Poems
by John Grey

 

Living Rough

 

A couple sits on the sidewalk,

backs against a concrete wall.

The woman leans onto her man’s shoulder.

What he sees is mostly indifference.

It’s what he feels that counts –

her soft cheek welcomed by his worn bone.

 

Living rough but too proud to beg,

their belongings in a rough canvas bag,

they form the very basis  of what it takes to live –

being somewhere, breathing, thinking

now and then…of a better life or

even how much worse it can get.

 

Her eyes are wide and her hands are dainty.

His chin wears a grimy beard

There’s weariness but not loss

in their expressions.

 

Passersby look down on them –

some with sadness, many with disdain.

They glance up in kind.

From the hard edge of a city thoroughfare,

they’re learning the world anew.

 

 

 

 

 

Downsizing

 

Late in life,

she hears the call of downsizing,

not just a suggestion,

but an order to reverse

the accumulating years

and, like a novitiate, 

give away or just toss in the trash

all of her worldly possessions.

 

Some stuff is easy:

postcards, trinkets,

broken chairs in the cellar,

yellowing paperbacks in the attic,

dresses she never wears,

a hat or two for when such things

were not completely out of style.

 

But the closer she gets

to the core of what matters,

the harder it is to part with stuff.

The bronze baby shoe should be easy

but it has such associations.

And the maple rocker –

it was her mother’s favorite.

 

Eventually, she realizes

that call to rationalize comes from her body.

Her flesh is a bronze baby shoe.

Her bones are a maple rocker at rest.

 

 

 

 

 

Your Grave In Winter

 

I’m glad no spreading willow

shields you from the sun,

that, even in winter,

if the weather holds,

your stone’s uniquely visible,

offers such resilience

to my touch.

 

It’s mid-January.

Your comforting daisies are dead.

Grass turns brown with indifference.

The weeds have had enough,

drop their petals, and are done with life.

But a slab of stone prevails.

 

And, even as chill kills the aboveground,

the earth beneath primes next year’s roots.

Life and death

are merely limbs of the same great torso…

one that has your name on it.

 

 

 

 

 

Drizzle On Sea

 

Slight drizzle on sea

is like a child

spoon-feeding its mother.

 

Deep and wide,

she’s nourished enough.

 

But with a plop here,

a soft hiss there,

she pretends

it’s what she’s thirsting for.

 

 

 

 

 

Tomorrow

 

You’re right.

Tomorrow never comes.

 

But it does exist.

It’s behind that rock over there,

sharpening its claws.

 

It’s at the bottom of the pond,

hungry for human bait.

 

It’s coiled up in the trees,

hissing like a snake.

 

It lurks in the shadows,

weapon at the ready.

 

Today’s not much

but it’s safe.

 

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