WS George
writer
composer
Three Poems for a Friend
Reflection on a Distant Body
I wished the sun itself
mine, until
I saw it laugh, and
dance across the water
while the wind blew by
and wrinkled its mirror-face;
then I understood
how joy could not be cradled
in these leaky hands.
Dead & Broken Things
You strike me
as bizarre:
not quite the powdered doll
but sometimes, yes.
Not hoisted in the gibbet
of your sadness, yet
you flaunt the scars
when they refuse to hide behind
those layers of cosmetic joy:
Perhaps you are
an amateur leaf descending,
and all the while
faltering as you fall down
a tumbling, windy blanket.
Or you are too ordinary;
a writhing stump
(that tripped me as I passed)
covered with fallen leaves
Pathos
The naked girl wiped semen
off her lower lip,
the man yanked his belt
and buckled.
The naked girl smelled
her middle finger tip,
the man tied the laces
of his shoes.
The naked girl twisted
a lock of her hair,
the man clipped on his watch
and checked the time.
The naked girl sank low her head
and clapped her feet,
the man had closed the door.
~ Wednesday, May 04, 2016
- The Demon at my Bedside
- On Contemplating the News of a Friend’s Death
- So Far, So Very Good
- Three Poems for a Friend
- The Death of Princeford
- The Artist and the Builder
- I must have Drunk too much Ambrosial Wine
- Our Brother Fell Back Home
- On Beauty in Music
- Written with Permission later that Evening
- When They Come Asking
- Mary May
- Hello, World
- From Beyond
- Change
