Five Poems by John Grey
WELCOME TO THE NEWS, PAGE SEVEN
no surprise that a body was found - it's a neighborhood where killings are the norm the cops can't figure whether the kid was an innocent bystander (if such things even exist any more) or a gang member who deserved what he got the blood from his chest stained the sidewalk, joined all the other stains - pigeons found him first but it was the guys in the trash pickup truck who reported it a woman appeared at the edge of the yellow tape claiming to be the mother (no father put his hand up) and everything but her tears were pushed back by the law she had always hoped he'd die of old age in a nursing home or in uniform like her grandfather - this was what she both dreaded and expected an ambulance came and took the body away - it was the only noise that morning that started out loud and then grew softer and softer - except for the mother's - but she just smothered the sounds within - no distance was involved |
NAILING IT
golden finger nails cutting with a knife into a deep-red tomato - one seed contains the anima, the next the animus or painted purple and slinking in and out of rose bushes, no longer man's object of desire but self-reliant, insightful as long as the thorns keep their distance or bright green as a test of virtue and wisdom then black for the shadow that coughs blood from below |
THE ATHEIST TO THE BELIEVER
I take a myth and cull its wings. I snip, snip, snip, behold the simple truth - it's all crap, nothing but a carnival with carousels for the faithful to ride and ride. Heaven is the wooden ass of the horse in front. Are you sick or simply paying attention to what I'm saying? I challenge your beliefs. You tell me that, without them, you're in a dark room. Your life is nothing but confinement. We have an end date, I add. My voice takes pleasure in squashing ants, knocking down card houses, stealing candy from babies and the lofty from the low. You wish for this tone. this atmosphere, to evaporate. Tears are an extension of your wishes. I work faith through a sieve. What drops out is what takes you in. Conviction has no weapons. only backslaps. Of course, I conclude, you could be right and I might be totally wrong. Maybe I'll attend church with you this coming Sunday. The truth is. I don't want to lose you. Believe that if you want. Just don't make it a religion. |
THE CANOERS
Between us, reflection shatters on lily blooms, in fluttered light, we are almost the same body as we row toward the gleam, the gloss on stone and ripple. Water plays out as we expect, exhaling gently like breath from the canoe’s bow. So quiet here, no traffic’s sour demeanor, just the end of summer, buzz of dragonflies, a sprinkle of breeze, you’re light brown and unwinding while I’m the human hush. This is the August life. It holds us in place. Gold across the surface. Kingfishers on the overhanging boughs. On my cheek, a leaf falls. I pretend it’s a fingertip, We’re side-tracked in eddies, released, then shunted on, each turn like a space we invent, then occupy, as landscape forever emerges, forever fades away into some place back there in the wilderness, where time lies motionless. The light’s charge is to dabble in shadows. A stray cloud becomes an image on a rock. We’re cruising slowly in harness, where pupae dream with dab of sun at heart. |
IN SIGHT OF YOU
Lids closed, body still, you are sleeping through the morning, I put in an appearance but I don’t disturb the living dead. You may be wondering why I come so close. It can’t just be that I like your poetry. You’re crazy, you’re excessive, and I can’t help paying attention. Time’s too short or too long, it’s poetic or banally natural, the sun wants me to get to work, but first you must look up at me. I don’t need my arms to embrace people. I can just stand here. My hands drop to my sides but the touch of my eyes is emphatic. |
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Harpur Palate and Columbia Review with work upcoming in the Roanoke Review, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.