The least of me is always on the outside.
My dull side always faces to the sun.
The finest thoughts are hidden in the shadow,
the tenderest moments somehow never sung.
Try as I may to face and force the issue
and show the world the contours of my mind,
the subtleties are faded in translation.
The meanings are misplaced by word and rhyme.
Maybe in our unheard conversations
we’ve found the answer we sought all along.
The price to pay for being fully human
is that we’ll never write the perfect song.
I guess it shows.
© George Phillips, 1973
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| Famous American Songs by Gustav Koppé in Cornell University Library from Wikimedia Commons |
5 comments:
This is exactly how it is to write anything or to draw or paint. But we gotta keep on writing and all of the other creative stuff because we just have to :) :)
He was a really good writer, it seems! A very sad loss indeed.
George didn’t have a strong voice when I got to know him. However, his poems were strong,honest, humorous, and persuasive. He was an exceptional human being and a real poet.
George’s poems as I remember them sparkled with humor and precise observations.
I heard George’s voice when I read this. ❤️ I’m glad I had the chance to learn it.
shelly said:
Excellent poetry! I really enjoyed it. It touched me!
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