Chris George Birthday Poems
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
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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
http://farm1.static.flickr.com/202/5...9a42f0e671.jpg
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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
http://farm1.static.flickr.com/155/3...4126a9b767.jpg
