JOHN GREY

 

The List Of Things

So here we are,

after getting up at 3.00 a.m.,

on a cold New England morning,

showering, dressing,

driving to the airport, parking,

lugging suitcases to the airline counter,

proving to security who we are

and that we’re not carrying 

anything of danger to the world,

flying south on a diet of pretzels,

arriving, claiming our bags,

paying an exorbitant sum 

for a taxi to our hotel,

laboriously checking in,

more suitcase lugging to our 

seventh floor room,

and then…and then…

dropping that baggage, 

reporting to our patio 

that overlooks the beautiful 

light blue ocean,

grabbing each other’s hands,

and sighing…

wow…paradise.

So was it all worth it?

Well the last poem I wrote

that listed all the miserable stuff

that needed doing 

just to get somewhere 

ended up with me at the office. 

Hawk And Starling

A starling

nibbles on a floating

icy cage of suet.

Without warning,

a hawk descends from gray cloud,

clutches the bird

in its claws,

soars off in search

of a good feasting place.

One long tense breath later,

a stream of black breast feathers

drifts slowly back to earth.

It's a lesson harsh as the wind...

we live in a world

of overlapping hungers.

The Woman Behind That Door

She is old

and alone

and bored.

Her spirits

are immune 

to the rising sun.

And coffee

fails to raise

her bloodstream.

Every other room

in the house

is empty.

Even the one

she’s currently in

feels unoccupied.

The visiting nurse 

comes by 

once a week.

asks “Have you had

any falls?”

Fall to where?

She can’t imagine

any place 

lower than this.

Morning On Earth

I’m keeping stone quiet

in my ill-fitting garb:

large dull teeth, pale gums 

and bronze-lidded eyes.

More instinct than hunger,

I have whatever 

remains of last night’s meal

on dry stale bread.

I am in need of stunt-me

to do the gargling,

to put things down in writing,

to make sure food doesn’t spoil.

Not a soul left on the moon.

Not even a moon.

I’m wide awake enough 

for theories.

My tongue, better known

for licking foam off beer,

must now be content 

with hot black coffee.

At least life goes on as expected,

as it has since my eleventh birthday,

and, to be honest, life has 

never been a great love of mine.

Breakfast, brush teeth, shower,

slip into my day clothes.

At least I’m a virtuoso

of my own procedures.

He Found Her Diary

He found her diary hidden in a drawer.

Actually, the diary found him

rifling through underwear,

in a quest to learn more about her.

He knew nothing of women

other than the superb views 

they sometimes offered him.

Yet he kept company with one.

And she was pretty yes but,

he figured, there had to be something more

than just standing around 

and admiring her.

He craved an opening in her heart

which was really a gateway into his heart.

Or a clue to her thoughts, so he’d know 

better what he was thinking about.

But the entries in the diary 

were blunt and banal.

“Met Marie for coffee.”

“Took dress to dry cleaners.”

“Cut finger peeling potatoes.”

“Ran into cousin Mike at the mall.”

“Knocking noise in the Toyota engine.”

“Must try that new lipstick shade.”

He found her diary in a drawer

and it was nothing.

The diary found him and thought

pretty much the same.

JOHN GREY

JOHN GREY is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, Santa Fe Literary Review, and Lost Pilots. Latest books,” Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the Seventh Quarry, La Presa and California Quarterly.