Two Poems by John Grey
Jake's Snow Advisory
At last,
the snow has stopped -
day's heaving ho
and everything's as grey
and dingy as an opium den
with the white powder to prove it.
No more street.
No more sidewalk.
No more yard.
Jake surveys the landscape.
Everything is someone else's problem.
The world's like him now.
It can't walk so well.
And it breathes the same way he does -
in short gasps of wind.
It's a true democracy
where everyone and everything
is brought to that same level
of being totally useless.
But it will thaw out eventually.
Normality will return.
It's Spring then,
everywhere but in his step.
At last,
the snow has stopped -
day's heaving ho
and everything's as grey
and dingy as an opium den
with the white powder to prove it.
No more street.
No more sidewalk.
No more yard.
Jake surveys the landscape.
Everything is someone else's problem.
The world's like him now.
It can't walk so well.
And it breathes the same way he does -
in short gasps of wind.
It's a true democracy
where everyone and everything
is brought to that same level
of being totally useless.
But it will thaw out eventually.
Normality will return.
It's Spring then,
everywhere but in his step.
The Undead
Grandpa said when he was a kid,
he saw "Dracula", the original
with Bela Legosi, at the Roxy,
with its ornate decor and high ceiling.
He reckoned there were more
bats flying around in the eaves
than there were on the screen.
Dad saw the Hammer "Dracula",
told me he preferred his blood
in color than musty old black and white.
An aunt who was there recalls
the juiciest neck-biting was
his teeth on some local girl.
I've seen more Draculas
than there are hangers in my closet,
from emaciated Max Schreck
to something called "Dracula III: Legacy'
the popcorn was scarier.
I've watched the Todd Browning
in my own living room -
"I don't drink...wine" -
and shared Christopher Lee's nosferatu
with friends both male and female.
And I've seen romantic Counts
and caped figures of unmitigated evil.
You can trace our family tree
through marriages, babies,
addresses, even nationalities,
but there's another path
that leads from Transylvania castles
to basement coffins
to garlic strewn bedrooms
of buxom English virgins,
and leaves a trail of blood
on lips and fangs and throat.
For my grandfather, father,
with none still living,
undead's the next best thing.
Grandpa said when he was a kid,
he saw "Dracula", the original
with Bela Legosi, at the Roxy,
with its ornate decor and high ceiling.
He reckoned there were more
bats flying around in the eaves
than there were on the screen.
Dad saw the Hammer "Dracula",
told me he preferred his blood
in color than musty old black and white.
An aunt who was there recalls
the juiciest neck-biting was
his teeth on some local girl.
I've seen more Draculas
than there are hangers in my closet,
from emaciated Max Schreck
to something called "Dracula III: Legacy'
the popcorn was scarier.
I've watched the Todd Browning
in my own living room -
"I don't drink...wine" -
and shared Christopher Lee's nosferatu
with friends both male and female.
And I've seen romantic Counts
and caped figures of unmitigated evil.
You can trace our family tree
through marriages, babies,
addresses, even nationalities,
but there's another path
that leads from Transylvania castles
to basement coffins
to garlic strewn bedrooms
of buxom English virgins,
and leaves a trail of blood
on lips and fangs and throat.
For my grandfather, father,
with none still living,
undead's the next best thing.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Nebo, Euphony and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.