New Poems: John Grey

TO THE CHILD GATHERING SHELLS

 

I should explain

that a shell

is like that home

on the news,

which someone 

broke into,

murdered the inhabitants.

 

But why interfere

with the fun 

she’s having

gathering periwinkles,

conches, razor clams

and ribbed mussels.

 

It’s not as if 

she’ll ever collect

houses full of 

dead people.

 

Some will.

But not her.

 

 

 

 

ANGER’S END

 

I drowned my anger 

in the blue Pacific Ocean.

 

That anger was slapped around by waves.

Its nose flooded with salt.

Then, what remained.  

I buried up to its brow in sand.

 

Finally, I lay back on a towel

and the sun took aim,

blow-torched whatever 

of my black mood remained. 

 

At dusk, I strolled the beach, 

a lazy gait anathema to anger. 

Ocean and horizon, 

long shoreline, pale sky: 

it's the job of abundance 

to make a man small,

his problems even smaller.

 

 

 

 

THE LORD OF TOUCH

I love to rub something gently, fondly.
It can be your arm or your kneecap,
the edge of the bed or the pillow.
My hands are free and available.
It's not exactly work they're looking for
just the feeling that they're needed.

Touch, to me, is the most rewarding of the senses.
It links me to my surrounds.
I'm part of the desk and the arm-rests of my chair.
The book may engage my eyes
but without my tender grip on the cover
its story is going nowhere.
And times when I can't see or hear or taste or smell,
I can always touch myself.
Everything shuts down
and yet here I am.

In bed with you is touch's zenith.
Forget the feverish poke and prod of sex.
That's just bonus.
It's the way our bodies brush against each other
that trumps the night's intended separation.
It's the subtle brace of someone always being there,
within arm's length, within breath's length even.
I admit that, above all else, I am a sucker for contact.
Even in sleep's fog, fingers trace routes.
The heart can't help but follow.

 

 

THE CHILDREN

 

In a landscape of leaves and playground,

of shadow leeching the twilight soil,

the house we all fall into

smells of years-old soap.

 

Lovers of grass and hillside,

of swings and roundabouts,

we are unstable and unthinking

and yes, logic is definitely 

wasted on the young.

 

But here we are,

all present and accounted for

at the dinner table

right on the un-rung dinner gong

of six o’clock.

 

We laugh, rattle spoons 

and kick shins.

As to life,

that is all 

that we have learned so far.

 

 

 

 

POST BREAKUP, CHAPTERS 1 THROUGH 3

 

Love is a handle.

Nothing more.

It’s not what’s happening on the screen.

Those are actors.

I’ve learned the hard way.

And now it’s time for the world

to have another whiskey.

One haze is lifted.

Another descends.

A breakup has sent me to a place

where I can make a full recovery.

A room with giant green stalks,

red roses, bees,

but nothing startling.

I hear a faintly tolling bell.

My head on the pillow at night

is the latest in oases.

I dance on bathroom tiles.

Or hardwood.

My tongue flops.

My chest rises.

A mind, once black with terror,

is my baby now.

Bio: 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..