Tag Archives: 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 and blue medals,

ribbons, and pins which hung heavily as

accomplishments of his past battles


he smiled as he pulled on the bit of Xeelo

because he knew no one would enter this pasture

hidden behind Mount Parnassos in this hot valley

His dismount was stiff and stately

the tin clanked against the stirrups

sending the birds reeling to the treetops:


a fanfare for his efforts.


he saw in the treetops the mountain’s shadows

and saw the glade where he had eaten goat

and rice the day before over a brazier

Janos had comforted him and given him

the new directions and his new coat of mail

they fitted light on his shoulders and

were comfortable when out of the sunlight


this he concluded as he squatted in the grass.


Janos is serious but then

he is sure to be laughing at the sight

and welcoming this god to rest in any oven


being neither iceberg nor island but rather tin

planting a flagless pole next to his horse

the Hero relieves himself before anybody comes.


– Chris George 


Duo Exposure

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

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 avoid it

making animal noises from a barnyard hidden away in my closet

thinking of my past beauties being eaten by the present beasts

laying down and intently staring into the space between

the clock and me, wondering what has happened to the lost time and

the lost matter of the room — whether it exists outside the room and

if there is some connection or relation?

writing it all down and knowing that I have missed the point because

how do I know exactly whether I have my sanity – here

with the smoke, the space between, and the clock.


– Chris George 


untitled (flung, head over heels)

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 to a stop

focus on a street light

feeling comfortable on your back

staring into the night, the shadows, and the light;

ghosts dance overhead

a ritual step to annoy you

to prick your consciousness and

stir your soul to crystalize

(this is a cold world

and you’re part of it.);

shake the aches out and get up,

pick yourself off the pavement and walk

take the steps necessary to stride again

if there is the will you can find a way.


– Chris George   


In Memory of Frank Day

In Memory of Frank Day 

friend, decent human being  

time dies; flesh rots

memories are the life


“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, so do we all.

as time passes away…


– Chris George

March 5, 1990

On politics

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 the real world, there is no grace in failing to answer the call

So how can politicians expect sympathy for flaunting their entitlements

For dancing, bobbing and weaving, to avoid addressing reality and facts

For kicking all those who have trusted them


– Chris George 

March Nightmares (III)

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 intent.

but then again, death’s

at no loss for occasions.


– Chris George

March 1982 

March Nightmares (II)

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 of the room

can I breathe?

what are you doing

hiding away in those covers when

I am annoyed?

do you think you can live that way?

I am less than… what I am… to you

so turn, squirm, and groan for the one

who is not beside you, for there was no

name left by that creature that just

crawled out from under moments ago.

and in the dark of the night

when my side of the bed is cold

can you deny that you will find somebody

to fill that space?


– Chris George

March 1982 

March Nightmares (I)

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

March 1982 


I simply want to live again

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 but one being

Scrapping, crawling from day to day

To make something of my existence


I want to make something of my existence

I want to crawl, walk and live again

To step forward as if the stride matters

And again play the role as I had learned it.


– Chris George

She hung onto my sleeve

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 find some comfort

her lips rested on my wet shoulder

and there were a few mumbled words

a tug of my arm and her hand on mine

and I allowed her fingers to find my palm.

(It was a simple gesture of kindness)

I consciously stiffened as I began to clear my throat.


– Chris George

August 1981  

my ribs ring

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 was

unable to keep my secrets down.

Now, as I kneel in my own bile

I can’t help thinking that

this is what I deserved; and

I make a note to remember to thank you

once I gather up what’s left of me.


– Chris George 

April 1981  


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 dreams to fade and the self pity to devour the ill fortunes of your half-baked hell, like a buzzard tears at a skunk that has been hit by mankind some two hours earlier while crossing the yellow line of his life

self inflicted pain

escorting experiences

just a numbing sensation

in a cool breeze


– Chris George  

January 1981 

the dream of a writer

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   

An Ending

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 amongst the white roses

the march continues with all eyes

piercing your moulded form

as it is being carried away —

she remains all smiles beneath the tears

that have so innocently wet her cheeks.

She is all that remains of the parade;

a Cleopatra, Deliah, Lady Macbeth.

… the tears of joy which fllod the anxiety

the curve of her lips which released the sorrow

and not it has ended with this march and

me knowing that someone is glad that I am dead.


– Chris George