haws to the ground

To add another chain store to a cookie-cutter town.

Thinking of this, I sigh with the trees.

Do not worry, they seem to say, "We’ve been here since the dawn of time,

And we’ll always stick around."

Autumn In My Mind

Swirling leaves inside my head

Make me wish that I was home instead

Of

Lying here in a hotel bed

Far away from all my dreams

Well

I smell the fragrance of a slow born spring

I hear the song that the streetcars sing

All of the subtle scents and sounds

Like a symphony of seasons in my mind.

The call of the wild rings again

And the hotel phone is trying to pretend

That

It is my friend for waking me

From all my pleasant dreams

Of you.

The light from the window is pure and warm

The morning flies are beginning to swarm

I startle and I wake as I realize the time

It’s the summer of my life, but it’s autumn in my mind.

November

And something in the dark, brown upturned leaves scattered across the pavement

Is singing a eulogy to the summer.

The air is crisp with autumn’s favorite flavors,

The trees are dark as ale.

A whistling rustling wind carries musty whiffs of smoke across the fields

Moistened with a lolling, lifting fog.

The browned grass is wet with November rains

The sky is gray and hale.

Late Autumn

Hale and hearty is the air

Hot and gleaming is the hearth

Crisp leaves everywhere

Except upon my cozy berth.

Here I sit by the fire

Sipping my apple cider

Losing track

Of time.

Bloody Mud

I thrashed and I kicked in the quicksand

As the mud oozed up to my neck.

Thorny branches slashed at my skin

And threatened my throat like razors.

Blood mixed in the mud till the

Reddish-brown slime oozed up to my chin,

And I knew it would cover my head,

Fill up my nostrils

Fill up my mouth

And choke me as death greeted me in that muddy bed.

Then a hand reached through the