Back in Business

Time to sit on my porch,
read the newspaper.

The sun is well into
its spring U-turn,
sends warm rays of regret
for its winter absence.

A bee lands
on a breeze-tossed petal,
induces a golden butterfly
to join him.

Dogs no longer just walk
with their masters.
They seek out each other,
circling and sniffing.

A mockingbird
on a rooftop
advertises his wares
in borrowed song.

Windows open.
Chimneys are silent at last.

It’s the season
when my fancy demands
it be turned to something.
Not love, necessarily.
Lazing’s a good second choice.

Like Father, Like Son

A father, Frank
going straight after a long history
of drug offences –

and a son, Matt
out on bail
after a stash of cocaine
discovered in his car by cops –

that’s the family scene,
the one where Matt
sneaks in and out of the house

or stays up in his room,
eats his meals alone

and then,
when they do run into each other,
their tongues freeze up

but two pairs of hard angry eyes
make contact,

as they both look deep
into each other,
see the same festering hungers,
the same wretched desires,
the same pathetic appetites
that adulterate the family blood –

and they turn away in a shame
disguised as a superiority –

“he’s turning out
just like me,” thinks Frank –

“I’m turning out
just like him,” thinks Matt –

from the disgusted looks
on both their faces

you would never know
they just agreed on something.

These Fine Children

They are perfect,
middle of the night
sleeping,
middle of the day,
thumping volleyballs
across a net.
Their faces are
pure and lovely,
just like yours
at that age.
The photos
on your dresser
are a history
of how these
moments came to be:
your sly glance
through the
slightly ajar bedroom door,
your full face
at the parlour window.
God’s creation?
Maybe.
Your creation?
Is there any doubt.
At night,
alone at the kitchen table,
coffee and a cigarette,
a bottle of pain pills…
if only their father
were alive to see this.
For all their glory,
triumphs know
their place.

Flowers for a Friend

The river’s all dolled up,
with the sheen of skyscraper lights,
some stars sprinkled here and there –
the Hudson must be on its way
to someplace special.

Your face flashes out of all others
like a sudden appointment I’ve forgotten to miss,
and the sirens – God, the sirens –
it’s the sound of cops looking for something to do.

Someone (you?) says something.
It’s hard to tell in a crowd.
But I listen.
And I believe.

A woman’s selling flowers
that are so outrageously perfumed,
like they’ve been reading French novels
and wanted everyone to know.

I buy a bunch,
hand them to you.
You take them like you’re accepting
a bill you already know you can’t pay.
The river keeps going.
We don’t.
Not yet.

Passerby

You bring me pleasure.
Ironic that.
You could be a harpy,
a bigot, a child murderer,
for all I know.

You could be fool enough
to think that
a lovely face,
long straw-coloured hair,
a lithesome figure
in a fluttering blue cotton dress
is enough.
Let me tell you.
It is enough.

Yes, in my friends,
I want all the virtues.
But I look for beauty in my strangers.

Someone in the Fog

The fog is thick
but I can just make out a person
up ahead of me.
Not the features,
just the shape.
Not the way of living,
just the presence.
I see what must be a head
but not the knowledge.
And a torso
but no scars.
Limbs
but not what they bear up.
I’ve just reached an understanding
of who and what I am.
But with other people,
the fog rolls in.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Novus and Calliope. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Levitate, White Wall Review and Willow Review.

You can find more of John’s work here on Ink Pantry.