Poetry: John Grey

John Grey

 THE BEAR IN THE LAKE

A humid summer dusk,

she sits in water 

up to her grizzled thighs.

Small fish weave in and out

of her fluttering fur.

Larger fish abstain.

Sun is setting

but the bear keeps faith

with her horizon,

separating sky from earth

with steady gaze, alert ears,

and long snout.

Her belly crests 

on the surface 

like a moon about to rise.

The other moon begins its arc.

Hers is full

and winter’s not for months yet.

***

AN OLD MAN’S CARNIVAL

Things were different in my grandfather’s day.

At least, according to his daily bulletins

from the distant past.

“They were real carnivals then,” for example.

Six-legged sheep, pin-headed man,

bearded lady, human centipede,

and let us not forget the tattooed guy.

(My grandfather wouldn’t let me if I tried)

He was inked from the top of his head

to every one of his toes.

My neighbor’s kid, Saul 

has a lot of catching up to do.

My last carnival 

is hardly prime memory territory:

innocuous rides,

lame games,

hot dogs and burgers

that never would have passed

health inspector muster

in most states.

But I did take my first love

on the Ferris wheel.

The closer we squeezed, the higher it rose.

But granddad took my future grandma

into the freak tent.

They were both spellbound

by the half-man, half-woman.

He/she was not an aberration, in their eyes, at all.

They had something similar to look forward to.

***

POETS ADDRESS THE BORDER TRAGEDY

We write it down.

Therefore, we care so much.

More likely the problems of others

are a spigot with a shit washer.

They pour out.

And we’re not plumbers.

We employ our minds, our hearts.

Our neighbors are dying.

Time is running out.

So we do our best to pause and think.

Could be we’re no better 

than the ones who declare 

that everything’s a gift from God…

only we got a better one.

Meanwhile, we obey the rules

of the poet’s self-interest:

1. Words have an effect

2. Poetry is the one sign that we haven’t all surrendered.

The ones at the border could care less.

It’s not our metaphors they’re after.

It’s the pity of the stone-faced guard.

We get it right.

But we get it wrong.

We cut ourselves open, bleed on paper.

A bloodstained sheet of paper, anyone?

***

THE FIRST ONE IN THE FAMILY TO GO TO COLLEGE

He’s off to college

with a mother’s love

and a father’s resentment.

He won’t be working in the mine.

There’ll be no mother rushing about

aimlessly, crying out for her son,

when the warning bell rings loud 

throughout the town.

His lungs won’t blacken.

Nor will his hands roughen

or his back bend out of shape.

And he’ll earn better money

using his brain,

instead of his muscle.

He’ll live in a fancier house

with a prettier wife

and two kids 

who’ll also go to college.

By the time he’s forty,

his father won’t know it’s him.

He’ll be expecting a sixty-year-old.

***

A NEW BRIEFCASE IN TOWN

He came from the big city.

New York. Boston. One of those.

His hair was gray but not his muscle.

He was fit enough 

to cover the Main Street sidewalk

in about ten long strides.

And his suit was brown,

Same color as his shoes

though nowhere near as shiny.

He opened up an office

in half of what used to be

the Five and Dime.

Then he put up a sign 

that said “Lawyer.”

And his walls filled 

with all kinds of certificates and diplomas.

We’d been two years without a lawyer,

ever since Bob Harris died.

He wasn’t the first 

to move in from the big city

just like that.

The doc did it. Same as the vet.

And that guy who figured 

a small town’s lamps and light fittings

just weren’t fancy enough.

But he was the first 

with a briefcase like the one he toted,

brown leather, 

bulging like a beer gut,

and attached to his hand

as if they were cuffed together.

There’d been other briefcases.

But older. Worn. Nowhere near as buffed.

And thin as flatfish.

Folks went to him for will-making, 

trusts and advice on crop production laws,

market issues and unfair competition.

Some even showed up just to watch him

open that briefcase.

They’d never seen the city.

But, unclasped, the city filled up the room.

***

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Setu, June 2021