A Lovers Tryst – HEG George

Don’t hold me to blame. 

The road was never straight 

nor the wind mild of frame 
Your bedside monitor screeches 

one incessant, contrary acoustic. 

Giving notice to all abroad that 

time has moved on elsewhere 
Let me raise you up and brush 

away the marks that play a 

cracked tune on your broken 

parts, like a drummer breaking sticks 
The glass of your eye 

holds the drink of my heart, 

where champagne bubbles try 

to revive an empty space no 

longer receiving its rhythmic pulse 
The mood of your limbs, 

restrained by dysfunctional form 

and snared by aseptic plastic, 

bring a darkness to this room. 
And, like an Indian encircled 

wagon train, Dante’s allegorical 

limbo encircles your bed, pining 

for your life renunciated husk

A Road To A Short War – HEG George

A white hot finger points your way, 

pushing air aside with each advancing message. 

The renting of air with thunder clap abroad 

makes too much noise, chattering like rattling lungs 
Whispers to an unacknowledged Lord 

bringing forward promised prayers. 

The elastic of fear bringing Him ever closer 
Listen, above the din, a whisper. 

Just a faint whisper in the grass. 

A tap on the shoulder, a poke in the chest 
Cold, so very cold, yet burning hot. 

With stench of faeces left too long, 

the shadow of death falls over this life. 

As yet unknown to its carrier 
This cold, sucking, life-withdrawing colourless odour. 

This all-pervading, all consuming watered soul, 

so thinly veiled with blood and flesh. 
This breathing vessel of emptied life. 

With ice rink stare upon which skaters cut 

figures to the reapers dance 
This day, this very focal point, 

where time no longer elapses, shall 

feel the clod but not the shovel. 

And keep a watch without relief

An Autumn Tableau – HEG George

When you come to stay, you’ll stay In a box, 

much like any other. With its own rich vein 

of concrete running between two green 

rivers of grass; supporting islands of tainted 
leaves too corrupt to remain at home for another 

season. A bird feeder stands lonely sentinel in a 

changing Eden, the only nod to nature’s needy. 

Where a magpie, whose beak shares the accuracy 
of the boxer punching a moving bag, eats the once 

yearly offering of seed from its moving target. 

And two black – ringed turtle doves, the epitome 

of Athrodite’s children, throw a lovers spat over 
the single bird feeder. Whilst mellow music 

drifts upon the same wavelengths as the 

shrilling calls of the birds. One, more 

harmonious than the other. 
A dog, lying in the heated comfort of the box, 

tries to urge a bark, but settles for a growl, at 

an autumn intruder. It’s head following the 

ostentatious jig of a robin, like a type writer 
Jarring between upper and lower case. This 

fleeting balsam that comes once every year, 

tasting of deep velvet shiraz, willingly shares 

its richness with those that bring a glass. 
No rights witheld. That’s what you’ll see 

when you come to stay. If you look.

Self-Reproach – HEG George

An offensive mirror 

produces my face, 

and ears listen to a 

hackneyed heart beat 
The stench of stagnant 

breath confirms my 

identity and smoker’s 

status. Sixty a day 
The cold floor held 

by blood drained feet, 

a razor held in hand 

at mannequin angle 
The bile in my throat and 

the fur on my tongue 

congealed with the sickly 

sweet syrup of life dripping out 
The door behind falls open on 

its own axis and the mirror 

reveals an empty room effused 

with a pall of used smoke, 
Like grey mists rising on a moor, 

seeking fresh lungs to enbalm. 

I think I see a shadow of someone waiting. 

And I think that someone is me

The Changeling – HEG George

I am the newly born face of munificence, unquenchable beauty. 

My tides are full with bountifulness, like an orchard to the table. 

My fleece radiates guiltless white, bestowed like a lamb, fresh 

upon its mother. And the flight of a newborn world is upon the wing 
My once childish demeanour has grown into a handsome face, 

with the offer of a pristine horizon as dowry. And the fruits from 

the fleur de mer are bound for the land, to walk amoung its forests 

and cultivate its soil. Free of tarnish and burnished by a new sun 
As the cloud’s rivers carry food along my valleys, carved 

by mighty glaciers, the King Fisher learns its trade and 

apes are low in prominence. As yet to chase the flame 

and its future dividend 
But, as with any river, there are two shores upon which to live. 

And there are signs that a sheep in wolf’s clothing stands two 

legged and tall upon the other shore. And like the changing of 

the seasons, too soon its cold has become warm and its warm 

become hot. Wrapping a ring of savage finality about itself 
On that bank, benevolence has changed a once accepting face, 

to one of prideful leers. And the once responsible mien of its 

manhood has lately become the childish game of a drunken 

fool to be frittered away, like so many coins 
And changing tides recede onto unredeeming shore lines, as a 

water fall’s once prized cascade becomes scorched by a pitiless 

sun. And yet. My heart still resonates with the cries of a dying 

humanity and should our eyes and ears only perceive it, there 
is time to nurture this changeling yet. To cross the river and 

force back the spears of gluttony that have breached this paradise. 

To grasp the hands of an entire peoples despair and lift them up, 

like a father to a child and the righteous to the atoned 
For without this change of games pursued, we leave behind a 

dessicated husk of rock. To become one of many such trinkets 

that orbit the lights in the night sky.

The Funeral – HEG George

Respects have been paid 

by those with good manners 

and by the mawkish with 

restrained curiosity 
And now, I sit in a chasm of nothingness. 

Raging seas crashing from my eyes, 

whilst salty rivers run from my 

nose to the tip of my tongue 
My day is slate grey with 

nimbus clouds abroad. 

And my ambivalence riles 

against a once merciful Being 
No longer registered are the passing 

differences between the sun and moon 

or the advancing hours of a stagnated clock. 

Gone are my reasons for either 
I have become Omega, last of my family. 

And now I sit, beneath a canopy of pain. 

Waiting for her whisper. 

Oh, dear God. Let it be soon.

Cancer – HEG George

Hold back the hour. 

Stop the tears from flowing. 

Breathe again untainted air. 

Take back my bones, my breasts, 

and race forward to passion once more 
Hold back the hour, 

before the ravaging of every sinew 

and fleeting glimpse of salvation, and 

forced pity encroached upon my earth 
Hold back the hour, 

before tested strength 

proves weakened failure 

and commitment runs a ragged road 
Before privacy alludes 

and birds no longer sing for me, 

or the pinch of reality is drugged 

away before the fluttering of breath 
Now bring back the hour 

let the tears flow 

I’m ready