Poetry: Selections from John Grey

BASKING

 

There’s a conversation I long 

to have with my father,

beyond the usual “miss you,”

about the one day 

I caught my biggest trout ever,

a giant compared to the minnows

he’d been reeling in.

 

In fact, we cast that line in unison,

farther out than I could manage on my own,

and this fish, as if an extra in our play,

grabbed onto the bait,

followed the script perfectly.

 

He bragged to all who’d listen

how his son had bagged a record breaker

though it were his hands folded over mine

that did most of the heavy work,

his muscle and sweat that pulled it to shore.

 

I want to touch those thick fingers,

admire his chin’s dark stubble,

but mostly hear his deep voice explain

why he let me take all the glory.

 

So there’s a conversation I long 

to have with my father,

about the day he caught the biggest trout ever,

why he reeled me in like one more minnow,

muttered something like, “Good job son.”

 

I was glad to bask in it then.

But now my basking days are through.

And the glory needs a new home.

MONROE

 

I could be your last fan on earth,

watching the films over and over,

talking my own lines back to you.

 

When the crowds closed in,

I was the one way who stayed way in the back.

 

But when you went into a world pitch black,

I maintained my flickering flashlight.

 

So what do we have

beyond the celluloid,

beyond my inveterate gaze…

 

a child in a woman’s body

a goldfish in a bowl,

sadly draining your own water.

A WRITING LIFE                                                                            Page One

 

He loved to write.

Even as a boy,

he couldn’t stop pen

from connecting with paper.

And he had the head for it.

It made up for what

the rest of his body lacked.

 

And it always felt great

when the writing came together.

Who remembered a classmate’s time

in the marathon,

or another getting his driver’s license at seventeen?

His past was in folders,

easily accessed.

And the present kept adding to it.

 

So he wrote and wrote,

through college and after.

Had a book published.

Didn’t matter that he had to hold down

a boring job to support himself, 

a wife, a growing family.

The writing wasn’t easy

but he made it look that way.

It got to the point 

that even he was convinced.

 

He got to know other people who wrote.

Talking with them

was almost as good as writing.

It was like looking in a mirror

even if the reflection 

bore no relationship to reality.

 

He wrote when he should have been eating,

sleeping, paying attention to those around him.

He reckoned it kept him young.

He was writing love poems

when others his age 

were complaining about back pain.

A WRITING LIFE                                                                Page Two

 

But then his imagination began to age.

The will was still there

but writer’s block was its constant companion.

Eventually, it became a disease

as virulent as anything that brought down

the people he knew.

 

A close friend with cancer

tried drinking a lot.

He did the same. 

He couldn’t write when drunk

But, at least, the blur, the blackouts,

didn’t feel like those times when nothing would come.

The friend with cancer died.

He stopped writing,

the survivor of the two

but the most implicit dead man.

TIE ME TO THE MAST

 

Please strap me to the mast. 

I want to experience what a storm is really like. 

Bind me tight, so that the waves won't wash me overboard. 

Let me surrender to the ocean's roiling, the sky's vengeance, 

the wind, the lightning, the thunder.... 

if only God would throw in some wailing demons. 

I've no fear of the mast breaking free. 

You assure me it's been through many storms like this. 

And your hemp is the strongest east of the Indies. 

As long as the boat holds up, then I'll be as safe 

as any man in extreme peril has ever been.

And, while you're at it, could you pick me up something from the store. 

I need batteries - the smallest ones - and I'm not sure 

if those are AAA or just A. I replace them so infrequently. 

Is that Carmen on the phone? Tell her, yes I did name 

her for the woman in Bizet's opera and there's no reason 

she should overdose even if she can find no good reason for living. 

You know, I wouldn't mind a baby alligator for a pet. 

That'd be something to watch it grow day by day,

witness it change from something ugly but cute into giant-jawed and ferocious. 

It's different with daughters. Everyone has the same experience. 

The temptation is to hide away indoors now that the horizon 

is black as a pirate's heart and the clouds are thickening. 

But that's not my way - not now at least - I'd also like peaches. 

I have this yearning for fruit. Not grapes, Too small. Too round. 

It's peaches or nothing. To be honest, I love the fuzz. 

The batteries, the peaches - that's just me keeping in touch 

with my ordinary life - I have to otherwise I'm doing my extraordinary 

life no favors etc. etc. I'd prefer to be the only one on top deck 

when the worst of it strikes, and canvas is shredded, 

the wheel spins out of control, cannon slips off its mooring 

and the entire planet goes ass over axis. All but me. 

As long as the knots hold firm. My son wants to be an astronaut. But really, 

those NASA guys are so coddled. A computer even tells them 

when to take a piss - he may as well sign up for the priesthood. 

So come on love - before it's too late - put me in a position 

so I'll know how bad it can get. I promise I won't kill myself. 

And no telling tales to Houston. And I won't hang out here, 

awaiting your next orders my dear, though I do confess that, 

after thirty years, I'm still in love with you. 

The fact is, I'm getting on and it's been kind of quiet around 

here lately. A married man should get to witness how bad 

it can get every once in a while. A sailing ship in the North Atlantic 

would be ideal. Then there's this couch, this boredom, this Saturday afternoon.

BEYOND THE BLUE MOUNTAINS

 

The sky is taken up 

by lonely eucalyptus.

There’s a breeze so weak,

it’s passed on from tree to tree.

Gray-ghost bark clings to trunk,

beds down in the heat.

Surrounded by tall dry grass,

I have a premonition of snakes.

My exposed skin keeps its distance

from any place my eyes can’t go.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Tenth Muse. Latest books: ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Amazing Stories and River and South.