Poems
by John Grey

 

Swagic

 

I just get started

without any ideas of where it’s going.

 

No doubt, life will the subject matter.

My life.

Your life.

The life of a leaf.

The life of a stone.

 

And the words will appear

by magic and sweat,

the famous “swagic”

where lines on paper learn to speak,

and even something obscure

or in Latin

begs the reader for attention.

 

This poem is not only going some place

but it’s taking every other poem with it.

But I have no map.

And I can’t keep my distance.

 

So, everything that’s not about me,

takes up the same space.

I have no choice.

I have to own it.

I can’t even type away at a lie.

The truth won’t leave the damn thing alone.

 

I just get started

but the subject matter over there

is the meaning within me here.

 

No flower,

no stranger,

no street scene,

no lover,

is an end in itself.

 

I’m trapped in a metaphor

of my own making.

 

 

 

 

 

Ah, Youth

Once I was proud of my flesh.
Sure I was on the lean side
but my skin was tight around my bone
and there were indications of muscle here and there.
I was as flawlessly molded
as I was ever going to be.

I was twenty three or so,
fearlessly in my own being.
I didn't create it.
And I knew it wouldn't hold up forever.
But, what the hell -
I was five foot eleven
and a hundred and forty pounds.

I had the sprightly, sure step of the young.
Not really handsome but, then again,
isn't youth beauty by default?

There was enough in me,
without and even within,
that another person
showed a need for what I was.

It was mutual.
Validation often is.

 

 

 

 

In The Past

Friday night, another Joan Crawford movie -
I love the eye-brows that inch toward each other
like hairy snails -
and the brazen attitudes,
the snappy answers.

I'm flicking through a picture book
of Florida Mizner houses in the 20's -
"Casa De Lioni" on Lake Worth,
his Spanish Cloister,
the palm-washed terraces of "Sin Cuidado".

I read Jane Austen
then watch the BBC versions
to compare.
I have a photo on my wall
of Bobby jones
hitting off the tee at St Andrews.
And a poster of
Fritz Lang's film "Metropolis."

My wife then tells me,
"Dinner's ready."
But that can’t be right.

She's not even born yet.

 

 

 

 

Ted

 

He’s grown

a thick gray beard

since last we met.

 

He says it makes him look

intelligent, professorial.

 

I run my fingers

down my bare chin.

 

I can’t believe

how dumb I feel.

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Miss Whoever

 

Meet me outside the bookstore.

Which one?  There’s only one.

8 p.m.

When the lights are in full bloom.

And the street musicians

have an audience at last – the moon.

You can’t miss me.

Sad-eyed. Fidgety.

Eight o’clock shadow around my chin.

Tousled hair.

And singing along

when the guy with the guitar

starts strumming some old folk chestnut.

I’ll be facing the street,

looking up and down.

If it’s raining,

I’ll step back a little,

find shelter under the awning.

From there,

I don’t know where we’ll go.

But that’s not important.

It’s the meeting that counts.

And the time on my watch.

And the window display –

probably Hemingway.

It’s some anniversary of his death.

Or his life.

It’s the moment we meet that’s critical

not what follows.

Electric maybe.

Comfortable would do.

Curious also.

Exciting? Sure, I’ll take it.

I’ll take another’s breath.

Another’s strand of hair

fluttering in my face.

A man alone at 8.00 pm

outside a bookstore,

lonely, pathetic, 

desperately in need of something.

Why not you?

 

Rate this poetry.

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