—Poetry by John Gray, Johnston, RI
—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain
—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain
THE GUY ON HIS WAY
Don’t worry.
He’s on his way.
Busting through the speed limit no doubt.
Day or night
is no matter to him.
He wants to be here.
That’s why he doesn’t stop.
Not to sleep. Not to eat.
And the weather doesn’t bother him.
A flood? He plows right through.
A blizzard? If he can’t see a thing
in front of him, he trusts in his second sight.
He knows where you are
and that’s all that matters.
He can’t wait to see you.
You can’t wait to be with him.
Nothing really happens here without him.
Unless you count pacing back and forth.
And staring out windows.
You even rehearse opening the front door.
Even though he has a key.
You’re impatient.
You’re anxious.
He’s screaming at the surrounding trees
for growing so far from home.
He hates the miles for being so many.
When he actually arrives,
it may well be a disappointment.
This is the real love.
The anticipation.
The nibs of your fingernails.
The constant wear on his engine and tires.
Don’t worry.
He’s on his way.
Busting through the speed limit no doubt.
Day or night
is no matter to him.
He wants to be here.
That’s why he doesn’t stop.
Not to sleep. Not to eat.
And the weather doesn’t bother him.
A flood? He plows right through.
A blizzard? If he can’t see a thing
in front of him, he trusts in his second sight.
He knows where you are
and that’s all that matters.
He can’t wait to see you.
You can’t wait to be with him.
Nothing really happens here without him.
Unless you count pacing back and forth.
And staring out windows.
You even rehearse opening the front door.
Even though he has a key.
You’re impatient.
You’re anxious.
He’s screaming at the surrounding trees
for growing so far from home.
He hates the miles for being so many.
When he actually arrives,
it may well be a disappointment.
This is the real love.
The anticipation.
The nibs of your fingernails.
The constant wear on his engine and tires.
UP
North,
the current state of madness,
even the moderate rowing crazily
and a colossal assembly
flapping their wings.
In honor of pain
transposed between hearts,
the shattered, the unbuttoning,
the crooked lighthouse through it all.
Unfinished poems,
fermenting, semi-downcast,
forlorn paeans to Nutcase City
posing as secluded heart-to-hearts,
cluttered, wayward,
and no customers lining up
to read them.
So here I am,
lonely in a dumb-ass way,
saying goodbye to
someone who’s not here,
unable to comfort my own shadow,
a sea-sick picnicker
on the outer bank of fear.
South,
the new direction,
warmer supposedly,
so why the thick jacket,
why the map pointing west,
why the head bursting
from the overload
and the lights all shining
from the east.
Oh well, duped again,
sniffing the soil
of my own burial ground—
maybe that’s the south I mean—
salt and wind and a desolate course
to where the worms get their jollies.
Meanwhile,
the doctor found my notebook,
wants to cut my head off,
says I’m formless
and on the fringe of something dangerous
if not spectacular
that could involve much weeping,
much gnashing of teeth,
as I wander the desert
moaning and lifeless—
and then there’s “up”—
the only direction unaccounted for.
North,
the current state of madness,
even the moderate rowing crazily
and a colossal assembly
flapping their wings.
In honor of pain
transposed between hearts,
the shattered, the unbuttoning,
the crooked lighthouse through it all.
Unfinished poems,
fermenting, semi-downcast,
forlorn paeans to Nutcase City
posing as secluded heart-to-hearts,
cluttered, wayward,
and no customers lining up
to read them.
So here I am,
lonely in a dumb-ass way,
saying goodbye to
someone who’s not here,
unable to comfort my own shadow,
a sea-sick picnicker
on the outer bank of fear.
South,
the new direction,
warmer supposedly,
so why the thick jacket,
why the map pointing west,
why the head bursting
from the overload
and the lights all shining
from the east.
Oh well, duped again,
sniffing the soil
of my own burial ground—
maybe that’s the south I mean—
salt and wind and a desolate course
to where the worms get their jollies.
Meanwhile,
the doctor found my notebook,
wants to cut my head off,
says I’m formless
and on the fringe of something dangerous
if not spectacular
that could involve much weeping,
much gnashing of teeth,
as I wander the desert
moaning and lifeless—
and then there’s “up”—
the only direction unaccounted for.
THE WOMAN, THE BAR AND BEYOND
I’m a victim of stuffed ballot boxes,
of right-wing conspiracies. The crowd laughs.
After a few drinks, I laugh along with them.
Always, I see you as the cause.
The bar is your burial ground.
I toast you with a typically bitter cliché.
The bartender raves on. The counter shines.
Some other guy finds a lady,
takes her back to his room.
Another woman fixes her hair in a pocket mirror,
ignores the come-ons from the drunken lotharios.
I wonder how this impression of you wound up here.
Must be the setting. Everyone either deep in themselves
or so far out that their lives get away for good.
Not many at least out to change the world.
I am in Providence now.
On a stool, heavily into stillness.
Shadows dash across the ceiling
like long-legged spiders.
Slobbering footsteps kick up the dust.
I forget myself. Then I remember.
When I left your religion, I took a long bath,
puzzled over commitment that died
and never once asked “Why me?”
Now I nibble on red-shelled pistachio nuts,
suck down beer, ignore any and all warnings,
not wanting to change myself, only my heart and mind.
I order another beer, drink it down,
then go home thinking how out of place and time I am,
not raising hell, not sobbing like a child,
a ruckus inside to be sure,
some money in my pocket,
my face doing a believable imitation
of a good time,
dealing more with what’s in front of my nose
than what happened in the past.
I leave before the dancers come on,
the ones that forget themselves,
strip down to their misery for the scattered patrons.
It is a dog-watch-naked-dog world.
as your stormy email explained.
Making your point over and over,
too late as it just so happens.
You never received my answer.
It was a long pause, untranslatable into words.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Just when you think it can't get any worse, it can. And just when you think it can't get any better, it can.
―Nicholas Sparks, At First Sight
______________________
Kitchen Newcomer John Grey is an Australian poet and now US resident who was recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review, and Floyd County Moonshine. Latest books, Covert, Memory Outside The Head, and Guest Of Myself, are available through Amazon, and there is work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings. Welcome to the Kitchen, John, and don’t be a stranger!
Tonight (and the other Thursdays in April) at 5:30pm, Lodi Poet Laureate Nancy Gonzalez St. Claire will lead a poetry workshop at the Lodi Public Library. Then at 6pm in Grass Valley, there will be another Sierra Poetry Festival Pop-Up, this time with The Poetry Crashers. And in Sacramento, 8pm, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe presents Los Escritoires del Nuevo Sol plus open mic. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
______________________
—Medusa
I’m a victim of stuffed ballot boxes,
of right-wing conspiracies. The crowd laughs.
After a few drinks, I laugh along with them.
Always, I see you as the cause.
The bar is your burial ground.
I toast you with a typically bitter cliché.
The bartender raves on. The counter shines.
Some other guy finds a lady,
takes her back to his room.
Another woman fixes her hair in a pocket mirror,
ignores the come-ons from the drunken lotharios.
I wonder how this impression of you wound up here.
Must be the setting. Everyone either deep in themselves
or so far out that their lives get away for good.
Not many at least out to change the world.
I am in Providence now.
On a stool, heavily into stillness.
Shadows dash across the ceiling
like long-legged spiders.
Slobbering footsteps kick up the dust.
I forget myself. Then I remember.
When I left your religion, I took a long bath,
puzzled over commitment that died
and never once asked “Why me?”
Now I nibble on red-shelled pistachio nuts,
suck down beer, ignore any and all warnings,
not wanting to change myself, only my heart and mind.
I order another beer, drink it down,
then go home thinking how out of place and time I am,
not raising hell, not sobbing like a child,
a ruckus inside to be sure,
some money in my pocket,
my face doing a believable imitation
of a good time,
dealing more with what’s in front of my nose
than what happened in the past.
I leave before the dancers come on,
the ones that forget themselves,
strip down to their misery for the scattered patrons.
It is a dog-watch-naked-dog world.
as your stormy email explained.
Making your point over and over,
too late as it just so happens.
You never received my answer.
It was a long pause, untranslatable into words.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Just when you think it can't get any worse, it can. And just when you think it can't get any better, it can.
―Nicholas Sparks, At First Sight
______________________
Kitchen Newcomer John Grey is an Australian poet and now US resident who was recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review, and Floyd County Moonshine. Latest books, Covert, Memory Outside The Head, and Guest Of Myself, are available through Amazon, and there is work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings. Welcome to the Kitchen, John, and don’t be a stranger!
Tonight (and the other Thursdays in April) at 5:30pm, Lodi Poet Laureate Nancy Gonzalez St. Claire will lead a poetry workshop at the Lodi Public Library. Then at 6pm in Grass Valley, there will be another Sierra Poetry Festival Pop-Up, this time with The Poetry Crashers. And in Sacramento, 8pm, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe presents Los Escritoires del Nuevo Sol plus open mic. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
______________________
—Medusa
For more about National Poetry Month,
including ways to celebrate, see
https://poets.org/national-poetry-month.
And sign up for Poem-a-Day at
https://poets.org/poem-a-day/, plus
read about Poem in Your Pocket Day
(this year, April 27) at
https://poets.org/national-poetry-month/poem-your-pocket-day/.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
including ways to celebrate, see
https://poets.org/national-poetry-month.
And sign up for Poem-a-Day at
https://poets.org/poem-a-day/, plus
read about Poem in Your Pocket Day
(this year, April 27) at
https://poets.org/national-poetry-month/poem-your-pocket-day/.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
