Poetry: John Grey

John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, California Quarterly 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 Doubly Mad.

SECRET

The secret’s out.

It’s so pleased with itself.

That’s visibility for you.

It has it all over

what I try to keep hidden.

Everyone can see it.

And their chatter repeats

it all over.

Even the kids hear.

They don’t understand it

but they still can make a game of it.

As for me,

there’s no pretending

the revelation doesn’t exist.

And that’s what it is.

A revelation.

Not a secret.

My guilt is overstretched.

My expression can’t contain myself.

Secret’s a word

for what one day

won’t be a secret.

***

 

URSULA

She puts seed out for the birds in winter,

watches from the iced-up window

as they leap from dish to barren lilac bush

and back again.

She plays cupid for cardinals,

orchestra leader for the tit-mouse

and the chickadee,

ushers the homely sparrows

through another bitter night.

The busy beak

is where she finds substance.

Bird instinct,

bird ignorance of its benefactor,

is where her love's sustained.

With each chilly day,

she passes out of people

She's unafraid to lose something in herself,

then find it flighty, feathered, elsewhere.

***

MY BEST COWGIRL

you take life

as it comes

as long as it's

wearing blue jeans

bomber boots

and a 'hotter than a pistol” t shirt –

you like rodeo posters,

smile buttons,

line dancing

and bumper stickers

that say

"thank God I'm a country girl" -

you think truck drivers are cute

and fantasize about being

in a threesome with Keith Urban

and Brad Paisley –

you’re in this dream I’m having –

but sadly

Keith and Brad 

are in it too 

***

HARD FREEZE

A hard freeze startles early spring,

interrupts the flow of phloem

in the bark’s underside,

thwarts the branches budding.

Walking the forest trail,

I sense the unsuspecting trees

revealed themselves too early,

embraced a month as fickle 

as a small-town beauty.

And now they pay 

with my crunching footprints,

up and down paths of icy leaves,

as boughs shudder, not just from cold,

but out of ruefulness.

They didn’t weigh the dangers,

counted on instinct,

or were already wallowing 

in the praise to come.

They’ll heal in time

but some wildflowers never will.

The green will come

but a yellow here, a purple there,

will be as briefly noted

as a man’s life in ten millennium.

I spy a chipmunk

shivering on a rock.

It takes a moment to doubt itself

then hustles back into its hole.

***

A TOUR OF THE HOME OF YOUR ANCESTORS

Drive through backwoods

on a winding gravel road.

Park by dead fields

of failed crops.

Wander up the pebble path,

stumble over the busted step,

pick your way through jasper vines,

pause amid weeds sprouting

through cracks in stone.

Don’t bother to knock,

just push aside the door

half off its hinges.

Enter the rooms

where a family dined,

a woman gave birth,

a man died,

and children played with wooden toys.

See the humble crucifix,

that still hangs above the mantel,

a benign-faced Jesus

looking down on a bed of fireplace ashes. 

Run your fingers over holes

where rough hands hammered nails,

scuff marks of chairs scraping hardwood,

scrutinize sharply angled wall joins,

like hands in prayer,

see the knots and grain 

in every plank of tree.

There’s a presence here

older than your time

and your mother’s time,

in fact, the time 

of everyone whose names

were taught to you.

It’s a breeding ground

for truths you believe in unaware,

for memories you don’t have…

they have you.

***

---

Setu, November 2023