Back From Separation
This place I’m living now
has been like a coma
out of which I woke up curiously refreshed
eager to get back to who I am.
I know my own name.
I’m aware of my history.
For a long time, I was cracked like a wrist.
And now I have a pin in me.
Acknowledging a new kind of self-awareness,
I find solitude infinitely inferior.
So I figure if I want it enough
then something has to happen.
Like you finding it necessary to have me around.
And open arms coming at me from all directions.
Separated, we’re always being judged.
But people can get away with being together.
Hermitage
Curt and I come up the hill
toward the old hermit’s shack,
following the narrow trail in single file.
If Mad Jake was still living,
and peering out his front window,
he’d see Curt up front
in his frayed straw hat
and me lagging behind,
bare-headed and with a full brow of sweat.
The path, worn smooth by boots,
runs plum-line straight
between yellow rows of wheat
but, as it approaches the cottage,
it veers to the right,
gives that place a wide berth.
For, even at high noon,
the place looks haunted.
Not just by Mad Jake
who’s five years in the ground
but by the thought of why a man
would want to spend
the last years of his life,
keeping to himself,
hardly seeing a soul.
The windows are busted.
The door’s half off its hinges.
And the way in and out
is overgrown with weeds.
Neither brave Curt or timid me
are willing to explore Mad Jake’s old dwelling.
We might see his ghost.
We might even get to feel
the way he did about other people.
And I’m with Curt.
Curt’s with me.
We keep to the trail
as it heads back toward the golden fields,
once again straight,
and flat, well-traveled.
To My Fellow Travelers On This Planet
Outside my window,
there's no dispute,
not when it comes to bird song:
robin trill, blue-jay hack,
new day made to order.
In this bedroom though,
the night won't quite let go,
dreams linger as fog,
eyes open begrudgingly,
my body hails inertia
as the rule by which we live by.
Through the pane,
light and warm
buff their mutual attractions,
overrun skittish shadows,
thaw the chill of dark
from my skin.
At sun's insistence,
sleep's slow withdrawal,
a person is coming together.
I throw a robe around myself
to get the senses up and running.
My internal organs,
skeletal structure,
rise to the task
of descending the stairs
and later, coffee in hand,
my beliefs join the fray,
likewise my philosophy.
By the time.
my coffee's drunk,
I'm who I am.
And that's when who you are
kicks in.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, Leaves On Pages and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Lana Turner and International Poetry Review.
This place I’m living now
has been like a coma
out of which I woke up curiously refreshed
eager to get back to who I am.
I know my own name.
I’m aware of my history.
For a long time, I was cracked like a wrist.
And now I have a pin in me.
Acknowledging a new kind of self-awareness,
I find solitude infinitely inferior.
So I figure if I want it enough
then something has to happen.
Like you finding it necessary to have me around.
And open arms coming at me from all directions.
Separated, we’re always being judged.
But people can get away with being together.
Hermitage
Curt and I come up the hill
toward the old hermit’s shack,
following the narrow trail in single file.
If Mad Jake was still living,
and peering out his front window,
he’d see Curt up front
in his frayed straw hat
and me lagging behind,
bare-headed and with a full brow of sweat.
The path, worn smooth by boots,
runs plum-line straight
between yellow rows of wheat
but, as it approaches the cottage,
it veers to the right,
gives that place a wide berth.
For, even at high noon,
the place looks haunted.
Not just by Mad Jake
who’s five years in the ground
but by the thought of why a man
would want to spend
the last years of his life,
keeping to himself,
hardly seeing a soul.
The windows are busted.
The door’s half off its hinges.
And the way in and out
is overgrown with weeds.
Neither brave Curt or timid me
are willing to explore Mad Jake’s old dwelling.
We might see his ghost.
We might even get to feel
the way he did about other people.
And I’m with Curt.
Curt’s with me.
We keep to the trail
as it heads back toward the golden fields,
once again straight,
and flat, well-traveled.
To My Fellow Travelers On This Planet
Outside my window,
there's no dispute,
not when it comes to bird song:
robin trill, blue-jay hack,
new day made to order.
In this bedroom though,
the night won't quite let go,
dreams linger as fog,
eyes open begrudgingly,
my body hails inertia
as the rule by which we live by.
Through the pane,
light and warm
buff their mutual attractions,
overrun skittish shadows,
thaw the chill of dark
from my skin.
At sun's insistence,
sleep's slow withdrawal,
a person is coming together.
I throw a robe around myself
to get the senses up and running.
My internal organs,
skeletal structure,
rise to the task
of descending the stairs
and later, coffee in hand,
my beliefs join the fray,
likewise my philosophy.
By the time.
my coffee's drunk,
I'm who I am.
And that's when who you are
kicks in.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, Leaves On Pages and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Lana Turner and International Poetry Review.