View Full Version : Chris George Birthday Poems

01-03-2008, 02:55 PM
Oh, Balls! Tea Fleas!

Oh, balls! My teabag breaks releasing
a cloud of what as a child I called
"tea fleas." I pour the steaming
orange-brown liquid down the sink.

New Year's Eve: Donna and I toast each
other with dirty martini, gin and tonic.
Mother calls my cell, dressed up waiting
for us to take her out -- for Christmas.

I'll drive her to show her the "duckies"
in the A.M. Now is adult time: glitter
and gingerbread houses in the packed,
chatty restaurant at the Museum of Art.

I'm days from my sixtieth birthday.
I feel like the Australian python
who gobbled the four golf balls,
mistaking them for hen's eggs.

Christopher T. George


Spatial Concept -- Nature

With snowflakes floating down, I
escape D.C.'s frigid streets to cut

through the Hirschhorn garden and
shelter by a glossy-leaf magnolia,

a big bronze walnut on the lawn.
I try to write down its details

on an old Comcast bill; pen won't
write, makes a hole in the paper;

I stuff the bill in my pocket, see
the sculptor's name is "Fontana"

like the tricky cop in "Law and Order."

Christopher T. George



Rapscallion Mood

New Year's Day, just before my sixtieth birthday:
in a frigid breeze, the red-berried holly sloughs

against yews where last February I photographed
a scatter of berries on an ice-glazed snowfield.

Oh, fortunes in berries I will never own in my life!
Wind chastises my cheeks; metal streetsign screams

its protest. As white clouds race across blue skies
beyond high rises, ice crystals glow a rainbow hue.

Christopher T. George


01-14-2008, 02:28 PM
The Essence of Becoming

The dark gloss-green of a big-
leafed winter creeper clings
espaliered to the pebble wall;
the new year slowly becomes.

I stroll the curving brick path
of the Ridley Gardens damp
from overnight rain; white Xmas
stars hung in the trees dangle

above churned dark earth
that yearns for new plantings.
A red-veined sorrel by my foot
reminds me of my grandfather's

big hand pouring beet seeds
into the black soil, willing
them to germinate, praying
the blood turnips to swell.

Christopher T. George