The Poet's Page

by Vic George 1995

It ain't but 10 or so years ago,
We ventured into a world populated by the blue,
A generation of love so true.
They ain't seen anything like us
Until their evil came along.
We loved to hear that Brainy babble
Until he rocket-shipped to out of here;
Jokey's bomb-bursting surprise IN YOUR FACE;
The hundreds who are just their names and their actions.
But for the glory of the old red, white, and blue,
They stay tight like glue.

A world that would have mushroomed,
But time took them away into time,
Never to be seen again.

Time now to leave their limbo,
Bring a new love into this world again,
The legacy for a new generation.

by Vic George 1992

Some people see blue in the way they see dark:
Abysmal and miserable, without much of a spark;
A melancholy feeling weighing down a young heart;
Negative to all goodness and which keeps us apart.

Some people see blue in the way they see bright:
All one under the Almighty, shining in His pure light,
Or an antiseptic society, stamping color from its sight,
Or a two-tiered system where in-betweens aren't right.

Some people see blue the way they see a rainbow,
Taking its risks to make each color glow:
It may come out obscene in its own shade of green,
Or with passionate desire like a rose-colored fire,
Or like a cowardly fellow should it stand out like yellow,
Or just merely strange like the color of an orange,
Or imaginatively set in the shades of violet,
Or like dirt on the ground should it ever stand out brown.

Some people see blue the way people should be:
Caring and sharing and living in nature's harmony,
Calm and serene and as cool as the sea,
Open to the truth, looking beyond origin and destiny.

There's many ways to describe some people's favorite hue,
But the way I see blue is only how I can see you.

by Vic George 1995

He does 0 to 60 in less than one second.
He breaks all the speed limits by talking.
He knows how to fit an entire day of speeches into a single hour.
His words break through barriers like a runaway train.
You have to be a speed reader to read his lips.
He talks about everything and nothing at the same time.
He makes your ears run a marathon.
He makes me tired just listening to him.
He is a living whirlwind of thought.
No wonder he makes a mess out of his audiences.
They have to leave just to give his ideas more room.

by Vic George 1997
Inspired by Empath: The Luckiest Smurf

I humbly stand here, among people
Who are like and yet very unlike me,
In the clothes of the simpler folk,
The worker, the child in blue and white.

I feel naked among my own brethren,
For never have I seen myself
In the clothes they wear so proudly
Without fear of elements or privacy.

I am not accustomed to how it feels,
In garments that fit too snugly,
To bare more than my soul
To those barely in more than pants.

The thought of seeing me in my own flesh
Makes me feel perverted,
Even if I do share the same skin.

What do they see when they look at me now?
Do they see how embarrassed I feel
Or would they just accept me
As just another like them in their world?

It took just one look into the mirror
To see myself wearing these clothes
To realize now who and what I truly am,
And no longer do I feel naked among you.

I am now one of you.

by Vic George 1995

Even at the same height, you still stood taller.
Though gray your hairs have become from your years,
You still look young to me.
We don't wear the same shoes, the same pants, the same hat;
We both have the same genes.
Forever in blue genes we are both.

How can I compare with you?
All my life, Papa was your only name.
You had the magic and the wisdom; all I had was youth.
You took me and my brothers and made us into a family.
I learned from them, they learned from me, we all learned from you.
You were my shelter and my comfort.
Even when we outnumbered you,
Plagued you with our wants and our needs,
You helped us along.
Our childhood passed like years, even though it was decades.

I'll never know if it was you
Who even made me to be born in this world.
All I know is that you made me
Into who I am in this world.
The first man I ever knew,
All my love goes to you,

by Vic George 1995

I love me, I'm so addicted to me.
I'm all of perfection that I can ever be.
Everywhere I go and everyone I see
Get the pleasure to know the wonderful presence of me.
I don't need chemicals to give me a rush,
Not when I have a love that's impossible to crush.
I love me in every dream I dream;
I'm the centerfold of my life's magazine.
The only thing I wish is there could be
Two of me so I can really love me.
What I hate is others who think they're the best they could be
And say it to make me feel less in love with me.
I love me, and that's all I can be

By Vic George 1990

There once was a child with thoughts that were so wild,
Who thought it was weird, this thing called a beard.
Why do grown men wear a face that grows hair?
Is it to make them warm and fuzzy, like the cute face or a kitten or puppy?
Is it to make them more artistic, intellectual, or realistic? the question grows more it really used to attract the opposite sex?
The more he thought about the matter, the more he wanted a beard of his own
For he could figure out for himself why he has this thing he has grown.
But he didn't want to wait to be a grown-up to wear one.
He wanted to wear one now so that he can show everyone
That you don't have to look like an adult to look adult-ish.
But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed a dull wish.
"Too bad," he surmised, "that beards aren't made of velcro.
Or else when a son is older, a father can pass it on so.
I might as well wait until the end of adolescence
Before I can wear one -- that to me would be common sense.
Maybe before then I can have me a moustache,
Or some hair on my chest, though there might be a catch."
He might as well not let this beard business faze him,
'Cause later in life, it will cease to amaze him!