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 

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 

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 

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 

– 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 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

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.

– Chris George 

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

1980

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 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 

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 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

1981 

the whirlwind of life is all around yet many find life cannot be found

– Chris George 

October 1979

Every man must eventually run up against an Uncumber

Whether he lives to love or loves to live.

Only let him prey to the saints

that his beard be longer and whiter

(so that he is able to see pass the hair).

Say it’s so Robertson…

– Chris George

January 1981  

Enjoy life while you can – enjoy each moment

Take in all experiences as they come

For it is all fleeting and will not last

The moments just disappear – without notice

slip into some hidden spot behind you

and are lost in the darkness of time past.

– Chris George

Originally August 1980; revised 2020  

Do not walk ahead of me

I will not follow

Do not walk behind me

I refuse to lead

But walk beside me and

be my friend and, perhaps,

something more may come

of our journey.

– Chris George 

January 1981  

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 

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  

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