George Lewis Walker 

Belton, South Carolina, USA 

Writing poetry since his early teens, George says, "Writing poetry helps me to be creative—to do with my pen what a painter does with his brush." He is a retired psychologist who worked with children and adolescents with perceptual, emotional, and other learning challenges. His hobbies include hunting, fishing, and gardening. He is also an avid football fan. George is of the Presbyterian faith. He is an active member of several civic and professional organizations. The National Poetry Association and The National Library of Poetry have published his poetry. He also has a copyright on a book of unpublished poetry.

click here to listen to My Father's Flash of Light
click here to listen to Mother
click here to listen to Echoes
click here to listen to Nostalgia
click here to listen to To Miranda

My Father's Flash Of Light

My father's flash of light 
Was visible and bright, 
But he closed his eyes 
For brighter skies—
Without a starless night. 
Before his flash of light 
Went out to star the night, 
With open eyes 
He saw the skies—
The heavens clear and bright.

Mother

I wonder what this world would be 
To me without my mother, 
Her tender heart's sincerity 
And all that makes me love her. 
O'er this wide world, if I should roam, 
I'd never find another, 
At any place or any home 
To take the place of mother.

Echoes

My father's hammer, when it strikes, 
Wakes up the hills and plains; 
A thousand times the hills cry out 
As if they feel the pains. 

Every time that hammer strikes, 
The hills wake up and cry; 
And valleys deep, O how they weep 
Until the echoes die.

Nostalgia

The time has come 
And I'm on my way, 
To see where I first 
Saw the light of day; 
And sit in the shade 
Of the old oak tree, 
Or cherish the spot 
Where it used to be. 

It's a long way, 
But I'm going back, 
To where I was born 
In a country shack; 
And if the old shanty 
Has fallen apart, 
God help me to live 
With a broken heart.

To Miranda

In the garden of life 
Wherever you go, 
Take out the weeds 
And let the flowers grow; 
And know that love 
Like a beautiful flower, 
Must bear sweet fruit 
Which might turn sour.