Moon Follow Me Down

I travel south on the Marc train
in the Tuesday morning darkness;
a nearly full moon moves with me
over the treeline as we speed to D.C.

Later, I stroll through the Smithsonian gardens,
sniff the lone white bloom on the gardenia bush.
I walk down Independence Avenue where mirrored
moons of CCTV cameras monitor my way to work.

Christopher T. George

I have written a blog entry for Barbara Ostrander for Desert Moon recording the fact of her passing and how it has hit our community, and including one of Barb's poems about her relationship with Africa ("Africa Unleashed"). What Barbara was about and what I am about is partly reflected in the following poem.

On one of her trips to Bethesda for treatment, Barbara was able to attend a history lecture I gave near Annapolis, which resulted in the following poem of mine written as part of Gary Blankenship's hyperpoem series, utilizing a line from Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" ("Time for you and time for me")--

Annapolis Harbor at Christmas

To Barbara

Somehow we find the time after your day
at the clinic, my workday, after we fought
traffic in the Maryland rain to make it late
to my evening lecture, the spaghetti supper.
Somehow, we find time as snow sifts down:
Time for you and time for me.

The snow melts on the water
and on the bronze statue of Alex Haley
as he reads to the bronze children,
to tell how Kunta Kinte landed here
all those generations ago as a slave
aboard the Lord Ligonier.

And you want badly to see the sea.
Well, this isn't the sea exactly, an arm
of the Chesapeake Bay. Yet, I feel
we're walking barefoot on a beach,
in sand dunes, among scraggy grass
at the ocean, in Maryland, in Africa.

Christopher T. George

Icky the Firebobby . . . and My Songwriting

Icky the Fire Bobby

In the land of thingamabob and wotsit,
Icky was my bogeyman, the specter
who'd grab me if I didn't get to bed,
if I didn't eat my peas or mashed spuds.

He haunted pantry, clothes cupboard,
made plans in the dark to terrify,
a mean older brother, a hairy policeman
with hatchet and tall bobby's helmet.

I trembled in bed waiting for his bullseye
lantern to single me out, to haul me off
to the coal bunker for punishment with all
the other bad, sobbing little buggers.

Christopher T. George

This was the weekend on which the musical by Erik Sitbon and myself, "Jack--The Musical" was going to be presented in Charlotte, North Carolina, but unfortunately plans fell through for the weekend. Still, have to plug on. Erik has just returned from Deauville where he said he performed before a crowd of 15,000 our song, "Gotta to Make the Right Move." We will get there slowly and surely. . .



Erik in Deauville, Entertaining the Masses

P.S. You can see a video of one of our songs, "June," by hitting the link through the title to this post above.

Closing Time at Union Station

After a hard day's edit, I discover
the Thunder Grill closing, an agitated
bartender who, praise the Lord, concocts
me a double Harvey Wallbanger. . . but

there's no chili to be had, chef packed up.
Minutes later, I sit on a rose marble plinth,
waiting for the 10:40 pm to whisk me away,
survey the inlaid marble, echoing expanse.

The rattan chairs of the Center Café stack
promiscuously three on a tier. At Ka Bloom,
a man walks the pink roses and purple irises
into a walk-in cooler; automatic doors open, close;
he settles the flowers in their bright steel containers.

Christopher T. George

Well, Sallye is not happy with me because the unit of edited manuscripts should have mailed last week, ideally. But I did have some formatting and other issues to contend with from the authors so it wasn't all smooth sailing. Anyway, today, Tuesday, I have a doctor's appointment in the morning and can relax some at home. Also I think Donna is putting us in for pedicures after I pick her up from work this afternoon, for which see--

The Gods Are Dancing

on the wall in gold frames,
and Donna and I undergo pedicures,
tended by Vietnamese dames
while Watkins Glen plays overhead,

the TV blaring in blue and red,
Busch beer, STP, and Red Bull;
a race driver's interviewed in a lull,
TV turns his face orange, his shades blue.

Scent of aloe, pink Jergens massage,
my feet are done. Donna, how about you?

Christopher T. George