LEAVING TOWN, TAKING AN OLD SONG ALONG FOR THE RIDE
It’s only twilight.
Not the likelihood of loneliness.
But then a familiar melody
interrupts encroaching dark,
a tune, not sentimental,
but with nostalgia’s aching beat.
He pauses on the rickety top wooden step.
Moth wings thump
the parlor screens,
a hound howls in the distance.
But old songs need no radio,
are transmitted by breeze:
whatever their words,
the meaning is the same –
someone is leaving forever.
And then that melody
bestrides time,
cruises mindlessly through young nights,
past the stylish store windows
of Main Street,
picks out the softest of local girls,
the darkest of nights down by the lake,
embraces an echo out of the past,
sets his lips in motion.
The steps are deeper
than they were the day before.
The outside world
is suddenly impersonal.
But he moves on.
Once hummed regretfully,
no song is ever going back.
A BEAUTIFUL FRIENDSHIP?
Sure, it’s the beginning of something.
Every moment is.
A baby is born.
An idea pops into a head.
But what it’s the beginning of,
only the future knows.
We just met.
And yet so did any number
of other people.
Every minute of the day,
the world is one giant handshake.
It’s also a kiss.
But nowhere near as huge.
EVENTS TO WHICH I WAS NOT INVITED
There was that all night drinking session at the crossroads
and, of course, the tete-a-tete on Elaine’s couch.
The get-together in Randy’s apartment on the outskirts
of Brown University is one that stands out for me,
especially as I heard later, they discussed the relative
merits of the French and Russian authors until dawn.
Throw in Roseanne’s pajama party, Cliff’s baseball
game outing, Leo’s restaurant reunion, and a
whole pattern emerges. On the one hand, there’s
the fun I might have had. On the other, the pain of
being forgotten or purposely not asked. If only the
former could say to the latter, why don’t you meet me
somewhere, we’ll have a ball, just the two of us, and
everyone else can spend a lifetime wondering, “Why
didn’t he invite me?” Truth is you’re not wanted. Only hurt
can show disappointment that kind of good time.
HOUSE HUNTING
While we talk
the wide-eyed windows
listen in
understanding
as they do
a thousand languages
whether a sound has a face
or is merely Formica whispering
saying nothing
merely rattling gently
from curt summer wind
while we stroll through
an open house
room after room after room
gathering windows like daisies
as we look for a place
where we can sign our names
and ring a bell
that only we can answer.
WRITER’S BLOCKADE
I wait,
forgetting how to write,
hidden from view,
no light going forward…
what a time to discover
I can’t imagine anything…
grind my teeth,
use my hand as a claw
to scrape the surface of my desk…
maybe I should
shut up shop,
go somewhere,
have breakfast…
but it’s seven o’clock
at night…
that might work…
breakfast at suppertime…
the metaphor’s like
an alien landing
between the tabs
of a blank screen…
take me to your words,
it says.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Willow Review and the Pennsylvania Literary Journal. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the MacGuffin, the Bayou Review and Plainsongs.