Four Poems by John Grey

 

IN A LITTLE CORNER OF NIGHT-LIFE 

 

Far from the pulsating clubs and bars, 

in local Bohemia, 

miscellaneous authors 

read from their volumes  

of blood-soaked see-through poetry, 

with their usual line  

in bad sex and bitterness 

acquired second-hand 

in that great flea market 

of personal relationships, 

all fraying and fragile 

with just enough light in their darkness 

to put pen to paper, 

with flimsy words that struggle 

to fit together, 

before the audience switches off 

with gentle applause, 

an occasional sigh,  

self-pity and cell phone rattle. 

 

I’ve been a reader. 

I’ve been a listener. 

I hate talking to myself. 

I hate hearing  

what I have to say. 

 

 

 

 

THE SWEAT OF MEMORY 

 

The cellar has that glacial feel. 

Especially in summer. 

A tub of beer and ice awaits. 

I grab a can, feel the sweating coldness 

of what it’s like below. 

 

I sit on the porch, pop open the beer, 

drink so chilled it hurts the teeth 

but what a nose-snub to the heat. 

 

The earth is ripening. 

Trees are robed deep green. 

The grass keeps an inch or two ahead 

of the next burst of rain. 

Weeds do their best imitation of flowers. 

And the breeze, such as it is, 

curry-combs the petals. 

 

The sun is at its zenith. 

Even the shadows are bright. 

Despite my relaxed position, 

everything is in the now. 

Any reminiscing, in these temperatures, 

will have to be hard won. 

 

The season barely leaves space in my mind 

for old swimming holes, ball fields,  

all the stuff I did on days like this. 

 

As far as August is concerned, 

I only ever sprawled in a chair. 

So why remember the past 

when it’s just another version of the present? 

 

But there were ponies, I’m sure of it. 

And a forest floor. A waterfall. 

There were balls thrown 

and balls sought in the tall reeds. 

And fish. And reptiles.  

 

I’m begin to doze. 

A dream awaits. 

It will replace all those other dreams 

that I thought I could hold onto.

 

THE DANGERS OF SEEING SOMEONE 

 

What if she is  

one of the undead 

and all those hugs, 

those kisses,  

are mere prologue  

to her draining me of blood. 

 

And if, 

while seducing my resistance 

with hypnotic crimson eyes, 

she bit into my throat, 

began sucking on the veins. 

 

Would I be  

too caught up in feeling it 

to be fighting it? 

Would she empty one vein 

and then the next, 

draining my power  

along with my will, 

wilting my body down 

to unkneaded dough, 

paling my face ghostly? 

 

It’s always a risk 

when I’m close like this. 

I could be vampire prey. 

I could be making 

a commitment. 

 

 

 

 

THE BULL 

 

Its girth is that of a hippo 

and on any dirt track it walks, 

heavy hoofs kick up white dust. 

Night closes in  

and fireflies blink emerald green 

among the magnolia blossoms, 

owls hoot mournfully to each other, 

but the creature heaves its huge bulk 

across the field, 

and can barely contain his indifference. 

It is as if nature doesn’t exist 

but for dew and a hundred aromatic grass scents. 

The thump of his heart 

and the distant lowing of cows 

are the borders of his universe. 

 

In warm night air 

that still reeks of the day’s sunshine, 

he enters the barn, 

head held high  

in the usual triumph. 

He is a stud who has, long before, 

evaded the butcher’s knife. 

His owners hang off the fence, 

watch their prize  

as he dallies at the water-trough, 

chomps on some loose hay. 

They are in awe of their own bull. 

For there is no human equivalent.

 

  

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.