Poems
by John Grey
Advice To A Loser
Get away quickly
even if it means stumbling
on weary feet,
bruised knees,
for the victor is being
applauded bombshell-loud
and overdosed with ribbons.
Go now
before the crowd
and the champions gloat
turn their attention
toward the defeated,
the one who has it worse
than even the least
of the spectators.
Who wants to hear,
He was out of his depth.
He didnt stand a chance.
Who wants to be lorded over
by their better and his abettors.
Who wants to feel like
with this loss
a guys lost everything.
Reach a place
beyond witness,
where the crowds are strangers
or there are no crowds at all.
And the pain may still hurt
but the surroundings
dont double down on it.
Go where you can stand,
can breathe.
Sure the hits may keep coming.
But from your own fists this time.
And you know how pathetic they are.
Blushing Bride
In chilly March, traveling alone across
bare scrub oaks and jagged blackthorn,
in flowing white gown, the lost bride,
taking the first exit of the last hope,
finds herself in elsewhere.
Her fine shoes clatter on stony landscape,
heels catch in rock fissure,
leave behind a haunted hunted shadow,
on frozen pond and withered grass,
as she struggles across the wind-swept barrens.
But all the groom sees
is a trembling tearful woman
curled up on the motel bed.
He can make out where she is.
But not where she is headed.
Oh To Be Overjoyed
Slumped on the couch
and staring at the ceiling,
the flimsiest of webs,
a modicum of-water stain,
why am I so weary
and yet so full of rancid feeling?
It's spring outside,
a time for beginnings,
with cherry blossoms
on high pink alert,
and the sun as warm
as an arm around my shoulder,
and yet I'm as enervated
as an October leaf,
as sorrowful
as an abandoned bridegroom.
Sometimes, it is impossible
to explain myself.
I am loved by
and love in return
the most wonderful of women.
Tomorrow we leave for the trip of a lifetime.
So why does bliss loll about
as if it barely exists?
Why has joy no energy?
Why does a Spider's doodling
and the evidence of a leaky roof
hold more sway with me
than the palpitations of my heart?
Is it possible to be so happy
that happiness no longer recognizes itself,
assumes the worst?
You enter the room
and the first thing to ask is,
"Are you okay?"
Okay sounds like
something to aspire to.
Muzak
We're in a restaurant
The Muzak's turned up loud.
Wherever you are,
sings some booby I'll find you.
You're seated across the table from me.
So who's missing exactly?
The only other diner
is an old man
eating alone.
Maybe he' s the one
that guy is singing about.
He looks over at us
between bites of his meal.
At least, he looks at you.
Next up is a song about
the guy who stole his girl.
That's when I come into his purview.
If he had the youth, the strength,
he'd strangle me.
Maybe you as well.
Then comes the song
about how he's found somebody new.
The waiter brings the old man
another whiskey sour.
He leaves soon after
with a smile on his face.
Nursing Home Blues
Old and alone,
head hollowed out,
his name briefly here
but forever on some tombstone.
Dry flowers,
short time and slow blood,
in a room full of trembling fools
afraid to be alive.
No grieving,
just shaking,
or counting out aloud
no further than eleven.
The bodys last days
are pledged to new childhood,
many orders to obey
but without toys to speak of.
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