John Grey poems

Self Non-Explanatory

 

When anyone asks me,

I invoke the great-great-uncle

with the walrus moustache

who was lost among the wilds of New Guinea,

believed eaten by cannibals.

Sometimes I even recall a movie I once saw,

retelling it so dramatically,

hands waving, voice loud,

I’m all the characters at once.

If people wish to know who I am,

I divert them with fading photographs in albums,

books about Europe in the nineteen century,

a piece of music played the night before

an army went into battle.

Do they really want to know

the places where I scratch,

the baseball team I root for,

my favorite character in “Friends”

Dig up that great-great uncle if you will

but I prefer to remain buried.

Wait for that movie to be rerun on TV,

just not the one where my leading role

was reduced to a minor character.

I’m indifferent to the soliloquy,

prefer the conversation of others.

There’s so much that isn’t me

and that’s a great place to start.

 

 

In Cell Phone City

 

The woman driving the car is on her cell phone.

She’s in heavy traffic, at least all but her voice, and her ears.

Her hearing is well out of reach of the blistering horns.

the grinding engines, the guy beside her streaming

cuss words into the smoggy air.

And her tongue has no interest in making comment

on the world around her: the rear bumper of the

Nissan crawling a foot or so ahead, the lights

swaying above, as slow to change as Galapagos turtles.

“Yes, I’ll be there at eight. Mandy’s baby is due any

day now. Roger doesn’t want to make a commitment.”

Suddenly, her accelerator foot makes the wrong choice.

Her Toyota thumps into that unfortunate Nissan.

It’s 7.30 in the morning. The accident occurs on time.

The other driver is hovering over her car, waving his fist.

Could be his way of making a commitment.

 

John Grey

 

John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in International Poetry Review, Sanskrit and the science fiction anthology, “Futuredaze” with work upcoming in Clackamas Literary Review, New Orphic Review and Nerve Cowboy.

This I Know For Sure

I’m writing this from Jeff’s Lazy-boy sofa. The cracks in the brown leather makes it look like an artifact from Constantinople, untouched by human hands for thousands of years. It’s almost as if he sculpted a casing of his bum’s shape in an impulsive moment of creation, like dentists do when molding impressions for night guards. The absence his real bum feels, exquisite, in a way — kind of makes me want to jump up and down on it. But I’m not going to vacuum the petrified mango chips in the pull-out bed unit. I’m not.

There are days where all I do is wait for you. Your silence. Is that the answer? When I read your preface to “How to Share the Skies,” I imagined you floating between Triangulum Australe (my favorite constellation), calling from the space station with your lyrics in progress: ‘But I’m already here. Like a translucent leaf. Half lit by sun.’

Remember that poem I wrote in Ohio during the private coaching hour? ‘Flowers in Winter’? It’s like that. Not Jeff’s elliptical in the dining room. No. It’s what he calls the swear word. The word that is not okay to talk about in our house. S-Oo-U-L. This makes me feel like a kindergartener again, always trying to hide my incompetence. Like what Oprah said in the summer issue of her magazine about how carnations are bogus. “This I know for sure,” she wrote. “Living a lie is a dangerous thing, like the dentist who loves veterinary science and resents himself for it, while sealing the tooth of fifteen year old kid in khaki shorts and flip flops.” When I’m at my dentist, I think about eggshells in the garbage disposal. Slipping my hand inside. Running from the sink. Facet left on hot. Blood on the white IKEA rug.

Sometimes, I give this wheelchair bound homeless woman a quarter, hoping she will reveal herself as an angel, instantly leaping out of her chair in humble service. My life has left me, I will say. And she’ll tell me exactly how to call it home — what train to catch, the best luggage shop in town, which socks to buy. The blue. It’s more likely she’ll just ask for more money while ranting on about the Vietnam War or past lives. She believes pain is inherited from generation to generation and that she was born at the beginning of time as a single celled animal. I can’t distinguish if this woman’s story is worthy of an e-mail to Oprah or not. Or if this will move beyond your agent’s spam filter. There is nothing I know for sure.

Gregory Josselyn

Maddie Boyd

Letter to Rome

 

Back home, opening

an old letter

I received from you,

the front of the envelope,

post marked 1931

address washed out,

sent unspecified like

artifacts to archeologists.

The neatly folded paper

inside, written upon

graph paper of rectangles

I imagine it bears

news like I got a week after

I left you. Paul committed

 

suicide. maybe I love

history so much

because I like to see

that people get through

horrible events and

seeing blood, toothless

nooses, brackish intent.

 

I miss you.

  

 

Train

 

The modern art is an opening act

for the Sistine chapel.

 

After the school of Athens

and the heavenly patriarchs

there are women painters,

artists questioning paternity,

 

maybe    just before the stairs

a painting shows the train

tracks into Auschwitz No

names it’s called, the white

lines leading into

darkness, the darkness covered

with numbers. A9448, A3769, subtle in the

foreground, glaring as your eye moves up

into the gloaming.

A foreboding yellow spot

on the top of the canvas reminds

of death.

The dead who have no names,

yes, but also the living that

were turned into numbers.

 

Most of the people around

move quickly towards fame,

the show’s zenith,

unsure if they recognize this image.

These very same who walked over

the swastika mosaicked

on the ground of the Hall of

Constantine the transience of

signs. Alteration, like with a dress,

has possibilities of beauty or disaster.

Rebirth not always positive.

 

Now we move from dark into

light and “remain silence please.”

 

 

Maddie Boyd

Bye, bye…

Miss American Pie.

Don’t whisper.

White heat.

Excuse me while I break this chair.

 

The levee is extremely dry.

The trees will burn.

 

Sparks crisping against grey skies.

Snow melting around my feet.

Fusion of wires. Meltdown.

 

— Rose Mary Boehm

 

A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and a poetry collection, her latest poems have appeared – or are forthcoming – in US poetry reviews. Toe Good Poetry, Poetry Breakfast, Morgen Bailey, Burning Word, Muddy River Review, Pale Horse Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Other Rooms, Requiem Magazine, Full of Crow, Poetry Quarterly, Punchnel’s, Avatar, Verse Wisconsin, Naugatuck River Review, Boston Literary, Ann Arbor etc.

The Squirrel

An indistinct sound of struggle was what made Lydia look into the barrel of nicotine colored rain water out back. A glistening head, pointy at the tip, was poking through the gelatin surface, paws frantically treading water. It was about the size of a large rat and she realized it must be a squirrel. In fact, it must be The Squirrel – the one who was always skittering around the house, looking in her windows.

The last time, she’d been in bed with a married man. He’d reached over to stroke her thigh and a slight movement had caught her eye in the window. Maybe it was the apprehension about getting caught, but the squirrel had taken her by surprise then too. Perched on the sill, its unabashed gaze cutting past the peeling paint, the underwear turned inside out. It was holding a slice of pizza in its little fingers and munching with no particular interest. “Enjoy the show,” Bill said, but then had chucked a work boot at the window.

Now, she leveraged her own work boot against the hefty barrel and tipped it over. The water spread soundlessly, the squirrel catching its breath against the side of the house.

Valerie Borey 

Valerie Borey lives in Minneapolis where she writes, teaches, and otherwise probes rabbit holes and random tangents. Her creative work has appeared onstage at various venues and in publications such as Diddle Dog, Heavy Glow, American Nerd, The Festival of Awkward Moments Anthology, and Better or Worse: The Anthology.