A drowning visitor in the system.
Virginia Woolf her forehead shiny with perspiration.
The lake pours itself into her body.
Children who are Poets
They play with lobsters in hand.
For them seawater doesn’t come with a map –
Leaps of faith. The chill found in earth.
Electric Wired Gangsters
Drugged out of their minds.
Finger happy on the trigger, trigger –
Every waterfall a teardrop.
Beautiful things can grow there.
Out of despair, the ugliness of shipwrecks –
Like phoenixes rising out of ashes.
Postures of Good-looking Tigers
That is the history of lunacy for you.
Found in the wilderness upon the land’s pale throne –
Like a carcass found in an asylum of trees.
The Depressed Writer in the Northern Areas
Life is a hideous oblivion.
I do not know you but I miss you –
Like the pouring rain and Alba.
Winged Creatures of God
Standing in the Metro I met Paris.
Hemingway, Pound and T.S. Eliot’s Paris –.
Winter branches of the establishment.
I do not have enough time left to save the world
Rooms with white walls. Wards and nurses.
Please excuse me for I do not know how to love another –
Fury I know. That comes with the history of illness.
Abigail George is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominated South African essayist, poet, short story writer, and novelist.