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.
