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 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
Creation
Long after the rules of magic,
a lush smoke of pipe tobacco
rises from the dried leaves,
prayers cast in the black and oily birth light.
Silence
silence is the power
of rivers to tell a new
story over and over
again until it is ancient,
soft, and revolutionary.
Wild Turkey
My father was one who best understood
the shy verse of sawdust and steel.
When he did share, after aged bourbon
by the charred pepper glow of campfire,
his words would bring dryness to the dark,
More than he knew, I saw how his words had shapes,
how they circled the the field meadows,
as turkey vultures do after a long, pleasing hunt.
Lake Flower
here morning opens
as a lotus petal
all at once
in all directions
under the kind pressure
of twilight
a translucent
blue topaz feeling
disappearing into
an ancient softness
Stormy Night
There is a loneliness to hail drops
on a tin-roofed cabin.
The woods and flowers and secrets of
mountains are lonely.
So are the trails, ponds, and bridges;
the vanished sources looking for a beginning.
Dripping drops a million years in the making.
Falling asleep in the wounded soil of dreams.
Altostratus
Pressure is in our breath.
Winds in the north veer to the right,
while those to the south veer to the left,
as the light emitted from the sun, turns our
windmills and guides our sailboats.
Just as an airplane stays aloft due to
differing air densities on each side of its wings,
and the ocean of air moves like oceans do.
Evaporating clouds. Air bubbles in the sea.
And didn’t you know that sunsets are merely
filtered rays of red passing through the atmosphere?
A Mountain Prayer
I kneel so that I may remember this
without words, this mountain without
a wasted breath speaks and I want to
remember the way I felt listened to.
So I close my eyes and breathe in the aroma
I smell peeled apple and peppermint, moss
and dried roses, orange blossom water in my throat
and I taste the words of the mountain, a few drops
that make me swirl in wild silence
the mountain is calm, always
in the way it notices the offerings of mortals
it stands untouched, in my arms
as a hay field holds the Sun’s amber light.
The Way Archimedes Proved Ideas
If all the pencils and pens
in the world disappeared,
I would write your name
in the ashes on the hearth.
If all the paper burned
into smoke and computers
went suddenly dark,
I would scribble it,
in the bath, in the suds
of my oily skin.
If the damp sands washed
away with the tide,
leaving the beach alone,
I would go to the floor of
my basement and draw it
in the dust.
Never Judge
a bourbon
by the memories
of childhood
judge it by the way
it makes you remember
being a child
never wasting
any chance