Original poems by Jared George.



Spring Singing

Come now to the wild welcome,
the day’s light touch,
the simmering song.
Set right the path
for trailing hours
and on, and on, and on.

Green rolls in, fresh earthen tide
births bright secrets
in its folds.
The sun begins to kiss more boldly,
our limbs more noble
in our strolls.

Open roads frame blooming tones
and we, the crowd to cheer
the aspect.
This starts what may, the timeless
sway, facing neither past
nor prospect.

The merry way
all down the lane
thanksgiving for each reed stem,
each blade of grass and flower full,
untroubled smiles to greet them.

We take our place amongst the play
teased by the wing’d mates
we witness,
call bounty up, the teeming cup,
each glance meets our ripe mistress.

We stride inside the daytime star,
all yellow, blue, at noon;
electric flows
from our sphere’s core,
within the cosmic tune.

All bridged, we bridge,
we ground the stars,
watch daylight pleasures brought to bear
and knowing wholly,
seeing solely, claiming
we are there.


Painting: Albert Bierstadt, California Spring, 1857


A Promise

Ivory lace
and life-bent trees
and garden sighs.
Just we two, alone,
all one.
A sun and
a moon.

Storied face,
though young.
And kisses placed
and fingers run.
Our inner space.



Painting: Hesperus, the Evening Star, Sacred to Lovers—Sir Joseph Noel Paton, 1857.


wheels of time unravel
the chapters woven.
In the wood
thoughts peer through;
wisps of green,
our instincts wrapping
in a perfume now seducing
us into our next condition,
yielding to magnetic tethers
pulling toward the next edge.
Always searching
but home in searching–
pulsing, turning,
dancing, waiting.

Beat the rhythms,
each phrase an age
cloaked in capsules,
tears and droplets,
blood in death and new creation.
Wise ones looking like us,
maybe over on that mountain,
maybe here but ‘tween our blinking–
some bearded, hardened, retching, reaching,
some glowing, giving, nurture-making.

I prayed not for a thing
but to be, and ring
my call to sound
through each new something;
proceeding from me,
my time, earthly–
steely, steady,
blast through being.

Flux and twinkle
off and on,
from eye’s eye
yet a constant march remaining,
within, above,
the changing–
rooting, breathing,
striving, living.

Painting: Ludwig Fahrengrong, The Holy Fire (Das Heilige Feuer)


Through Here

The runes of light and life,
here beyond
where the mind flies hither and yon,
see the knowledge bound in land’s trails.

Planets above wave to our shores,
everything a slowly creeping composition.

Thank you to the trust of vectors,
your lines connecting shrines
in certain nodes of earth’s unknown curves.

I sidle up
to the welcome embrace of these places
while wearing sheer masks–
whose impressions I can see,
who invite us more to be.


Painting: Mountains and Alpine Lake, A. Baid c. 1910


Truest of True
prop up my every fiber
take hold of me
in the Boreal wind.
I ride infinite space
in dignified particulars.


Painting: A Viking Mother, Frank Stick, 1929.

From This Way to That

Perfect squares all laid together
prism of a suggested gesture
that in our sleep we feign as secret,
lulling me down
from this way to that.

Shapely shards of purest light,
contained within a boundary tight
backdropped to the velvet black
something calls
from this way to that.

Weaving a tune, all contours, smooth,
shapes cascading justly.
I hear the sirens’ call in reverse,
sussing me thusly

from this way to that.


A liquid paisley oozes over
my orientation

until I’m not located

in any equation.

Drawing me forth
from this way to that.


Painting: Equestrian Portrait of Carmen Bordiu-Franco, Salvador Dali, 1974

Three Deaths

Glowing, golden fields
a journey’s remembrance
comes in flashes
as I lay here.

Radiant angel,
strike me gently
inform me with the secret halo
around my heart.

A slow glorious fall down the line,
lured into corners of life
not breached in daylight.
Darkness blooms, then a surge,
then a coy damsel.

I await sweet mysteries.


Painting: Valkyrie, Peter Nicolai Arbo, 1869

Source of it All

The swirl of the world,
the dance of the game,
on the tips of our tongues
the spells that will change

the cage ‘round our minds
and the drain on our hearts
our histories now changed,
our parts we’ve forgot.

To come through this turn
to rise from this fall
must we draw once again
from the source of it all.



Trails of love, laid out for us to follow,
fluid in this layover of the stars.

Travel back with me to the icy beginnings;
we’ll watch the dust clouds form,
mother’s milk for the gods.


Image: NASA



Bursting pennants
standing guard
against the glad inner courtyard,
revel in their newborn form.

A hazy day, and yet
still light.
A gathering, all life.

The herald sounds,
rings opulent
in way of supple melodies.

The center holds,
and we bow down,
and all is well,
I don my crown–
and yet, each here
knows fancy’s flight.

I do, as well,
and in my might,
a servant
of the one and all;
I am the biggest
and most small.


Image: Entry of John II of France and Joan I of Auvergne into Paris after their coronation at Reims in 1350, later manuscript illumination by Jean Fouquet

Our Britannic Majesty’s Request

Sacred, ancient Albion
lend your ears to me.
Let whispers of the reed stems
bleed into fields around me.
For language, blood, and spirit
draw a bow string
and I feel the pull;
there something shared.

Possess me of your story’s wisdom,
a wrestle with love and fleeting calculation.

There’s a door somewhere in your grassy web
and that’s why the heart and why the head
had their tether split in you.

Ah, but how to mend anew?



Flying the skies with the winged gods of eagle rock
we find ourselves truly in the Core.
Roman temples and Alpine forests portal us to that center,
particular means for our perfected shapes.

The forest court echoes of the messengers,
the valleys of mystery we traverse
and reveal the undercurrent,

Living through the grand proscenium of time
the hills march with us,
a tradition that springs eternal:
our communion with the land.

The inner splendor unravels outward,
the once-coiled spirit in my plexus
now rays of light in our daily deeds.

Beauty shows the king of each land
suspended in the golden space of life,
attendants to the infinite moment.
The queens breathe their harmony
through everything they pass
to our mutual delight.


Painting: Gefjun Plowing with her Four Oxen, ceiling of Frederiksborg Palace, Denmark

Mother Wolf

Wolf of many hours
your time it moans away,
birth iridescent radiance,
take the younglings
that once strayed.

Bathe them strong
in forest streams.
Raise them, milk them
for the sake.
Keep the spindle turning
though it’s blood that slakes.


Image: Bronze Wolf’s head, 1st century AD

Heart Of It All

now as ecstasy mistaken,
traded in that ancient market–
echoes across the Janiculum of Rome;
chants dressing a temple;
cries of duty sworn at the burial mounds.

Each of us cut by fathers
and coaxed by mothers
into our cast for the world.

Can it be we’re now overrun
in this undertow,
like tokens lacking even the Hand?

Decrees uttered by overlords,
in solitude, too, they search for the first–
first thought, first flicker, first flinch–
that gives rise to that warmth in their breast.

Without the world pole,
lacking the unmoving North Star
all truly is vanity.
That desert lament
knew what we’d deserted.


Painting: Messer Ansaldo Showing Madonna Dionara his Enchanted Garden, Marie Spartali Stillman, 1889