Poems
by John  Grey

 

 

My Matter Of Life And Death

 

I'm trying to get a grip on

what it was like before I ever was.

It's not easy.

Dates are no help.

Nor are wars.

I settle on my parents.

At least I knew them.

So I attempt to get into their heads,

peer through their eyes

at places and people familiar to me

but unencumbered by my existence.

 

It doesn't work.

For all my effort,

anything prior to my birth

is nothing but print on paper,

photographs or film.

They don't convince me that

all of life didn't begin with me.

Descartes can only throw up his hands..

And Kierkegaard fails me miserably.

Only aspirin is of any help.

 

And then there's the future to consider.

Is my death the end of the world :.

the way the passing of my parents

never could be?

I can't find any evidence to suggest otherwise.

And I assume I never will.

 

My conclusion is that

anything without me

is a complete impossibility.

If not, then it’s all up to you.

 

 

 

 

 

Joe

 

On week days, Joe arrives early at the traffic island.

It’s a highly visible spot and there are others

who would grab it if he didn’t stake his claim.

There are unwritten rules among he and his ilk.

No one has a prime locale in perpetuity.

No one can drive a guy from his spot if he got there first.

Weekends, it’s different.

On Saturday, the downtown spots don’t get busy until later,

sometimes not until noon.

As for Sunday, you’d figure the churchgoers

would be more than generous. But you’d be wrong.

The Lord’s day is typically a washout.

Joe always has a book to read, a folding chair,

and a sign that reads, “Homeless vet. Please help.”

Maybe one in thirty cars stops and tosses some coins,

or even a buck his way.

He pockets the money with a raspy thanks.

For many, he’s a familiar figure on their work commute.

None of them know his name is Joe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My First Time In A Hospital Since Birth

 

At my own insistence, I accompanied Grandpa to the hospital.

I couldn’t believe how white were the walls,

how high the ceilings, how long the corridors.

Friendly nurses patted my head  as I followed behind him.

 

Grandpa was there to visit his brother who would get no better.

He said his greatest fear was peeking

into one of the rooms and seeing himself

lying in one of the beds.

 

Grandpa sat beside his sibling,

kept up the only end of a one-way conversation.

I stayed in the background.

For all the smiles of the people who worked there,

 

I, like grandpa, had no wish to be part of it.

The hollowed-out face of my great-uncle convinced me.

So did the ancient man in the neighboring bed,

the one who gestured at me, hacked a phlegmy “You boy.”

 

On the way home, I sat beside him

in the passenger seat of his beat-up jalopy.

I said nothing. He said nothing.

For different reasons but they both came out the same.

 

 

 

 

Sympathy For The Devil’s Music

 

I long for the days when rock and roll

was the devil’s music and every pastor

denounced it from the pulpit,

politicians off all persuasions

 

warned that it was turning our kids away from God,

and long-haired musicians were Satan’s minions,

blasting raucous noise that came with health warnings,

coercing their audience into drugs and pre-marital sex.

 

The beat is too passé these days.

The rhythm barely nudges a toe.

The singer has the voice of a pre-packaged angel.

But not a fallen one.

 

I’m at a Rolling Stones concert and it’s more like

a religious retreat or an AARP meeting.

No one on stage has any horns worth mentioning.

And the crowd have only themselves to rebel against.

 

I sing along to the tunes but yesterday’s bacchanalia

is this year’s “Kumbaya.”

The woman next to me is smoking pot.

But, these days, hemp is as legal as service dogs in supermarkets.

 

Please, take me back to a time when neighbors

tossed stones on my roof to protest the loud music,

and my tickets to hell were punched

the moment needle dropped down on vinyl.

 

My mutiny’s emasculated and played in elevators.

The Devil’s gone back to priming serial killers.

In a bid for acceptance, I won. That’s why I lost.

My lifestyle’s been accepted and I hate that.

 

 

 

 

 

Keeping Himself Cold

 

Winter is the hermit's head.
His fingers scratch at his frosted brow,
run through his strands of marble hair.

He wanders landscapes
where it's only ever dark,
and everything is dead,
the moon of course, but even the stars.

Sometimes, the oddest thing
comes between a moment and its ghost.

 .
This time it is
the body of an ancient fish
frozen under ice
that stares up at him
with eyes like painted stones.

In his solitary world,
everyone is gifted the enlightened aspect
they deserve.

Rate this poetry.

Copyright is reserved by the author. Please do not reproduce any part of this article without consent.