Poems

Life is not a zero sum game
In which the strong abuse the weak,
The rich exploit the poor
And the one who dies with the most toys wins.

Life is an eternal plan
That day by day, hour by hour and minute by minute
Is unfolding for each of us
Exactly the way the Designer intended.

Everyone volunteered to be part of it.
No one gets a free ride; cheating is not possible.
All must achieve their own destiny,
And at the end, everyone will be rewarded
Far better than they deserve.

Quentin Thomas Wells

Ice floats.
Rain falls.
Sunlight glows.
Water flows.
Children cry.
Ancients die.
Grass grows.
Christ rose.
God reckons.
Eternity beckons.
Chance has nothing
to do with it.

Quentin Thomas Wells

I had not riches, but I was not poor,
I lacked some comforts, but I was not sad.
It was not wealth that made me so exceeding glad.
I had faith and family, never rocks more sure,
And a fond hope of heaven could I but endure.
I had the same good news our fathers had,
Christ lives, and with him all will live at last.
I sought no brighter love to keep me pure.

To me the prophets’ words are daily breath,
I bless their wisdom and their power to save,
I feel within my soul the truths they said.
I take courage of my forebears to be brave,
And being so much kinsman of the dead,
I see great light beyond the empty grave.

Quentin Thomas Wells

The ivory of great mastadons
That massed in brawls
Are billiard balls.
The hairy men that walked the earth,
Now fertilize the dampened turf.

The tombs of mighty Pharoahs gone,
That once encased them
Have replaced them.
Great Caesar’s bust is on the shelf,
And I don’t feel so well myself.

Quentin Thomas Wells

In the beginning
the church was a fellowship
of men and women who centered their lives
on the teachings of Jesus Christ.

Then the church moved to Greece
where it became a philosophy.

Then it moved to Rome
where it became an institution.

Next, it moved to Europe
where it became a culture.

Then it moved to America
where it became a business enterprise.

Finally, Jesus Christ sent Joseph Smith
to restore His church again
as at the beginning.

Quentin Thomas Wells

Although I have no glory, wealth or fame
The Lord of all creation knows my name.
I am the least of all he sent to earth
And yet he marked the hour of my birth.

Gave me my freedom and the power to choose
To seek and win the eternal prize, or lose.
He whispered sweet directions in my ear
But left me free to shout them down, or hear.

And knowing that I could not rise to heaven alone
He knelt in dark Gethsemane to there atone
For me and all who far from iron rod would roam
Then went willingly upon the cross to lead me home.

Quentin Thomas Wells

For years I’ve sought an ancestor; I cannot find him still.
He moved around from place to place and didn’t make a will.
He married where a courthouse burned; he mended all his fences.
He avoided anyone who came to take the U.S. Census.

He always paid in cash I guess, this man who had no fame.
And every twenty years or so, the rascal changed his name.
His parents came from Europe; they should be on some list
Of immigrants to U.S.A., but somehow they got missed.

And not another soul on earth is searching for this man.
So I must research on my own to find him if I can.
I’m told his grave was visible with graven tombstone blessed;
But weather took the epitaph, and vandals stole the rest.

No family Bible has emerged, no county record noted,
And though he was a citizen, I find he never voted.
And finally this relative, whose life I wrestle with,
Just to cause me further grief, was wed to Mary Smith.

Quentin Thomas Wells

Old Joe Smith dug for treasure people said;
Grubbed in the earth for the gold of those long dead.
They said he had no learning and could hardly write his name,
But boasted that his prophesies would surely bring him fame.
Old Joe Smith was a scoundrel that men cursed;
Of the devil’s own deceivers he was far away the worst.

Young Joseph Smith asked for truth amid the trees.
Instructed by the scriptures he sought wisdom on his knees.
The Light that gave him knowledge there was brighter than the sun
And explained the ancient prophesies of what was soon to come.
An angel spoke with Joseph, revelation to his mind
And sent him on Cumorah’s quest the word of God to find.

Old Joe Smith said all the ministers were wrong.
They claimed he was lucifer and damned his siren song.
Joe had no head for business and the bank he founded flopped.
And his women-chasing habits just could not be stopped.
He preached that plural wives assured a place in heaven
Two or three were minimal, but glory needed seven.

Young Joseph Smith found the treasure that he sought;
Not the golden plates he hefted but the words upon them wrought.
The man who had no schooling read a language of the dead
And proclaimed a mighty witness from the vision in his head.
The book Young Joseph published brought the Gospel to the world
Promised every saint salvation as it heaven’s flag unfurled.

Young Joseph Smith died innocent before a raging mob
They could not fault his teachings so let bullets do the job.
The shots that felled Young Joseph murdered Old Joe Smith as well
The killers celebrated and consigned his soul to hell
The lies of Mormonism they asserted now were dead
But thousands mourned the martyr and followed where he led.

The prophet was not silenced though interred in unmarked grave.
His doctrine blazed with power that sought every man to save.
The restoration principles were not buried in the earth.
Their message was eternal and millions found their worth.
That trumpet yet is sounding from the angel on the spire
And the gospel is far spreading though the world be on fire.

The stone is cut and rolling and its progress never ceases.
Old errors fast are failing as the power of faith increases.
But those who mocked Young Joseph as Old Joe Smith that way
Having neither light nor wisdom walk in darkness yet today.
While those who trust his vision wait the time that all revere
When they stand again with Joseph and the One who sent him here.

Quentin Thomas Wells

We’ve been to the moon and we’re outward bound;
Out where the comets and stars are found.
We’re not content with our sphere of birth.
Our horizons are broader than planet Earth.
We want to leave footprints galaxy wide
And measure in light years the length of our stride.

And God hears our boasting and gently smiles,
For He knows the true scope of creation’s miles
He made distances vaster than mortals can span
To guarantee freedom as part of the plan.
And He understands that the conquest of space
Is more than just reaching the outermost place.

He requires for a while that we work in the dust,
To prove to ourselves that we merit his trust.
But He gives us vision of the night’s starry sky
And encourages us in our yearning to fly,
And we don’t perceive in most of our thoughts
That we’re all in training as astronauts.

Perfecting our skills, unlocking the key
For the mission code-named eternity,
As we simulate here, on a limited scale,
Situations encountered beyond the veil.
But our school year is short with much to learn
Ourselves to master, his laws discern.

And God must worry, observing our pace
Of progress pursuing our soul’s solo race,
That, despite our promise to meet the test,
We sometimes lose our way in the quest.
We permit greed and lust to rule the soul
Whose perfection’s our paramount eternal goal.

And we blindly reject the light He would give
By profaning the temples in which we live.
The world that He placed in our personal care
Is bloodstained, defiled, in waste laid bare.
While He’s planning to make us the masters of stars,
We’re still fighting our futile, Pyrrhic wars.

Quentin Thomas Wells

He walks along alone the days
And wanders late at night.
And those who pass him see no trace
Of inspiration’s light.

His head is bowed, his shoulders bent,
And tattered are his clothes.
His haggard face with whitened hair,
The mark of liquor shows.

Into the darkness of despair,
His loved ones’ hearts descend.
His pain is theirs as theirs is his, but
For himself he still must fend.

At the back doors of the restaurants,
Where for food he oft must go,
He meets others like himself,
Who similar troubles know.

They talk about their misery,
And unjust declare their woes.
And though he verbally agrees
Within his heart he knows.

He sees himself brought to such end
And there he’ll not depart.
For by no means he came this way
Than his own unwilling heart.

Quentin Thomas Wells

The Lord of all the Universe conceals
His glory and his power amid the peals
Of laughter as his children learn
That heaven is worth the pain that living feels.

For though by logic we discern the false and true,
Only humble faith divines the clue
And lights the narrow way
To the treasure house and therein to the Master too.

Whose secret presence through creation’s veins
Running quicksilver-like eludes our pains
Taking all forms from loon to lightning,
And they change and perish all, but He remains.

And those who would the prophets understand
Must see alike in stars and stones His hand
Who Eve and Adam also made,
And to perfect has counted every grain of sand.

Quentin Thomas Wells