Poetry: Selections From John Grey
ANITA SAYS
I never
fell for pickup lines.
Never woke
beside a stranger,
never
mistook a face for fame.
No child
left behind, no sobbing at the door.
No razor,
no bathtub, no sirens in the night.
No
caseworker’s file,
no talk
show confessions.
I spoke
plainly.
I lived
even plainer.
No bruises
to hide,
no blood
spilled
on a
waster’s account.
Pain never
asked me to speak,
and I
never offered.
Kisses
came and went –
some left
lint, some spit. None stayed.
My mouth
is a locked room.
Tongues
knock at their own risk.
I don’t
confess. Priests pass me by.
I light
another cigarette,
watch the
warmth approach like a train in fog.
But I do
wear a dress well.
That’s all you’ll get.
CIGARETTE SMOKER FOR GOD
Epistles,
apostles,
and those
many many cartons of filter-tips.
all have
offered you something worthwhile
throughout
the years,
despite
the complaining of your chest each night,
your
symptoms creeping in and out of dreams
while
emphasizing that
at least
your soul's in good shape
no matter
how much you suffer
for the
wide gap
between
body function and the spiritual.
God
prefers thoughts
to the
vagaries of your respiratory system,
so they
tell you,
prepares
his grace
even for
lifetime cigarette smokers -
perhaps
it's the paucity of the perfect
that has
Him smile on you,
you
sometimes think -
though you
wish He'd work a miracle
on the
pain from time to time,
straighten
out your crooked fingers,
zip up
those internal wounds,
wipe the
stain from your chin,
maybe even
clean up around the sparkplugs,
whatever
it was that got you going
before
nicotine took over.
There's
always death of course
and you're
aware
how that
curtain is slowly being drawn
despite
the homilies of your only son -
“a tough
old bird like you will live forever" -
of course,
he never was much
for the
spiritual side of things,
alcohol
has always been his heaven,
prayer is
not for him,
nor the
mystic, nor the prophetic,
nor the
hope that black death
will glow
with an appropriate amount of light -
like a
cigarette in the hand of the creator -
no, probably not that.
THE CITY WIND
There are
times that the wind comes
barreling
down the avenue
like it’s
late for an appointment.
Whatever’s
not nailed down – the trash mostly –
goes along
for the ride.
It’s all
very dramatic especially when
an awning
almost breaks its moorings
or an
advertising sign crosses the street
against
the light.
I’ve been
out in it.
It can
feel as if I’m about to be
lifted off
my feet and swept uptown.
But then
the whole thing stops.
The wind
must figure that it’s arrived.
Trash
collapses onto the sidewalk.
It makes
me think of tired dancers after rehearsal.
And I can
finally stand up straight again,
which is
more than I can say for the drunks on Seventh.
I even
manage to walk
in the
exact direction that wild wind came from.
“Nice
try,” I tell the air.
“You really thought you had me this time.”
ART
In a
lightly patrolled gallery,
some
suffering guy delivers for me.
An outcast
briefly comes in
from the
bitter winter,
shows his
mottled face.
There’s no
greatness exactly
but lots
of conception,
many eyes
and hands in combination,
dimensions
deep and shallow,
a
pilgrimage here, some misfortune there,
and so
much that exists
because it
couldn’t be helped.
Such a
variety.
One man is
digging his grave.
Another is
up to his brow in flowers.
A third is
looking to the past
for what
he can’t envisage in the future.
I don’t
like everything.
But then
I’m not a fan of every one
of my ten
fingers.
Some
paintings defend themselves.
Others
throw their hands up in defeat.
A few
aspire to beauty.
A couple
to aspiration.
Even
ugliness has its acolytes.
Most of it
is unapologetic,
just the
way I like it.
Most of it
comes down to shapes and colors.
Shapes
that speak up.
Colors that know no better.
SPEED TO BURN
I’m doing
seventy miles an hour,
but the
road says fifty.
Flat.
Straight.
Time is
concerned
but, so
far, does nothing about it.
The world
blurs out. No trees, no towns.
Just
speed’s erotic hum.
There’s a
semi driver right behind me.
Most
likely, he can feel it too.
“Slow
down,” my wife says.
But
slowing down is a kind of death.
We’d be
driving into yesterday.
The
horizon would be behind us.
We’d
arrive where we started.
The truck
passes - a thunderclap in chrome.
My hands
shake then tighten.
The wheel
does the same.
Time,
displeased, shakes its fist
and
disappears into the rearview.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US
resident, and has recently been published in Midnight Mind, Willow Review and
the Pennsylvania Literary Journal. His latest books are,
“Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” and are available
through Amazon. He also has work upcoming in the MacGuffin, Touchstone
and Caesura.