THE BIG BLACKOUT
In a room lit
by nothing more than candles,
all fall silent,
as if, in this storm,
voices went the same time as the power.
We see faces without bodies,
shadows lacking shape.
We hear the vicious boom of thunder
and the strafe of rain on roof.
We feel the supercharged heat
and its dubious release by lightning.
We sense each of us alone,
getting through weather’s drama
with fear or excitement,
prayer or denial,
but no two the same.
So why speak
when everyone else
is listening to themselves?
PERSONA
I do not own a pipe.
I’ve never even had one in my mouth.
Nor is there a tweed jacket in my wardrobe.
My thoughts are fluid, chancy, quicksilver,
but I would never refer to them as profound.
There’s no padded chair in my study.
Nor is there a Afghan hound.
Check out the wall
Not a sign anywhere of credentials-behind-glass.
My wife has a job.
She is not frail.
She does not shuffle about the house all day,
animating briefly at my arrivals or departures.
I despise finger-thin crustless sandwiches.
I haven’t the taste for cheap wine or oolong tea.
And I don’t write poems about cows on hills,
the more precocious of my students,
Robert Frost, childhood vacations, rose bushes,
ancient ceramics or hazy sunsets.
I have never been professorial material.
I was raised far from academe.
My one poetry lesson has been ongoing
since the time I was ten-years old.
I am the only student in the class,
I’m also the teacher.
A MAN NAMED FREDERICKS
This is very place
in the stark Arizona desert landscape
where, as the story goes,
a horse staggered and fell,
died of heat and exhaustion.
and the poor steed’s rider,
a man named Fredericks,
dined on the beast’s flesh,
survived until rescue came.
It is not the site of our first meeting,
that nervous initial kiss.
It’s not where the family home is located.
I guarantee I wasn’t raised here.
Nor is it the spot
where I witnessed my first ballgame
or finally snared that great job,
or did that amazing deal.
And it is definitely not
the setting for my long gone
but very favorite restaurant.
How do I know this?
Because horse was not on the menu.
WHAT I DID TO PLEASE HIM
learned the names of all the astronauts in the space program,
referred to him as part of the "greatest generation"
even before the term came in vogue,
never questioned his accuracy,
cried alongside him at his brother's funeral,
emptied his ashtrays,
never said a bad word about his grandmother's country of origin,
listened attentively to tales of holes-in-one,
watched pots bubble over in awe whenever he cooked pasta,
believed in Santa as long as he wanted me to,
took pride in whatever I would someday inherit.
recalled our times together,
helped him stain the cabinets, passed him the wrench,
found the hammer thought lost,
traveled back and forth to the refrigerator with his beers,
swept the driveway free of leaves,
gave up the TV remote when asked,
felt the emptiness when he died,
took how much I looked like him as his specific instruction,
adopted his fascination with airplanes,
learned every word of the anthem just to keep up with him at ballgames,
declared "I don't do windows" just as he did,
put my hand in his so he could fold fingers over mine,
turned his shaving kit into a shrine,
marched beside him like we were in a parade,
vowed to name my first boy after him and
if I ever became a politician, to celebrate his memory
with a bridge or a fountain,
retrieved his photos from the trunk in the attic,
trusted his advice,
bragged of him to others,
figured I would never have as much money as he carried in his wallet,
listened attentively while he gave a class in newspaper sports pages
or the fundamentals of faucets, washers and pipes,
complain about the weather whenever he did,
rushed to his side when he collapsed,
thought that, without him, what do I do with all this homage?
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, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa and Shot Glass Journal.
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