Poetry: Selections from John Grey

Her Writers Block

She awakens to

streaming pink light

through window

onto flannel sheets.

The day's a newborn

but she is eager to begin.

A pot of Chinese tea

and her favorite stained cup,

dictionary and thesaurus,

bookend a blank sheet of paper.

A classical music station plays

in the background.

She picks up a pen,

strikes a writer’s pose

until night falls.

The One at the Wheel

I'm at my worst

when driving.

Assholes cut me off.

I mutter.

Bastards squeeze me

at a merge.

I curse.

Zombies drive too slow,

nitwits too fast.

My language rises

to my anger's cause

and then some.

Hands on the wheel

and I hate all of humankind.

The roadway is my anti-Semitism,

my racism, my ageism,

all the isms bar the one

where I'm the only one

who can drive.

Then I'm distracted

with the radio tuner,

run a red light.

I choose

hypocritical silence

over self-abuse.

Dog Days

Blue the bloodhound

was my constant companion.

Not Jane.

She just dropped in

with her own canine sidekick,

a Norwich terrier assault weapon

named Maxine.

 

Seated with Jane and I

on the porch,

Blue was as sedate

as a cud-chewing cow

but Maxine was perpetual

aggravating motion.

My ankles were not safe.

My hands came across

as terrier finger food.

But most vulnerable of all

were Blue’s dangling ears.

Maxine nipped at them

with a fury

that not even Blue’s

innate bonhomie could withstand.

 

He emitted a growl

so low, so earth-quake like,

the porch rumbled,

our chairs shook,

and even little Maxine

was stopped in her  

infuriating tracks.

 

Jane spoke to each dog in turn,

in high-pitched baby talk,

then grabbed brown fluffy Maxine

by the midriff,

took her inside the house,

left her in my kitchen

with water and bowl

and at least a thousand

different wails and arfs of protest.

 

I ignored the sound from within,

as Blue and I

bathed in the gathering gold

of sunset,

while Jane’s attention

was half with me,

half with her infuriated pet.

 

There were times

when I was as much Blue

as Blue was.

Staring at the beauty around us,

we were both quite capable

of a long and serene howl.

 

And Jane and Maxine

were also a perfect match.

Their considerations wavered.

Viciously or just imprudently,

they snapped at whatever

was within mouth-range.

 

I was content within myself.

For my benefit,

she shed her worst inclinations

but couldn’t stand the separation.

So our relationship went nowhere.

Not even to see the vet.

The Dictator Ponders

I wondered how the smarter people

would react to the new conformity,

the refashioning of all

into one great orthodoxy.

Over time, they stopped reasoning.

Questioning, of course,  

was out of the question.

Much of the time,

they walked about like zombies,

just like the others.

They joined in the activities.

They wore the uniforms.

They carried around the membership cards.

I began to worry that their tendency

to fall in like sheep

would rub off on me.

It took such an effort to hold back.

Their constant saluting helped.

John Grey is an Australian poet, now a US resident, who has recently been published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. His latest books include: Leaves On Pages, Memory Outside the Head, and Guest of Myself.