SUBJECT>First Things First: Going Backwards (CTG) *PIC* POSTER>Christopher T. George EMAIL>editorcg@yahoo.com DATE>1113024913 IP_ADDRESS>pcp04256338pcs.mtromd01.md.comcast.net PASSWORD>aaXga4uf0tS3k PREVIOUS> NEXT> IMAGE>http://uk.geocities.com/moore_reppion@btinternet.com/Middleton-Grave.gif LINKNAME>Poetry by Christopher T George LINKURL>http://chrisgeorge.netpublish.net/index.htm

First Things First: Going Backwards

I. A Wee Cloud

As I squat on the john,
I see through the bathroom window
in blue sky, a wee cloud, evolving white.

I'm Robert George Burns, smoking a stogie,
and it's the face of a white-bearded man
composed of smoke rings. He winks at me, old

lecher. Now a hand, the fist unfolding, fingers
flicking out. Now an archipelago of islands, drifting
apart, dissipating, leaving nothing, only blue sky.

II. Ditton Junction

A place to pass through when motoring east to Widnes
or Manchester, or hurtling from Euston to Lime Street,

a sad station platform with the maroon BritRail sign,
I gaze out of the flyspecked window at a grassy moat,

railway sidings, chemical dumps, curve of the Mersey
in the distance, the Childe of Hale's church tower:

John Middleton, 9 ft 3 wrestler at the court of James
the drooling Scot, dumper on tobacco, all very PC,

long before PC. Oh, but I was talking about Ditton.

III. Caveseeking

Like a cat, I craved shelter, a womb,
I arranged dad's deckchairs into a bedouin tent.

In the tall grass behind the church, I made a hide
along with my cousins Robin and Julie, a lair

from which we'd spy on Mrs Murgatroyd's excursion
to Barleycorn, the greengrocer, Petrie, the butcher,

for a leg of lamb, 5 pounds of spuds for Sunday.
At night, I dived under the blankets,

spelunked deep, to crawl toward
a lost world, the door to tomorrow.

IV. A Backward Glance

Night: I'm driving up Charles Street,
in my rearview, Baltimore at night,
Robert Mills' classical column
to the first President rises

ghost white far behind me
and landmarks of my past
sweep past me as I drive;
my first slushy kiss with Andrea,

beeches on the Hopkins campus
scarred with our initials;
First English Lutheran where
Susan and I married,

for the second time, then
mmmm, divorced again--
Were we nuts or what?
Yes, I found trouble like glue-

traps. Michael Franks sings,
"On our own, we have grown,
but freedom means
that you're all alone--"

V. My Epitaph

O dauntless bard
splendid in success
constant in defeat

dashing worker of words
enquiring mind
recording all he saw

life's battle ended
he sleeps well
beside his muse,

in heaven as on earth
a helpmate worthy of a hero

Christopher T. George