Poetry: John Grey

John Grey

A RAZED VILLAGE

In vain, scour the ashes.

Your fingers will tell you

the village is dead.

Dead.

And the last of it

finds refuge in your nails.

Look around you.

Bird bodies are scattered

among fallen trees.

Even the ones

that sang at sunrise.

The well is poisoned.

Smoke clouds drift aimlessly above.

Listen close to what the ghosts are saying.

You will hear no tales of heaven.

***

THE PLUNGE

If you. were expecting

a fiery eye-like orb than think again.

I am not a creator.

But I have been known to take a plunger

to plugged drains

with almost immediate results.

I can't spark lumps of clay

into walking around people.

But you should see me

replacing washers in taps.

I can light a match

after several failed attempts

but awakening fire

is out of my league.

I am just not a god.

Of course, some of my

super-tight lid unscrewing

could be considered god-like.

You explain

that you weren't looking for someone

who could shine in darkness,

mutate coal into alchemical gold,

but just wondered if I was capable

of fathering a child someday.

I see procreation

as the great spermatic seeding

of fields ripe for germination.

Somewhat of a reach for me, I expect.

As for sex though,

there is always my adroitness with the plunger

to consider.

***

HISTORIAN

He’s in touch with long ago,

is a purveyor of bygones.

He’s there with the people,

stands side by side with kings.

He can smell their armpits,

the perfumes in their wigs.

The clash of steel is war to him,

not drones over the desert.

It’s not a political argument

unless it ends in a duel.

And the thing to be avoided 

like the plague, is the plague.

He spends more time 

in the library than in bed.

The dustier the tome, the better.

He takes down more notes

than an orchestra arranger.

All are manna from the past.

He’s keen on yesterday

like it’s a beautiful woman

but the day before 

is even more lovely.

And the day before that

he undresses in his mind.

In fact, the decades grow sexier 

the more time hits reverse.

Take him back two centuries 

and he can’t keep it in his pants.

His pen, that is.

And a sheet of blank paper.

***

BOBCAT

I was driving north

from West Palm Beach to Orlando

when that page from my nature book

finally came to life —

a bobcat at the side of the road,

though dead, looking so unhurt.

A little weepy,

a mite curious,

I slowed down,

explaining in my head that

my car, for all its six cylinder bravado,

was innocent.

The cat was surely hit

by a vehicle at night -

a bump that barely stirred

the guy from his country radio.

At least it wasn't squashed,

It somehow made its way to the verge,

retained its perfect form:

prime material for the taxidermist.

I'd imagined bobcats

as too alert and quick-footed

for the likes of traffic,

but when it's hunting,

its cunning may not stretch beyond

that furtive intended prey.

Though at its end, 

propped up by a small ditch, 

in roadside grass, 

it seemed as large as life. 

But on these roads, 

anything can pass for life: 

a man's passing sorrow, 

even fast-moving metal.

***

BIO: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.

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Setu, March 2022