On the Riverbank, Below the Bridge
The bridge reminds me that,
for five miles upstream,
and seven miles down,
there are no other bridges.
Look back, there’s void,
Look too far ahead
and I’ve only the moon for company.
The river is a snake’s backbone
and here it is braced with steel and light.
I follow the cars crossing,
as each, in turn, vanishes into the vehicle ahead
as it’s subsumed by the one following.
To get to the other side,
this bridge is the only way.
To watch the world go on without me,
this peaceful place makes it palatable.
Advice to the Aging
Stay away from mirrors at all costs.
Walk some place where you can commune with nature.
Birds, mammals and foliage are not ageist
though a hungry bear might rush right by you
in a quest for someone younger and fresher.
Don’t take this as an insult.
If you feel unwise, don’t speak.
Just nod your head.
Body language, without words
to make you sound like a fool,
can add 20 points to your apparent IQ.
From your park bench throne,
keep your eye on young lovers.
Try to remember when you were their age.
If you can’t, fake it.
If you can and you were as lonely then
as you are now,
fake it even more.
Let the name Martha bring a tear to your eye
even if you knew no one named Martha.
Buy a daily newspaper
and turn directly to the obits.
It’s like the sports scores for the game of life.
Anyone who dies at an age
younger than you
is a point in your favor.
Deduct the ones older.
Puff out your chest in public.
In private, let it report to the mean.
Say the words, “Wait until you get to my age,”
exclusively to your children.
Visit the grave of your partner in life
twice a year at most.
Don’t waste, “I’ll be with you soon”
on a tombstone.
Save it for your chiropractor.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Rathalla Review. Latest books: Covert, Memory Outside The Head and Guest Of Myself are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.
The bridge reminds me that,
for five miles upstream,
and seven miles down,
there are no other bridges.
Look back, there’s void,
Look too far ahead
and I’ve only the moon for company.
The river is a snake’s backbone
and here it is braced with steel and light.
I follow the cars crossing,
as each, in turn, vanishes into the vehicle ahead
as it’s subsumed by the one following.
To get to the other side,
this bridge is the only way.
To watch the world go on without me,
this peaceful place makes it palatable.
Advice to the Aging
Stay away from mirrors at all costs.
Walk some place where you can commune with nature.
Birds, mammals and foliage are not ageist
though a hungry bear might rush right by you
in a quest for someone younger and fresher.
Don’t take this as an insult.
If you feel unwise, don’t speak.
Just nod your head.
Body language, without words
to make you sound like a fool,
can add 20 points to your apparent IQ.
From your park bench throne,
keep your eye on young lovers.
Try to remember when you were their age.
If you can’t, fake it.
If you can and you were as lonely then
as you are now,
fake it even more.
Let the name Martha bring a tear to your eye
even if you knew no one named Martha.
Buy a daily newspaper
and turn directly to the obits.
It’s like the sports scores for the game of life.
Anyone who dies at an age
younger than you
is a point in your favor.
Deduct the ones older.
Puff out your chest in public.
In private, let it report to the mean.
Say the words, “Wait until you get to my age,”
exclusively to your children.
Visit the grave of your partner in life
twice a year at most.
Don’t waste, “I’ll be with you soon”
on a tombstone.
Save it for your chiropractor.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Rathalla Review. Latest books: Covert, Memory Outside The Head and Guest Of Myself are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.