GEORGE - POET EXTRAORDINAIRE
A couple of years back,
I attended a writers conference for the arts in Orlando and happened
to walk through a gift shop when a young lady asked what I did to make
ends meet. When I revealed that I made a living through a word processor,
she replied that she likewise did a little writing. Casually, never expecting
anything further, I politely asked her to send me something she had composed.
Months later, I received a collection of poems by Rhonda George and I
remain overwhelmed by her talent.
My favorite telephone chats
are with Rhonda, and I predict great things ahead in her vast future.
Rhonda is young, on her path to a degree from Rollins College in Winter
Park, Florida, and is mature beyond her years. Poetry comes easy for her
because its something spontaneous from deep in her soul. I know
because she has recited yet unwritten masterpieces to me.
Read the works of this remarkable person. Remember her. Youll soon
hear about her from those far away places where excellence is honored.
We are proud to introduce our readers to Rhonda George:
There is a man I touch on occasion.
We stand front in front,
me behind blue velvet ropes
Up gazing with arms wrapped around me
he in pose.
coat and bent rimmed hat,
comes late at night.
His streets are black and speckled;
gray and bone flints are packed
thickly into the ground
he pushes rough bristle over.
Houses around emit dim glows,
the tired, sleeping inside.
Moon and stars do not shine but dust and dirt
up and hover and fall
into his next brush
that extends far;
he hums a humble rhythm,
his arms out and back
gripping the slender wood stick like a Shepherd Prince guiding.
I enter reluctantly this institution where I am wings,
Stay put. Be good. Dont do. Expected to be the universal
person described in category: Pink and Blue, Red and Green.
These years are the white walls. They say be Pollack and mimic
Dali. Black and white is still what they like. I am redundant.
Everyday. So chronic. So over and again that red blood stains the
walls because, in a fit, my own hand has grabbed my neck
and slammed me hard, just so a better I might pop out to deal
with the day. My talent is everyone gets a smile. Everyday, those
are free; I have plenty. When I finally break my porcelain pig,
nothings there but a five cent feeling. Crazy is inevitable
request you serve your sentence in the company of others. And that
is why there is something called sanity. I misrepresent on occasion.
Purple and Orange, I think like a queen, but that is not routine.
I sound to myself like a tart sweet lemon, but that is why I write--
so I can flesh out what I need to flesh out. And to bury this big
balloon of angst. Not to deflate. Not to pop. Not to inflate.
Just to hide away underneath a cloak, a thick one, a heavy one,
while I learn the caged birds lullaby.
woman at hand
where did she go?
Boom and blah
you know that girl,
the one with the hung up dancing shoes
she drinks a few
downs a few
blows a fuse
Boom and blah.
I go the jazz beat
the style of x crossed glasses
tilted toward tall bottles of red
and late night walks
under sophisticated October skies.
I find some subtle road
especially at dusk in June
when the crickets choir plays faint
and heat perfumes suffocate
the evening breezes deep exhales.
I go the detour
in a plastic chair,
stereo propped close,
the blue-gray sky
into the button
panties and bra
(that hint at what they hide)
secret part of me
loud lumps of life
smooth inside my head
and the pompous moon
too early to reign, makes
the mellow night tip toe slow,
as I lay my head on its feathery pillow
drifting with the naked voice that saunters east,
strolling beyond this sultry boulevard to
the twilight lounge in blue,
where martinis, stirred
by long olive-topped toothpicks
are sipped and mood is sung
like smoke from a film-noir cigarette.
White tank, low jeans, red flip flops,
feet brown and spotted
by the burping mud
from a gray and cracked sidewalk
curved some miles away from
Hands in her back pockets,
looking like a beautiful she--
Going somewhere until further notice.