– George L Stein

It’s in the spontaneity of the wind
when the tree, reluctant, bares it’s soul
branches dance and leaves spin
especially under extorts of fall

There are no physics to this gift
no predictive elements to seize
the black frame glasses come tumbling off
madam librarian awkwardly falls away

Oh, how the wind heaves and blows
against her claws and protestations
and animates what was so carefully tucked away
on all those endless, quiet library days

A falcon hovers at the edge of the field
unspoken fear, comes the day when
the poet has no more poems to say, the musician
has no more songs to play, regardless of the vagaries of the wind

The tree breaks it silence, betrays it’s oath
leaves, branches dance and damn the cold
there were so many things we meant to say
before we took the time to play

But we grew old
and bare

An iPhone Photo Journal documenting A Year in the Life of That Tree

photo credit – Mark Hirsch

















Like seen on tv

Like seen on tv
   – George l stein
‘                                                                                                   ‘
Her foot lifts slowly and steadily from the curb
and glides effortlessly forward towards the street
an arc is established and plotted, stars come into
and leave existence. her red curls spring, shimmer and dance
‘                                                                                                              ‘
everything transpires in frozen time, as if a memory
only as this cold, oppositional, january day will allow
brown suede, black leather, it doesn’t matter
it’s just a subjective preference in the heart of the teller
‘                                                                                                            ‘
cars in motion, cars at rest, drivers
abide the lights and watch the girl
daughter of darwin, a ghost of happenstance
float like a tryst of poetics, jazz, and cruel existentialism
‘                                                                                                                       ‘
the Click-click-Click, those sharpened metal-tipped heels
on cold, innocent concrete, assassins are kinder
the aesthetics of perfection, the space between
adam strives but fails to touch his god
‘                                                                                                                        ‘
the light turns green.  nothing moves. the gun
in the third act, yet to be brandished and fired
the temporal nature, so conditioned to watch
as life turns, pauses, and smiles, then turns and walks briskly away
‘                                                        ‘
‘                                                                                                                       ‘
‘                                                                                                                       ‘