Poetry by George...
George has written poetry quite extensively in recent years. At the 2009 Kansas Authors Club Convention he was awarded First Place for four poems in three categories: Classic Forms - Amelia's Hands and High Tea Without Sympathy; Free Verse - Land of the Sanitary; and Narrative Verse - The Chase. A samplng of his work is displayed here:


Now that I’m an octogenarian,
I balance on the equator of my world
that divides young from old, hot from cold.

“It’s all a matter of attitude.” they say.
“You are as young as you feel.”
I have a problem with that platitude.
Some of me feels youthful and some feels ancient.
Too often the venerable, supported by arthritis,
wins the argument and tells my body “ninety nine,”
although my mind says “twenty nine!”

I’ve seen them, shivering in nursing homes,
their eyes empty as the shells
of last year’s Easter eggs. They sit alone,
hoping for the visit from the dark prince.
I abhor that look of desperation.
So I seek out young people
who enable me to feel unseasoned.
I watch their boundless energies,
the flames in their eyes
like erupting forest fires,
overtaking the continent.
I catch fire with them, love the heat,
living for a while on the hot side of my equator.




Old as twice her age
and baptized
in a thousand dishwashings
she dries them again.
Hums a tune about washed
in the blood of the lamb.
Picks up her mending,
Wednesday’s work
after Monday’s washday,
Tuesday’s ironing.
She threads a needle,
places a thimble
on a crooked finger,
bones too close for comfort.
Liver spots can’t hide
the frightened rivers running
beneath tissue paper skin.
She picks up a piece,
almost a rag,
and tries to save
her husband’s sock.


Poetry is an attitude looking
for something solid to sit on.
It’s like an empty shopping bag
lying alone in the street
emanating possible danger, or
Fred Phelps’ compound bathed
in summer moonlight.
Poetry promises magic
around the next phrase,
yet calamity and banality
never blur, or become framed
and permanent as if painted
by Andy Warhol. It is only
an attitude, after all,
and it is searching for a place
to reside—for solidity; but
if attitudes find places to rest,
they may end up in an essay or
on the editorial page.



intent on being
heard in spite of wind,
rises from modest nest
singing the prairie dry.
Unaware of election
to avian poet laureate,
makes allegro music,
few notes floating
in tangled air
disappearing in oblivion.
The lark composes
meadow sweetness
in counterpoint to
rattlesnake percussion
singing musical reprise
to buffalo grass
and tumbleweed.

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