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Best Poems Written by Samir Georges

Below are the all-time best Samir Georges poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Beauty In My Palm

You are the wild flower in my palm
With no stem to keep you anchored to this covetous earth
You are the fragile thing I dare not cup,
As your petals whittle away under the wind
And flit unfettered in the air;
Exaggerated fear leaves my fingers numb
Hungry need leaves my fingers twitching
And my hand is paralyzed by turmoil
As every breath of wind takes another petal from me
And brings to my lungs, my chest and my heart
An overwhelming scent of need-

You are the wild beauty in my palm
And I dare not hold you to my chest
For I fear to crush you
To know first hand
That caged beauty, is beauty no more.

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Feather In My Hand, Ink In My Heart.

Trickling over my mind
Came scampering the question
This dilemma of a heart
Come running into my embrace
Stricken with fright

It asked me
Father, why do we write
And so I dipped my feather in the darkness of my mind
And brought forth my answer 

I wrote of fear and the love that comes at a dreadful cost
Of meaning and of the fight for knowledge 
I wrote for voices unheard
I cried for emotions long forgotten
And the answer came to me as the tears wrote their own tale
Painted in pain was the image of a long forgotten glory
Of emotions left unstirred
Come to see what these words have conspired 
Come to see how these words have called them from their sleep
To ensue in them an undaunted hunger

Well my dear son
Here comes my answer to you
I write not for you
Nor for me
I write for what is within you
What has bubbled forth within me
I write to stir the masses
Unchained, unhindered
Willful subjects of our being
They huddle in wait
The towering limestones of their cave grow eon by eon
As they rot away, moment by moment
I write for them
We write for the grim
The unnoticed prestige
We write for what you have neglected to see
To bring it forth before your eyes
To fix your head with an iron collar
To make you a slave of our direction
We write to be your masters, when you need one most
We write to fix your gaze on what you have never lost
We write to drag forth from the depths of your inky heart

We are the harbingers of emotion
Be it hate or lust
The unseen veil of ignorance, or to shatter the blinding globe of pride
We are the harbingers of sight
With our binding collars, our guiding feathers, dripping the black sweat of our labored toil
You will come to see
What has not been seen before
We are
Fathers of a relationship sown by words, sealed by the dawning of the sun, the dawning of 
realization
We are 
Your feathers, to your wings or to your ink

And feathers will flutter
Bearing you into the frigid embrace of the skies
And when the winds will them no more
We will descend upon the ground
And speak to the earth as we are reclaimed in its rough embrace
We will write to the trees, when we cannot write to the birds, the sun, and the sky
And through the trees we will see the stars
And to them we will write about the shade
Harbingers indeed.

© Samir Georges
2010

Edited for Deb's Free Verse Contest on why we write.

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Today Not Tomorrow

I have been untrue
To myself and to my heart
I waited for the questions to answer themselves
I waited for the possible to become probable
I cowered down behind shadows
Even they shied away
I cowered down behind lies
Even they unravelled
I cowered down behind those cowards
Even they left in disgust
Beneath the slime and muck of time
I lie shivering in the cold
Today I have said I, but never you
Selfish is the soul that speaks
To itself as it leaks
Lies and deceit upon the shelves
Shelves covered with hearts in jars
These hearts that cry out the truth
Their own echo is all they hear

I avoided the truth
I avoided confrontation
Today I opened a door
Only to shut another
Time is a whore
Time is the whore we all know
The whore that stole it all
Bottle up a heart in a jar
She will reopen it some day
As she has reopened secrets
As she has stolen them back
As she has taken my ego
As she has taken my confidence

Today I wait
As I have waited before
A day passes as time laughs
As shadows scurry
As lies fall apart
As cowards roar
As time cleans out
I shiver more

My love to you is ebbing
A wait after another
I question my wait, how I rot in this seat
I question my wait as I hide behind deceit
And yet I thank you
For on this day I know
I have wasted away before your gaze
And your recognition is yet awaited
Today I watch you get stolen away
And hope for time to repeat
For if only a second before I could have reached for you
But now I wait
To wait again
I am selfish
I have watched
I have gazed
I have dreamt
I have wondered
I have left you there in that dark alley awaiting my arrival
And I say

If only this seat had wheels
If only this dreamer had heart
Now I wait, for the moment I will rise
And I wait

For the moment you shall beckon
I shall cast my shadow upon the steps
I shall shed my skin of lies
I shall roar with vigor from within the cowering forms of many
And time shall stare with awe
Wings I shall grow
And together we shall soar
Through days and nights we shall dance
As time bleeds its envious blood
Today I ask for you at my side
Tomorrow I shall be there at yours
This selfish capsule of a soulless trap
Shall be a soul once more
With all those forms casting shadows
Soaring above the clouds of dreamers
Paired off, laying on the moon
Howling for the world to hear
Today not tomorrow
I shall be true

© Samir Georges 
2005

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The Green Checkered Face

I take firm grasp of the handle
My goal reflected in the steel of the knife,
I put the knife to its green face
Its' checkered skin;

I flex my bicep, grimace with thirst
I remember the day’s troubles, 
The day’s triumphs, And I cut
The blade breaks the rough surface
Shatters the smooth oval,
And sinks deep into the soft redness beneath
Juice flows over my hands, and I forget my thoughts,
I reach in and take firm grasp of its heart
I wrench it out with red dripping fingers
Slobbering it into my mouth
The sweetness of the watermelon sends my heart racing with joy
And I reminisce that I had forgotten the plate.


P.S, for those who may not know, the sweetest part of the watermelon is the heart (hence 
reaching for the heart)


© Samir Georges
2010

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Tension Waiting

The swordsman who draws his blade
Heart racing at the keening of steel on scabbard 
Tension coiled, poised for the unleashing
Held back by muscles tight with glee.

I am as the soldier, held in stance,
The lioness crouched beneath the concealing grass
As it sways back and forth, as insects sing along the day
Her every breath is halted, her veins do not pulse,
And just as the swordsman stands
They are statues in this moment,
Statues of derision,
Mocking, with their stillness, the very charged tension within.

And I am as the lioness frozen before her pounce
Coiled with motivation and purpose,
And I am as the tongue held with words clinging off its’ edge
Ready to lash out and strike with direction
But I am as the frozen purpose, held tight
Waiting, for a warrior to stand before me
For a reason to uncoil, to lash out with words and pounce.

But I am now as the pen halting before the purest of paper
White and supple, in askance for the lightest touch
A slash of the tip, drawing lines in ink
Lines like a hunter’s bowstring, taut with intent,

As the pen lies frozen above its prey, the falcon petrified aloft still winds
I am the need coiled tight like a wound jack in the box
But alas, there is no victim to frighten,
No pray to pounce upon, no sword or bared neck to slash against
And I am here, with pen frozen, ink ready to be drawn taut
And I have nothing to draw in the ink, no prey or purpose to evoke
I am coiled tight with energy, but it is release that so eludes me,
I am coiled tight with purpose, but it is direction that so denies me.

And here I am, pouncing at ground before me, 
Slicing away at the air around me
Scratching away with a dry pen, on paper still white in askance
I write about…
I write about the coil within, and the lack without
And alone I wonder,
Is it enough, is it enough to go on, a wound up box
Waiting for the slightest touch, the weakest parry, to live.

Details | Samir Georges Poem

Whispers In Silence

What keeps me awake
When the cool breeze bears whispers of things to come
Promises to be fulfilled on the morrow?

Is it my joyless moment of cognizance
knowing that this stagnant night ripples from no real breeze
Only imagined promises birthed on the whims of a longing heart?

Yet, what keeps me awake
is not these dreams of flattering winds
but it is this night of lifeless branches and unrifled leaves
the lack of real whispering winds taunting my heart
What truly keeps me awake
Is the silence of tomorrow.

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But I Smell You, Somewhere Out There

There is a rustling of leaves- 
Somewhere out there
But I cannot hear it

Brown and yellow leaves, soft and sodden with dew
and Decay
and they smell Rich, a blend of honeyed 
Life 
and fragrant 
Death

And these leaves they do rustle- 
Somewhere
but I am def to it

And the breeze comes to me
Bearing the promise of the sound, 
I take in this Rich scent, and through my expanding lungs
It settles under my skin, this Rich scent of honey and fragrance
It swirls over my heart, with millions of little scented claws
It grabs onto every inch of flesh in my body
and little claws drive me in search of the source

For the rustling leaves-
Somewhere

I roam this plain
lost
and I am def to Life
blind to Death
But I can still smell, the rustling of the leaves
Somewhere

I know you are out there
A mound of sodden leaves, brown and rich
waiting for me to throw my arms into you
And bury my face in your warmth
your Richness
Breathe in this scent of Life, till it flows in my veins

I know you are out there
waiting for me to stumble on to you
Trip over you
Fall into you
Soft, and wet and rotten
And be buried by the scent of Death

There is a Rustling of leaves
And I wander
def, blind

But I smell you
Somewhere out there

Details | Samir Georges Poem

Losing Pieces

Oh, how I miss the dead…

... the softness in their voices
That I cannot recreate,
the warmth of their silence
Where now only cold remains;

And I know, oh how I know
That they are long gone
And I have been long removed
From those fuller times
But still, when I feel around my heart
I find that it is missing things
Parts long lost and dearly missed,
And I sit here feeling fatally incomplete
And I know-  that I can never be whole again.

But I still miss the dead,
And I miss the times
When I never knew
That I would live on
Missing the days when I was whole…

-So I still miss the dead
And the times when I was not hollowed by loss
Living every day with a lighter heart
So far from the times
 	when I would never be whole again.

And now, so far removed
from fuller times,
These few missing holes
they let in a chill wind
And somehow, these missing holes
they leave my heart heavy
And I know that it will grow heavier yet,
But I dread
That when I am lost
I die not just incomplete
But empty-
	Empty of all I could yet lose.

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The Devil Walks

The devil walks 
gets tired
and sits,
and while the devil sits
the devil picks up a tired fruit
rotting, and with jagged nails he peals
slowly, the tender fruit bruising
and he tastes it, smacking his dried lips
and the devil eats
decayed fruit and sour wine	                 nothing lush and sating
then the devil rests
and resumes his walk,
and later the devil sits again
rubs his feat
and goes to bed
and in the morning
he breaks his fast on curses and lies           nothing so filling as figs and nuts
and begin the devil’s walk again,

his walk
on the road our thoughts paved
where all that grows is bad and unwell
to the cross our words built
where flames dance and all is unwell
and he is condemned
upon christening
upon the hearing of his name
and the wobbling of his first steps
to walk a road less traveled,
to be the leader
of our very own crusade
armed with words
against himself
to see him burn,

our crusade of one
and many
on roads first paved upon his birth
to bring the devil down.

The devil walks
The devil eats
and pelted by our stones
He does but sleep
For what we sow
The devil reaps

and there is justice in punishment
there is reward in reckoning
there is bitterness in my mouth
as I say these words
and pity
              the devil
his due.

Details | Samir Georges Poem

The Final Tune, of the Tick Tock Clock

If I had just one day to live
24 hours to feel complete
Would I race across the castle of my dreams
Hunted by the echo of the tick tock clock
Dreading the moment that fateful tune came to a halt
Chasing down runaway thoughts
Frantically piecing together broken promises
All while fearing the silence, the end of the tick, tock;


Rather
I would gaze up at the steps of this sky high castle
This floating montage of my life
And lounge upon the first step,
Resigned to enjoy these fated moments
Without fear or regret,
Resigned to enjoy this melody with those I love
This farewell tune played to me by the tick tock clock.