The Harm
What would have been the
harm chasing the sun
like two mountain goats,
untamed, remaining wild
forever, never hiding in
the shade or asking for the
devil's pardon or
pulling faces or giving in? what
would have been the
harm, rude sinners in a hypocrite
land, rebellious as
sunlight where darkness reigns,
reckless as two radishes
rolling on a rich man's plate?
no more garnish for a
rich man's table, what the harm,
what the harm? what
would have been the harm, arm
in arm, thumbing noses
at men in limousines, big fat rich
men, powerful, afraid,
what could have been the harm,
with stubborn dirt on
our cheeks and great uncomplicated
joy for each other? what
would have been the harm, what
the harm? dangerous,
rebellious, unfraid? two red radishes
on a hypocrite plate? I
could have been your irksome lover,
you could have been my
conspiratorial mate we could have been
impossible together,
what could possibly have been the harm,
what the harm?
dangerous, rebellious, free and unfraid? no more
radishes on a hypocrite
plate? wild forever, never hiding in shade
or asking for the
devil's permission or pardon, arm in arm, what the
harm? impossible
together, impossible together, I could have been
your irksome lover, you
could have been my conspiratorial mate,
we could have been
impossible together, what would have been
the harm, what the harm?
A Ripple a Torrent a Tide
It will happen before
you know it, a scripture,
a bell, a simple
declaration sealed by hand,
and preordained; a
ripple a torrent a tide,
inescapable, a script of
honeybees strung
with sunlight; absorbed
in a fragrance all
its own; lure of desert
oasis, lure of Isfahan;
blush of roses, songbird
returned to a garden
after all the young men
have gone to war;
it will happen, and you
will know it, in the
clank and clatter of
anchor chains, in the
mizzen raised and in
play, in the operatic
indecipherables, in the
libretto freely
abandoned before
courtiers and kings;
in tumult of hands,
tumult of hands, in torch
re-lit, in the pit of a
heart, in the restlessness
of hounds that cannot be
held at bay; and I will
take you there, and you
will hold it to your breast
drinking, from a
mountain stream you will coax it
back to life with shy
caresses; the mule is in his last
hour; the lion has quit
his cage; water in the jug,
scripture, bell, simple
declaration before an altar and
sealed by hand; the
defeat of envy, the resurrection
of innocence; new birth
in an old alpine meadow;
love, love, new love,
oblivious of consequences,
convoluted and free;
love, the conqueror, rescuer
to the heart, bearer of
all burdens, and crucible
to the same; I will take
you there, I will take you
there, by ripple by
torrent by tide, by shrug; by
script of honeybees
new-strung with sunlight;
absorbed in a fragrance
all its own
When They Said You Were
Beautiful
When they said you were
beautiful
they meant cool as jade,
fragrant as
stain of meteor across
black heaven,
surprised as a moon that
sees its own
reflection when they
said you were
beautiful they meant
blue as nightfall
where true dark begins,
unwavering as
Krishna-song on a yellow
leaf, transparent
as nectar between orchid
petals they meant
Galileo, Galileo, great
lost creature breaching
the surface of green
green oceans, astral music,
lute and lady, braided
pink, white magnolia loose
among the evergreens,
volatile, measureless,
unmentionable, nearest
to the sun, when they
said you were beautiful
they meant celestial bodies,
axis of instinct,
unexplained gaps in the table of
elements; when they said
you were beautiful
they meant you are the
future they meant land
sharks in Neptune sand
they meant silver coins
on the broiling face of
Mercury they meant fresh
straw for the nuzzling
moon ponies of Jupiter
they meant bind the
present, stem the past,
they meant wanderer on
planet you; I am a
ranch hand on your belt
of asteroids, I am
a wanderer on planet
you, cool as jade,
fragrant as stain of
meteor shower, blue
as nightshade where dark
begins, I am a
wanderer on planet you
planet you, planet
you, I am a wanderer on
planet you
Author’s Bionote:
* George Wallace is writer in
residence at the Walt Whitman Birthplace, author of 46 chapbooks of poetry, and
winner of the 2025 PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award. A New York City native of
Greek-American descent, he travels internationally to share his work, including
frequent appearances in Greece and Italy, and has won top honors in festival
gatherings in the US, Europe, South America, Asia and North Africa. In 2024 he
was awarded an honorary doctorate from the Royal Academy of Spain (CIESART). He
is Editor of the poetry magazines “Poetry Bay” and “Long Island Quarterly”.