History, Natural History & the Arts
George Cassidy Payne is an independent writer, domestic violence counselor, and adjunct instructor in the humanities at Finger Lakes Community College.
George's blogs, essays, letters, poems, and photographs have been published in a wide variety of national and international outlets such as USA Today, The Atlantic, The Wall Street Journal, National Public Radio, The Buffalo News, Albany Times-Union, Syracuse Post Standard, Rochester Democrat & Chronicle, The Toronto Star, The Minority Reporter, Chronogram Journal, Ovi Magazine, CounterPunch, Moria Poetry Journal, Ampersand Literary Review, Adirondack Daily Enterprise, and more.
George's first book of poetry, A Time Before Teachers, is available at Amazon.com.
The Bobcat
Without pride, senses controlled,
born or to be born, we met as hilarious strangers,
each wanting something impossible.
I wanted all beings like you to be happy.
You wanted no being to deceive another.
For a brief moment, we were sincere.
Both of us, protected against the spirits of the dead,
on a darkened street, on the outskirts of the city,
waiting to cross over
Leaving the Tunnel
Nothing we see is color
Cezanne said that
but no one believed him
All we really see is light
The mineral-laden earth
with its zillions of herbal
veins and carnivorous flowers
mere pinpoints of light
reverberations of molecular light
adorned with ornaments
of human bones
What You Cannot Help Naming
Hiking with children, in a nature park at noon,
the world is sparkling and synth-laden.
Without trying, the sacred ibis of thought is upon them,
as their fingerprints singe burn marks of poetry in the bark of trees.
To them, pine needles are hairbrushes for unicorns.
The Chickadees
do not land in my palm because they trust me.
I am a phantom they barely notice. They sense my body heat,
the blood coaxed through my thin veins like tree sap, and they hear
my vibrations, the way Beethoven coped with going deaf, stopping
long enough to bathe their tawny-colored tongues with seed, crushed
seashells of safflower and thistle, feeding the groaning earth.
The Beggar
Fresh as the sour dampness of sawed-off grass cutting,
or pigtailed linen pulled from the dryer, I receive this moment,
this warm awareness, nearby a child sticks painted toes
in the sand, as charred wood burns slow and cool over beach fire.
The Mouth of a Tiger Lily
Once drenched
by ferocious rains,
steeping in sealable,
blood orange petals
with dimples of pepper
corn spots on the skin,
in a milk pale vase, in
a country kitchen in the fall
drawn from the soil forever,
forced by the tamed winds
to grow prostrate, there is
a morbid hiddenness lurking inside
A New Moon Intention
The way soft white wheat burns
to death in the sun, or
how dried cherry skins unfurl
when sucked by the cool
mint of spring rain, I wish for you
to bloom and let go, a faint whiff
of sea air flapping on the clothesline
Distillation
Having grown bored
with wisdom, resting
by an old fence of fist
sized rocks, chalk white
as baby powder,
a young man leans back
and closes his eyes,
recognizing the subtle
earthiness of not knowing
how a few drops of water
can spin sugar nests from grain.
Collectibles
at least he remembered
the salt-sprayed breeze
on their patio in Red Bank
the patio with the pistachio green
umbrella, talking about the sailboats
and sipping raspberry-peach iced tea
wondering out loud…how a sunset
could look so much like candle wax
melting on the floor of an old attic
a few drops of citrus oil was all it took
The Sturgeon
The mechanics of suffering
is not so daunting to understand
it hurts for a while-
gums and bellies pierced by
an unseen passion… and then it is done
the savory-sweet, cherry cough syrup scent
of death dries and disappears, leaving
only impressions in the ample depth of sand