CAFFEINE
It’s just me and my morning coffee here.
And the light through the kitchen window of course.
Not forgetting the chill in the air
that the warm is starting to get around to.
But, in lieu of company, I have this cup.
Instead of conversation, I sip.
In the world of anatomical animation,
this caffeine juice is paramount.
My mouth creases upwards into a smile.
My eyes flick aside the sleep detritus,
open wide.
I am coming into my body, into my own.
Soon I will be ready for the world.
Who knows?
I might even, in my own way, shape it.
WELCOME
The baby draws her first breath.
A nurse’s brown eyes look down on her.
It’s all good now they say
but just you wait.
The doctor takes no side.
He’s here to do his job.
Some woman meekly asks,
“Can I see her.”
Her glass body lies in pieces.
But at least her heart is intact.
For now.
The nurse camps a red face
inches from the pillow.
The baby waves her arms like wings.
Through the blur of pain,
she’s soft enough
to be an angel.
An angel that’s fishing for compliments.
So soon. So young.
TOM
Tom’s body just developed sooner
than the skinny frames of the rest of us.
He arms and legs grew muscles
while our limbs could have cleaned pipes.
No wonder he was school sports star:
best player in the rugby and cricket teams,
fastest in the hundred and two hundred,
records in the long jump and javelin.
His school work was below average.
He hated to read
and he struggled with geometry.
But we made him class captain anyhow.
He was never a smartass, never a bully.
Kids looked up to him,
figuratively and literally.
But things didn’t go so well for him
once he left school.
Most of us caught up with him
in size if not in speed.
He worked in his father’s garage,
liked a drink, lost two teeth in a fight,
got a girl pregnant and married her,
divorced, took over the business
when his father died, then learned
to really love a drink, went bankrupt,
lost track of his kid, ended up on
the streets and sleeping on a park bench,
spent the rest of his days as an example
for mothers to point at when they were
out with their children.
I saw Tom not long before he died.
He was unshaven, dressed in torn t-shirt
and greasy jeans, and sneakers that
flapped at the toes.
Most people avoided him.
I just bent my head down
as he cried out, “Hey, don’t I know you?”
I remembered so many times
when guys were picking sides
and Tom was always first one called
and I was near last.
Now life had chosen me well ahead of him.
But that did nothing for my pride, my ego.
If it was a game
than it was one that didn’t feel right,
wasn’t worth playing.
He staggered onward.
I just kept walking.
ODE TO HOLLY
Here’s a sharp air to match its claws,
a chilly white to shimmer its dark blood,
a wind to blow the ilex blue
at a Christmastime of gloved hands plucking.
But here’s a survivor in a hard-bitten land,
a stem of insurrection,
leaves defiantly evergreen,
branches bone-brittle
but militant against the freeze.
GREEN MAN
I walk where hills lean into sky,
where green is a language all its own.
My lungs, grateful. My mind,
rinsed clean by lordly pine
and patient moss.
What else is there but to wander –
to listen for the shy rustle of brush,
the flit of wings, the soft syllables spoken
by trees to the wind?
My boots speak in twig-snaps and stone-taps,
but even they fall silent when the breeze arrives,
a gentle visitor brushing my cheek.
The forest stirs. And I, no longer needing to speak,
am blessed by the quiet.
Honestly, it knows more than I do.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Novus and Abbey. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the MacGuffin, Touchstone and Willow Review.
