Tag Archives: poetry

untitled (burning hard and fast)

burning hard and fast

charcoaled remains

purposely skewered

upon the cross

through my entrails

so all may see the

blood delivered

 

I hang

on the point

musing the world

which passes beneath me

as my life

drops cold and red

into a draining sea

 

the tide rolls out

decayed dreams dead

the cross upon the hill

has fallen (or perhaps never there?)

my life carried away

leaving just my mind

to sift the sand.

 

– Chris George 

1981/82 

 

an end to our graveyard romance

Its an end to our graveyard romance – or –

(I always knew there would be a larger part of me that would never want to leave this playful deathbed) 

I was in the front seat

feeling my dreams die,

fading into the cold grey mist

that had settled on my life.

with my ripened heart

I watched myself drain

of love and life

my fingers white hard

on the dashboard

head pressed against the windshield

peering to see through

the dark haze

and heavy silence

and I could only make out stone cold

oppressing jagged teeth

posing as dark silhouettes

against the shadowy skyline

The trees were weeping for us

burdened branches touched the earth

and lady night herself wailed

of the solemn hopelessness

of our affair

 

I sighted my end

in the mirror of her eyes

Circe was channelling my lust

with her wanton beauty

and her presence comforted me

until I realized that you were stone cold

I was caught in an imaginary embrace

that meant not a thing for my fate

 

the lane leading out of the yard

was long and winding

the car lights hit each tombstone

and reflected an unwelcomed truth

The car itself seemed to be lifted,

ferried out of the darkness and

the spectators sat silent, mere spectators,

to the last rites.

 

Finally, I could see the gates

through the tears and her sighs

the light shone upon rod iron rails

And we passed by in my Father’s black sedan

our bodies stiff and cold

In the end I will never forget

I could hear the procession music

ever so faintly escaping her lips

as she hummed The Who and something about

you better bet your life.

 

– Chris George

September 1980  

 

 

 

 

To Lisa

Let’s make that promise to go hand-in-hand down this road

 

roads that lead into horizons

dirt, loose gravel laying the way

straight into unknowns before us

and we are running (at times,

bent over with laughter)

anxious to move along our path

kicking at the stones to make a mark

 

deep breaths of the warm air

fill our lungs – we are content

hand-in-hand, a pull and playful tug

eyes fixed on the point ahead

where the road becomes grayish-green

and disappears into the clouds

— just like our days,

always unfolding…

we run, kick stones, and laugh

for we recognize we are together

 

companions in life’s journey

 

– Chris George

2004 

A Wedding Vow

We built our love on rock

friendship as the foundation

honesty, the mortar;

and each and every day

we lay one of life’s bricks

completing our loving home.

 

Our joys and pleasures,

our trials and hardships

find shape in its facade;

our caring and yearnings,

our encounters and sharing

find expression in its rooms.

 

We built our love on rock

finding comfort in our home.

 

– Chris George 

August 1995 

My Life’s Valentine

He said, “This is my new flame” to which I exclaimed, “This is my forest fire.”

For is it not evident that we are star-crossed lovers

lighting paths for unfolded tomorrows;

hurling balls of fire, emblazing a cold, dark space.

We have found happiness in each other’s arms;

strength in each other’s presence,

It’s an inferno of love

for now, and to burn forever more.

 

– Chris George

February 14, 1993   

All wound up like a toy soldier

You’ve got me all wound up

like a toy soldier who has a war

to go to on the other side of the room

my legs are kicking out in tune to

the mechanical “click” of my heartbeat

and I’m yelling a string of profanities

to my general as I continue to fight

the lounge chair which I’ve ran up against.

 

– Chris George 

November 1981  

By the sound of the trumpet

by the sound of the trumpet

I find myself dashing off again

lost in the bloody field of romance

but with one difference

 

this battle is being fought at noon

and the maiden that awaits my return

does so in a lighted chamber where

the candles illuminate from her locks

a welcoming sunshine that comforts

battle-wearied, blood stained souls.

 

so I’ve dashed off with you in mind

can’t you hear the trumpets blare my

battlecry

 

– Chris George 

November 1981  

As a wave

As a wave that

rolls silently

heightening rhythmically

then swelling with a fury

to fly and crash

upon the rocky shoreline

that awaits it,

I’ve been completed

when we come together

when we are one.

 

– Chris George 

June 1980  

 

 

Repeat Performances

I don’t ever remember auditioning

but I cross the stage and lights fade to dim

the audience hushes to catch this melodrama

and I feel all eyes are staring through my performance

 

I bring out the jokers, the fools

the bastard, the bitch

they strut, scream

crawl

beg

and eventually cry forgiveness

 

and it is all replaying itself

on stage after stage

in a car, in a room,

on the street corner

same lines, same roles

 

– Chris George 

December 1981  

Our morning coffee

Somewhere in the grinds that have settled at the bottom of my cup

is the answer as to how I’m to say “I lust you”

And, as I savour that last sweet drop of my morning java

it comes to me that neither of us enjoys bitter grinds

 

So in an off-handed way, as I reach for the coffeepot

I turn towards your gaze looking back so damn serious,

sitting so still at the table next to me, and I attempt

to place a smile on your deserving lips by stammering

 

I love you

 

– Chris George  

Perhaps my refuge from the storm

I have been deluged by the ceaseless stormwaters

stripped of all strength, raped of any sense of value

and then you enter from the rain, heralded by the thunderclaps

and you stand before me as a beacon, and perhaps my refuge

 

Please take me in to your shelter, allow my senses to crystalize

rebuild to some new form, a resemblance of someone recognizable

for I am weary of the cold reality pummelling the pavement

and would rather embrace, close my eyes and cry into your damp hair

 

– Chris George  

An unanswered question

You’ve asked that question again, and then

dropped your head, posing so purposefully in thought

and I stare blankly at your hair, hanging in suspension

like us, hung, in some past memory of ours

or perhaps in a future dream

 

I see your life before me (and I search for me in the picture)

Is it that we have so many roads and no time?

or so much time and not enough road?

I have no answer,

 

– Chris George 

September 1980 

A Resolution for A Good Life

Rise early 

Do as much as you can, to the best of your ability 

Be present in each moment, with each encounter 

Stay positive in thought and deed

Be grateful and count your blessings 

Share memories with the ones you love

Sleep well

etched in your consciousness, a resolution for a good life

 

– Chris George 

Like the ancient mariner

Like the ancient mariner, I hack at the neck of the albatross

I must be free. It’s all I can do to imagine

its head stuck at the end of my stick

held high above my head – with its swollen tongue

protruding out its beak, its bulging eyes

glaring straight ahead, piercing through me.

 

– Chris George 

2015 

Who brings this undesired intrusion?

I heard a cry in the middle of the night

like it has come across a decade

accusatory and pain-filled

leaving me chilled and wet

 

who has wanted to make this point?

who other than my own conscious?

I have too many memories suppressed

and some long forgotten

with my focus on the here and now

 

it was a cry of desperation that awoke me

a cry that signaled out me and my

hapless sense of responsibility to the past –

it was like a strawman’s backbone had been snapped.

 

who brings this undesired intrusion?

violating my peace of mind

leaving me with piercing headaches

and a troubled hollowness in my soul

echoing endless questions about past conduct,

current responsibilities, future intentions

 

(more troubled reflections –

I need to better ‘know thyself’

to realize its my own innermost thoughts

that haunt my sleep)

 

Chris George 

From the collection entitled “At 42” 

June 2004

Self-depreciating rot

I have sat through this scene before

Witness to my past and forever future

I didn’t move then – and am not about to now

I simply lack the will to change

 

I need to find my balance — and then set it off kilter

 

At the core of every scene has been a troubled soul

There needs to be a yearning to uncover, explain, fight, expose

— and I have none of that.

What do I yearn for in my comfortable surroundings?

Nothing…

 

So, life becomes like a death spiral of personal depreciation –

It is the quiet moments, early in the morning,

When you’ve just woken from your dreams –

And you realize that it is another day.

 

Aching, stifling anxiety

Permanently reflecting on what can be

What could have been, what should be

Rendering one’s self worthless

 

An eunuch of what once was…

 

I long for nothing more than to look into the mirror of my soul

and to say again, “I know that man, and I respect him for his action.”

 

and yet, these are nothing but the idle thoughts of middle age

that take interesting men and thrust mediocrity upon them

 

Chris George 

From the collection entitled “At 42” 

June 2004

a spray of anxiousness

Each day breaks, as a wave would

Crashing into my senses and awakening me to

my bedrock of nonsense and idleness.

 

I awake with a spray of anxiousness.

I imagine gull cries to herald the morning

(another wave crashes, then it lapses away without notice)

I stand dumbfounded, uncertain, before another day

I search for a fresh breeze and wipe a salty sting from my brow

 

scene after scene, incident after incident,

wave after wave, each with a potential to

crash the shallow meaninglessness I wade in –

and provide real hope of achieving,

of completing one’s self

 

Chris George 

From the collection entitled “At 42” 

June 2004

Consuming consumption

In this dizzying, consumer-driven world

where we are what we buy

we are no longer concerned about what we create,

what we produce – our being, our doing, our making

 

life is a mall alley and we are challenged

to put as much as we can in our shopping carts

 

so, like DeNiro in the Mission, we drag our purchases along

through each phase of life… and in the end, to have it sorted

by an auctioneer or a Salvation Army volunteer –

and, the legacy we had hoped for

becomes, simply, a legacy we must accept – not of our making,

and reflecting nothing of our soul

 

hinging on a decent Sally Ann cheque for deposit into our Estate

 

– Chris George 

2004