The Poetry Kit MAGAZINE

 

Two Poems

   
     

By Christopher T. George
 
 

It's ironic that although the Poetry Kit mailing list is run out of my native England by talented Merseyside performance poet Jim Bennett, it was an American, albeit a lady of many nations and influences, the late Barbara Ostrander, who suggested I join the list.  I still miss Barbara and think of her a lot.  I am sure I am not the only person who was touched by her grace and charity.
 
One of my first submissions to the list in August 2003 was my poem, "Cousin Frank", and I show it below both in its final version and in the earlier version that I submitted to the list.
 
Cousin Frank
 
I never knew Frank, shot down over Germany.
In the silver-framed photo on Auntie's sideboard,
he smiled in his flying jacket with lamb's wool lining
about to make his last flight in his Lancaster bomber.
 
On Wednesday, Aunts' day, I devoured a cold ham
salad and raspberry jelly with cream, then I'd climb
apple trees in the jungle in Auntie Mary's garden.
 
Frank and I had the gnarled trees to ourselves.
We vanquished the Nazi hordes, then piloted
our apple tree raiders as far north as Blackpool,
to carpet bomb the honky tonk of the Golden Mile.
 
 
Cousin Frank

Cousin Frank died, shot down over Germany. His photo
sat in a silver frame on Auntie's oak sideboard. He
wore a leather flying jacket with lamb's wool lining,
grinning by his Lancaster bomber. I never met Frank.

On Wednesday's, Aunt's day, I devoured a cold ham
salad and raspberry jelly with cream, then I'd climb
apple trees in the jungle in Auntie Mary's garden.
All children in the neighborhood older than me,

so Frank and I had the gnarled trees to ourselves.
Having vanquished the Nazi hordes, we piloted our
apple trees in bombing raids as far as Blackpool,
carpet bombing the honky tonk of the Golden Mile.

 
A recent posting:
 
A Gift of Peaches

I've brought you a gift of peaches,
this isn't the time for speeches,
let bygone be bygone,
what is done is done.

Through vows made and broken,
so much joy, so much pique.
Hush, no word need be spoken.
Let these peaches speak.

 



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