poetry

the pale green grasses stood knee high the tin god rode into the field on his wooden horse   he showed no spirit but strained his eyes in his restless and annoyed manner the sun shone high in the cloudless sky and the heat could be felt under his worn coat decorated with his red…

no brass bands needed — no smoke, no bullshit. HONESTY – a good dose. we looked into the dark and laughed; placed men’s frailties into the spotlight no pretensions. two of us, seeking those things we fear and outing them, exposing them with unfettered honesty.   – Chris George  March 1986  

I am wondering what craziness is sitting in a room watching the clock digits change smoking and coughing on my smoke as my eyes water from the clouds exhaled thinking of food when I realize I’ve gotten too big for my own stature delaying the work if front of me by doing every possible thing to…

flung, head over heels, as if you’re catapulted by your own convictions lights flash by you – memories blurred afterthoughts; there is no way you can concentrate at this speed relax: you’re in this for the ride now no choice in the matter no way to get off; there is anticipation of when you’ll skid…

In Memory of Frank Day  friend, decent human being   time dies; flesh rots memories are the life everlasting “to pass away” from sight? from the senses? time will deny us this but cannot transcend the grey cells that turn back the hands of the clock and given people, places, things an immortality. as time ages,…

he must succeed yet he takes his stand as a Quixote readying for a giant windmill and smiles because he knows that if he waits long enough time will outlast him.   – Chris George January 1989 

Political hot potatoes cannot feed the populous Watching our legislatures steam and over-boil They do nothing for the Main Street or our kitchen table   Today’s political headlines are so far removed from the daily household routine that there is small wonder people tune out, turn off, and cynically choose to ignore politics   In…

I’ve awaken beside my world today oceans swelled in her eyes and I imagine two lovers on a hill running through hellish pleasure / pleasureful hell. and then the egg cracked as the hawk swooped to eat the last remains of the broekn hearts: buzzards began to circle above the resting lovers unaware of death’s…

one night you’re there there is no answer to where you came from hiding in my mind so long and then like Athena bursting apon my head you stretch, sigh — and change the sheets you had given all your love as you sank onto the mattress — the body heat buring the stale air…

and you will find somebody else see the open coffin ready for you. It remains the last element in the relationship hit the wall: wake in a cold sweat! let the music blare! because the grave will remain for you until the end and everyone will need to be comforted when you find someone else…

– Chris George February 1981 

I simply want to live again To feel my life, feel my breaths Feel the aches and pains The draws of my breath Every fiber of my being Of the space I occupy and All the space that is around me In this overbearing world.   This large, unfathomable, hungry world In which I am…

where has my horse gone? that carried me into the fog of the downs where swords rang and cries of anguish could be heard and prayed for. where are those beasts of ambitions which rode the reins of time? mine has fallen from underneath me and I feel so vulnerable on my own two feet….

was it my father’s son who threw in the towel? was it he who cried lonely, naked, stripped of courage, his strength his pride, his principles, his name?   seriously, hang it up. if it is always on your mind. It’s doing no one else any good to watch you suffer.   – Chris George…

She hung onto my sleeve allowing her tears to fall onto my jacket (I suppose it is a small price to pay for this cruel reality) I could sense she knew the ways of lovers and the way lovers smile and how they say hello and how they will whisper goodbye. As she struggled to…

my ribs ring as your truths pound and then sear like hot irons on open flesh wounds; your words drive me back against the wall hopelessly grabbing at my entrails, that you have so nicely carved up for our consumption. And no doubt you will find me from the trail of vomit that reveals I…

aren’t you melodramatic a shish kebab meant for royalty sausages for the public one man’s meat… and then the convenient martyred victim searching for pathos in a world made for Oedipus as the essence of your life slips from your control and time slides pass the allotment of chance allowing the impetus to drain, the…

can anyone anywhere reveal the dream of a writer he who is endlessly searching relentlessly attempting, inevitably failing better to ask whether you could capture the light of providence and project that ray so that others may bask in its glorious reflections   – Chris George October 1979   

the music  could be heard the solemn count of the funeral procession as it winds down the corridors of my mind and halts the methodic downbeat comes to a rest when the coffin appears — lid raised white, stone cold you look into her eyes and exchange the stares of her past and your future…

the whirlwind of life is all around yet many find life cannot be found – Chris George  October 1979