Poetry: Selections from John Grey

SAM

 

He tweaks his looks but modestly.

Has to be content that the chin

bears no blood stains and the bags

under the eyes don’t have extra pockets.

 

Sometimes, the mirror being what it is,

he works at his appearance obliquely,

by taking in a stray dog, 

smiling at his unfriendly neighbors.

 

Or he ignores the snarls,

the doom of the inevitable knockback

from the single women in the office.

 

But there’s the question of his own dullness

He’s unable to surprise himself.

He tries telling lies.

Even the ones he believes, nobody else does.

 

He works hard enough.

His boss’s reviews run the gamut 

of “meets expectations” to “meets expectations.”

 

His conversation can cause a smirk breakout.

His loneliness gets close to other people,

like a dark alley in an otherwise well-lit

busy city block. 

 

On weekends, where others find gaiety,

he confines himself to the latest modest quest.

He takes his dog for a walk.

It breaks loose when it spies its real master.

ON A DATE

 

I close my eyes

in an attempt 

to transcend sight. 

 

How do I really see her?

 

It is a test – nothing more –

a means to supraliminal awareness,

 

away from superficial

toward true vision,

eschewing flesh

to get at the idea -

 

all of which has got me thinking

what is she thinking about me?

 

Has her insight 

got beyond my appearance?

Is she, even now,

despising what she sees?

 

Best to stick to the physical

if we want to be lovers.

 

But, it is true,

even here,

in the hugging, 

the kissing, 

the tenderness, 

 

we are abstractions –

disassociated from all instances,

insufficiently factual,

dependent on intrinsic form

rather than narrative content…

and with sex to follow.

DEER HEAD TROPHY

How alive it looks. You can't convince Hank
those round black eyes aren't seeing,
the ears aren't peaked for the merest sound
of an intruder, the mouth's not about
to open wide and warn the unseen herd.
There's no guts on show, no blood,
no fats, no organs, no entrails. This is
a deer as it would want to be remembered:
proud head, bright fawn coat, silk-black nose,
and a gaze beyond the horrors of rifle fire,
bullet hole, and a quick clean knife thrust
to the throat...a gaze straight from eternity's
heavenly hunting seasons. And how alive?
More alive than the guy slumped into his
thick-back study chair, cradling his tenth beer.
Or his buddy with the bowling ball gut
slobbering over the brand new gun rack.
And more alive even than Hank who's
staring blankly at the trophy on the wail.
He could have swore it blinked. The deer
could have swore Hank didn't.

HER LIST

 

She moves from lover to lover

 

the exes stay in her memory

but it’s the latest 

who shares her bed

 

there’s the one steady as a walnut tree

another full of shadows

a third     such a child,

​it was as if she gave birth to him

then there was lightning

and the constellation

the gift from California

the hand-me-down from others

the threat who masqueraded as a dream

mister illusion of solitude

that motionless pool of water 

he of scaly limbs and cherry eyes

that wild rose always opening and closing

the grand scheme 

the constantly in orbit

 

her new man

rides like a broken bicycle

 

a rocky ride

but he gets her 

where she needs to be

LIFE

 

so unpredictable

it’s predictable

 

so bizarre

it’s the new norm

 

so catastrophic

its benign

 

so incomprehensible

it sure makes sense to me

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, and has recently been published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. His latest book, Leaves On Pages is now available on Amazon.