The Poet's Page

DAVID AND WALLY
by Vic George 1995

David is the brain; Wally is the go-along;
Together they go looking for trouble.
David can fix things like his stereo;
Wally can’t even fix his own dinner.
But both of them have nicotine fits.
David knows who he can bum money off of;
Wally just sits on his bum.
But they always have money than I do
To go down to Gus’ corner store.

One night they couldn’t wait
To get the smokes they needed.
They snuck off as far as Cumberland Farms
And took some Marlboros from the old man.
They got back to Cottage 3 as fast as they can,
Never giving a thought,
But in the end they got caught.

They told their tale like heroes
To the kids they knew as friends.
They took their bad medicine going down straight,
But their tale will never end.

David was the brain; Wally was the go-along;
No longer are they together.

AN OLD FRIEND OF MINE
(In Memory Of Carl Beckman)
by Vic George 1995

We have shared a common life in a school for us.
We both had problems.
We both loved playing Atari.
We both hated not going anywhere off grounds.
We both lived in group homes.
We both liked Twisted Sister.
We both loved creating things in pottery class.
We both hated jerks that never understood us.
We both had private joys.
We both came from broken families.
We both had the same jolly teacher.
We both got on each other’s cases.
We both became the best of friends.

What we never had and never will have
Was the chance to really say goodbye to each other.
But I will always have memories of us
From when we have shared a common life.

AN OLD HOUSE ON HIGHLAND AVENUE
(Fall River, Circa 1983)
by Vic George 1995

I passed by this house so many times,
Standing by the gates of the Royal Oaks.
It looks so ancient, so weather-worn,
I wonder if anybody still lives in it.

I can get to the cellar from the street.
A door opens the way into the dungeon,
A place where all the darkness is kept.
Little light breaks through the walls.

It is where I find so many rusted tools,
Unused since the land lost its farms
And houses were planted in their places.

The house sits high upon a small hill.
It leans over the sidewalk with its gnarled vines and trees,
Ready to snatch up anybody who passes.

The stairs leading up to the porch are steep, crumbling steps.
Broken windows are shut closed by boards.
The white paint peeling off by many rains.

It is an ugly thing to see by the light of the day,
But it seems to me it has a life of its own in the night.

THE ISLAND
by Vic George 1993

I stood on the raft, gazed at the island,
Afloat in the lake, alone in the distance.
I tensed with fear.
Will I be able to make it?
Others like me stood and gazed,ready to make their break
From the prison of the beach to escape to the island.

I jumped into the lake at the sound of the whistle.
A cold wet embrace; I am wakened into action.
Mud and plants anchor me; I struggle to free myself.

Others are already ahead.
Has fate conspired with nature to stop me at the starting gate?

I propel myself forward in motion at last, an amphibious crawl.
A newborn frog taking baby steps across the surface of the lake.
Every stroke, every kick, an effort.
I catch up with those ahead.

My mind's in another place, a bigger body of water.
I'm stripped into another flesh.
My arms and legs become flippers.
I breathe water through my head.
I am airborne over Atlantis, flying through clouds of seaweed.
I'm no longer human; I am reborn in the ocean.

It's the island that does this, pulls me away from the beach.
It is my magnetic north; I am pulled to it like iron.
It is an internal signal; I move myself to it like a lemming.

Oxygen! Need more oxygen!
Need more strength! Need more energy!
My arms and legs weigh me down.
I am no longer one with the lake; I am a sinking stone,
Buoyed only by will to keep me afloat.

I must reach the island.
It still seems so far away, yet I know I am close to it.
I will not give in to the desire of the earth, to the comfort of the earth.
Its embrace is fatal, for there is no escape from it
Except for the island.
It is a beacon of hope, a ray of light in a dark cave.
It is where life begins and where life exists.
It is salvation from the hell of the lake and the surrounding beach.

A Herculean effort past the dogs that hound me,
Past the terrain that tires me,
Past everything that wants me back where "I belong",
Imprisoned.

I rise to my feet.
The water is shallow; I walk up to the shore.
I take my first full breath with the strength I have left.
I exclaim "I have made it!", I have reached the island.
I am free at last, I am finally myself again.

Do I want to go back?