poems by John Grey

John Grey    

Bio is as follows:

John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in International Poetry Review, Chrysalis and the science fiction anthology, “Futuredaze” with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Sanskrit and Fox Cry Review.

RICH WOMAN IN MIAMI BEACH

a la affection,

amongst the latter-day suitors,

always followed by flowers,

arrive bedchamber

behind which the believed,

beloved, besought,

enter the. big blue room,

window by the bay,

sills copper-casket brown,

like your skin

wrapped round

a face defeated by cameras

eiderdown quilts

fleet and wavering,

having flung your fragrance

for 30 years,

now around your mouth,

another gigolo,

full disclosure

SITES

We drive by the site of the murder.

No body, no blood-stain,

no cop car with whirring siren,

no ghoulish bystanders.

But there's no people either.

Not a soul in sight.

It's just this brick wall

with faded election poster,

a sidewalk with weeds poking

through the cracks.

I stop the car, get out.

You stay behind.

I am exactly where the victim was.

You could be as close

as the killer.

We're at the site of a murder

and it feels as if

I'm the first since then

to stand here and wonder,

what if it happens to me.

And who but you,

from such close range,

could ask yourself

what if he's the one

I do it to.

It's not even a murder by this.

It could be love

for all we know.

It could be whatever

we feel or fear

could happen with another.

No violence, no death,

no arrest, no execution.

But we leave the site of that murder

like it's the site

of something in our lives.

UPBRINGING, THE DOWN SIDE

and you think you dragged

yourself up from nothing

but not like the nothing I'm from

eating out of trashcans

licking the rain off sidewalks

begging all the alley bums

to be my old man

just look at my face

can't you see the fish-heads

the taste of raw cement

the breath the booze

that I am heir to

okay

so I've cleaned myself

up a little since those days

I only eat the best garbage

I only drink the pavement

outside the fanciest addresses

and I even have a kid of my own

the bum

WATCHING THE PITCHER

you're on the mound

you're in command

you're elevated

like your body

is your brain

and they're both pumping

two guys

struck out already

this inning

you're throwing smoke

and the fans are

as rabid as wolves

I'm wishing

I could write poems like that

readers cheering

or tensed up for the next one