W.S. 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.


© 2016 William Saint George