- John Grey
Selected Poetry by John Grey

Photo Source: Wikimedia Commons
The Dictator's Second Thoughts
I’m exhausted by the sight
of people huddled together,
waiting for their next instruction.
I’m weary of them
doing everything I say.
I’m bored with reflexive responses
And I’ve had it with those
who cannot think for themselves.
I only need to step into the midst
of my followers
and they bow down
to my god-like presence.
It’s demeaning.
It’s troubling.
If only I wasn’t enjoying this
so much.
Separation Anxiety
My thoughts are of you tonight
as I stroll east side streets,
casting my shadow with the trees,
humming something
I can’t put a name to,
looking up, now and then,
at the grinning half-moon.
In my imagination fatigue,
I’m looking around for images,
a flower, a bat, a flag,
go right by the neighborhood bar,
though there might be the answer.
What high regard I hold you in.
Especially at night,
when I’m the only one on foot.
Sure, there’s the occasional face
in the window.
But it’s never my face.
Not yours either.
So where are you exactly?
The other side of the country?
Venice beach?
Sunning on the sand?
Checking out the muscle men?
These are all opposites of how
I remember you.
But you changed.
And, when it comes to change,
who knows if, like time,
it ever has a stop.
So where am I going exactly?
Not toward home
though my door is the
only one open to me.
On some kind of
absurd odyssey perhaps
that ends when my legs plead,
“No more.”
I blame America.
It’s too wide, has far too many coasts for its own good.
It can not only separate people
by circumstance
but by miles as well.
It contains states as
small as Rhode Island,
as large as California.
But its people know no borders
Vacation Time
One’s arranged on the sand,
jeweled and reddening
A crab clasps her ankle.
Another is sniffing the frangipani.
A father dunks a young son’s head
like a baptism.
Old woman at the tiki bar,
is sipping on a drink,
her tongue deftly
avoiding the umbrella.
Each breath draws salt from the air,
this aquamarine realm,
where grown men leap
about like children
and you run up the sand to me
with slick wet steps.
If it wasn’t so hot,
I’d ask you to dance.
Instead, I hold you still and smiling,
leave all tourists behind
with a sustained hug.
In my dream,
I would reverse this film
then roll it forward, over and over.
Those are the kind of home-movies
that shine in my subconscious.
So many people take selfies
with the ocean,
no matter who
drowned in its depths.
Maybe when they look at the result,
they’ll see a vision,
a departing spirit.
Maybe not.
A young woman reclines,
before her man,
like an odalisque concealing little
of her nether parts..
He sighs and collapses at her feet.
Strangely absent in the
frame are wildlife.
But for that ankle-clasping crab.
And the usual array of shells
flung soundlessly ashore.
A young girl cries at the shock
of too much sun.
We head back into the water.
You play-drown.
I rescue you every time
though the water is
sour on the tongue.
Then a huge wave
comes out of nowhere,
swings a big hammer,
shatters a row of surfers.
Bodies pile atop bodies.
But, no worry, all are salvageable.
It’s all a good time.
We may as well be having it.
On a Rescue Mission to Save Myself
I’ve returned to the shore
just as the sun’s breaking through
almost perpendicular.
Sight is
like a stream
from here to there,
whether rock to inlet
or sand to gull.
Some things are beyond me,
but not primrose,
or reed pools,
shutting out bad memories
to concentrate on this –
except concentrate
is the wrong word –
I’ll stay with primrose.
No events here,
the only lines
the ones left by bare feet,
the rest can keep
for later
and eat their old and their young
as they always do.
For now,
every living thing
is indifferent to me –
just the way I like it –
a crab may nip
but it doesn’t stab.
It’s all bayberry clumps,
a sanderling congregation
in constant change,
much fishing flight
curved on wind,
but always need at the center.
Waves slap against my toes
in disorderly fashion,
changing shapes
work in and out of my feet,
all in aid of formlessness
and the swallow of deep salty breath.
The images are all around
but they don’t force
themselves on me.
No escape route is needed,
not even from the
greater ocean forces.
This is one walk
among many to come.
There is no finality at work.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Evening Street Review and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.