Sample Poems by Faye George
The While We Live
The while we live, the little while,
days that wander west
with the vast indifference of gods
to the patterns we make
in the spinning blizzard of stars.
Ridiculous, the stumbling throng of us,
whose peculiar grace is
this conceit of love, whim of a brain
hankering after a bigger piece of being,
a mote troubling the mind of notime
which blew it forth.
What is it about this earth,
that pulls down angels
and gives birth to hope
the while we live, the little while?
There where it lay
as the days flowed over it,
sunk in the life of a stone again.
A stone, professing its purpose
to none but the ignorant soil
and the merciful grass, yet
forever changed, whatever its use,
by the thumbed creature
who found and fondled
the dark gray basalt, worked
and turned it to a suitable shape.
When the hand had learned
that the brain understood
the dialect of finger and thumb,
then work might begin
on the dull stone
where the eye saw
what the body would need
to begin the long climb.
From my day of inventorying the field work
of the hunters and gatherers of stone tools
from a lost time that left no name of its own --
saying that Dalton, Kirk, Brewerton and like
tell only what the tongues of our own time
happen upon -- it was in passing
between the descendants of trees
that gave branch and limb to the hafting
of those wrought stones, the flaked and notched
flint, chert, quartz that accomplished
the ancient stalkers' work, that I saw
the wild figure of the fox like a hunted thing,
fur-fletched tail straight as an arrow,
dash from cover to green cover across the road
where I passed in the leaf light of late afternoon
through which the stream ran.