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
I know unconditional love
I feel the desire of belonging,
the happiness that I am here
I know my reason for being
I see it in my wife’s gaze
and in two energetic boys
who want nothing but to please
as I do
– Chris George
2005
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
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
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
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 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
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
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
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
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
the flag hung motionless
lines of red and white ran together
as pastoral blood dropped onto snow
blood of ages; darkening just fallen flakes
and then a slight breeze unravels a wave of colour
and revealed that weathered, bleeding mapleleaf
– Chris George
1982
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, 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
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
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
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
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