by John Grey
OUR ARRIVALS Tim was born to a clamdigger, a man who tucked the ends of his trousers into his boots and mucked about in the muddy shoreline. Tim popped out of a shell one day, crying, “I’m your son, please don’t eat me.” Pete’s old man was a trapper. Pete was one of three that grizzled gent found in his snares one morning, the only one who wasn’t a rabbit. My dad worked on the railway. He saw my face in the steam of some Puffing Billy. My eyes blinked warily through the haze. MOTORBOAT In late afternoon, the gentle ripple is a mood within me, as are the ones out in the water, leaving movement to the salt breeze or the heart-like pulse of oars. I sit on the shore of a bay of wood and masts, a forest of sails, of canoes that barely broach the surface. But then a loud drone comes from nowhere, batters the water as if its prow is pummeling fists. Everyone else is yachting or rowing. But the man in the motor boat takes speed like fingernails and runs them down what once shone like glass. Just one interloper and peace is outnumbered. A TOMORROW POEM As to tomorrow’s deportment, delightful or dour, I’ve no idea. Like every other tomorrow, it may take me to places I’ve never been or reverse course, send me all the way back to childhood. It could hurtle me into the future. Or stick me on some treadmill, make me sweat the stasis. I’d prefer something different even if it means giving up what I have become so used to. But I hope is that nothing will be forgotten, even if I can’t lay my hands on it in the moment. I’ve lived through more tomorrows than Edison had ideas. Today is a kind of legacy. Tomorrow will either set it aside, or embrace it as the fuel for going on. The old adage has it that tomorrow never comes. But it does for me. Maybe not to the ones who say that. REGARDING MATTHEW To the end of his life he remained awkward with others, introverted, a cocoon of thoughts and emotions he was reluctant to crack open. Too modest by half, he was as shy as a deer, a soul disbelieving in what the world could offer, preferring instead, the solitude of the outdoors, to measure time by the shapes of the inconstant moon, listen to wind swishing in high trees like wise ones swapping secrets, and to watch stars come into being, night after night, looking up as they looked down through veils of watery dark. These and so much else were his alone, a moving and unrepentant joy. So what, if he never really mixed with people. Being on his own worked in any company. OUR ARRIVALS Tim was born to a clamdigger, a man who tucked the ends of his trousers into his boots and mucked about in the muddy shoreline. Tim popped out of a shell one day, crying, “I’m your son, please don’t eat me.” Pete’s old man was a trapper. Pete was one of three that grizzled gent found in his snares one morning, the only one who wasn’t a rabbit. My dad worked on the railway. He saw my face in the steam of some Puffing Billy. My eyes blinked warily through the haze. MOTORBOAT In late afternoon, the gentle ripple is a mood within me, as are the ones out in the water, leaving movement to the salt breeze or the heart-like pulse of oars. I sit on the shore of a bay of wood and masts, a forest of sails, of canoes that barely broach the surface. But then a loud drone comes from nowhere, batters the water as if its prow is pummeling fists. Everyone else is yachting or rowing. But the man in the motor boat takes speed like fingernails and runs them down what once shone like glass. Just one interloper and peace is outnumbered. A TOMORROW POEM As to tomorrow’s deportment, delightful or dour, I’ve no idea. Like every other tomorrow, it may take me to places I’ve never been or reverse course, send me all the way back to childhood. It could hurtle me into the future. Or stick me on some treadmill, make me sweat the stasis. I’d prefer something different even if it means giving up what I have become so used to. But I hope is that nothing will be forgotten, even if I can’t lay my hands on it in the moment. I’ve lived through more tomorrows than Edison had ideas. Today is a kind of legacy. Tomorrow will either set it aside, or embrace it as the fuel for going on. The old adage has it that tomorrow never comes. But it does for me. Maybe not to the ones who say that. REGARDING MATTHEW To the end of his life he remained awkward with others, introverted, a cocoon of thoughts and emotions he was reluctant to crack open. Too modest by half, he was as shy as a deer, a soul disbelieving in what the world could offer, preferring instead, the solitude of the outdoors, to measure time by the shapes of the inconstant moon, listen to wind swishing in high trees like wise ones swapping secrets, and to watch stars come into being, night after night, looking up as they looked down through veils of watery dark. These and so much else were his alone, a moving and unrepentant joy. So what, if he never really mixed with people. Being on his own worked in any company.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. His latest books are, Leaves On Pages, Memory Outside The Head and Guest Of Myself, available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.
RUNDELANIA 