Enjoy the writing of Mr. John Grey!
WOMAN ON THE MOVE
She’s 89, still drives a car,
this ancient wreck she refers to
as “the machine,”
A miracle, the radio still works
and she still finds the one station
that plays classical,
her favorites Bach, Beethoven,
that whippersnapper, Mozart.
She only steers that beast to
the supermarket and pharmacy now,
ten blocks, crawling twenty miles an hour.
The van comes for her
when it’s time to see her doctor.
She walks a little
though she’s not too thrilled with stairs.
And her son, all of 61, must come for her,
if she’s to visit family.
Of course, those rides are accompanied by
that dreaded rock and roll.
Her life is all about transport,
Even when she’s sitting in her kitchen,
drinking coffee, playing solitaire,
she’s never far from the next bathroom visit,
laundry cycle, telephone ring,
Seventh Day Adventist at the door.
She knows that if you stop too often
then you stop for good.
In her mind, even close at hand
is a place she has to get to.
A CAT PERSON
You ask me how I am with cats.
deaf as a door,
writing symphonies with my ear
hard against the piano keys.
I’m de Kooning
splashing paint all over canvases
or Mohammed Ali
pounding out Sonny Liston.
I’m Edison inventing the light bulb
or I’m Jefferson,
up half the night
drafting the Declaration of Independence.
Hey, I’m even Mark Twain…
remember Huckleberry Finn
and I’m Jeremiah the Prophet
and J.M. Keynes,
Keynesian to the core.
And let’s not forget Douglas McArthur,
Benito Mussolini and Carl Sandburg.. .all me.
All me with cats.
I’m David Hume, the philosopher,
and Pittrnan who invented the stenographer
and Babe Ruth pointing to where
that next home run blast was going to soar.
I’m Moses, both Ed the hurdler,
and that Red Sea parter
and not forgetting Hiawatha
and the Venetian Boys Choir.
Sorry, I thought you said
who am I with cats.
Really, you’ll find I love dogs
more than anything.
A guy’s in the park with a metal detector,
sweeping over the tall grass, looking for treasure-
He finds a coin here and there, though
his man’s toy fails to detect a wind-blown, twenty buck note.
Tin cans send that apparatus into ecstasy
but fine jewelry leaves it cold.
He figures he’ll get rich this way,
the earth giving up its bounty just the way God planned it.
But at the end of the day what does he have:
three pennies, a rusty key and a hub-cap.
Late afternoon, he packs up his car, goes home with nothing
but promises himself he’ll be back the next day.
A guy runs a detector over his life and hope pops up.
John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in International Poetry Review, Chrysalis and the science fiction anthology, “Futuredaze”with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Sanskrit and Osiris.