George C. Page

Torrance, CA, USA

George C. Page, born in Ryan, Oklahoma, is a veteran of World War II. After over nine years in the service for his country, he married and finished college in California. Being in the North African and South Pacific Campaign, and a degree in Fine Arts have made him very sensitive to life and the surrounding Universe. George Page invites us by reading his book of poetry to know him better and to share his passion for the voyage into poetry and philosophy. His email address is GPage1426@aol.com

click here to listen to What Poetry Means To Me
click here to listen to Our Motor Home
click here to listen to The Humble Poet

What Poetry Means To Me

When sad, weary and all alone, 
I make David's poetic Psalms my song. 
The poetic songs of Solomon seem; 
A solution to life of which I dream. 

Poetry; the version by Fitzgerald is set, 
In quatrains so magically by Omar's Rubaiyat. 
Shakespeare sonnets are a blessing to be, 
For lovers of poetry, just like me. 

Poe's Raven is a story that tells: 
A dream-like hallucination so well. 
A verse by Longfellow at land or sea, 
Is what beautifully poetry means to me. 

Stand aside and let time retire; 
Gillelan's verses of words inspire. 
A farewell of Kingsley's sweet song, 
Is poetry harmony, enduring so long. 

This stanza for poems, by poets unknown; 
They leave to the world a legacy of song; 
Of words of love, hope and char-i-ty, 
And that's what poetry means to me. 

At the poet's stage-door, I quietly rest, 
To catch the last act and final request. 
With a humble heart, I'll wait and see, 
What the future of poetry holds for me.

Our Motor Home

Down the road we travel 
My wife and I alone: 
Over mountains and deserts, 
In a rig, we call home. 

Drifting across the great white plains 
Where the windmills stand tall: 
There the cattle are moving, 
To where the cowboy calls. 

Through the red wood forest 
As we slowly drive along, 
We can hear the birds singing, 
An enchanting melodious song. 

When we camp by the ocean: 
Sunlight beams on the tide, 
In the distance, whales and dolphins 
Are swimming side by side. 

There's motels and hotels 
From coast to coast, 
But being in our motor home 
Is what we love most.

The Humble Poet

Poets are people who are good: 
No matter the thoughts their verses may bring; 
To some it's the feeling and lofty pleasure 
That make them wiser from the words they sing. 

Poets wonder what mystery clouds the universe; 
What words of truth might breach the veil; 
Which God's prophets have hidden in symbols, 
That no intellect or mystic can tell. 

Poets question the sense of many dogma's; 
Although immortality may pierce his mind, 
Illusions of the fickle impressions 
Are fancy delusions he leaves behind. 

Poets suffer and strive for things unknown, 
Every word in verse is a word that cries: 
Bringing a curious awe to the imagination, 
If the soul of man ever lives or dies. 

Poets feed on the creation of beauty, 
Steering his course through the vale of tears; 
Dancing to the music of his journey 
With melodies that sparkle amidst the years.