Being Invisible

 —Poetry by John Grey, Johnston, RI

—Desert Photos by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

 

 

PUTTING OFF THE INEVITABLE

Your dog is blind in one eye,
deaf in one ear,
growing thinner,
and so arthritic these days,
he totters like a drunk
from his bed to his feed bowl.
And yet…
and yet…

You’re witness to life.
Sure, it’s a life
that can’t make its own decisions,
that knows no alternative
to living with infirmities, with pain.
Only you can put the poor mutt
out of its misery.
But your head can’t get around the fact
that sometimes death
is the vet who stocks the most reliable cures.

The dog is part of you, that’s the problem.
You wouldn’t give up an arm willingly.
But what if that arm was rotten with gangrene?
The old hound sits beside you,
head in your lap, looking up  
with eyes as sad as setting suns.
And yet…
and yet…
His sun can’t set.
Not while his company is your daylight. 

 

 

 

EMMA IN HIGH SCHOOL

It breaks her heart
that all famed explorers are men.

No feminine Silk Road.
No womankind New World.
No XX chromosome source of the Nile.

All women ever did
was give birth to Marco Polo, Columbus,
Richard Burton and their ilk.

Or marry them
and be left behind.

She regrets the hours she spent
learning their names,
their deeds,
while knowing nothing  
of their mothers and wives.

She earned an A for her troubles.
She wore it like Hester Prynne.

 

 

 

 

KISSING IN PUBLIC

Why conceal the evidence?
Why be invisible?
We’re still the same
whether anyone sees us or not.
A neighbor in her garden.
A cop on his beat.
An astronomer scanning the night sky.
We could be anywhere,
in any place, in any direction.
Like just now.
A hug worthy of the paparazzi.
Remember, you can’t be caught in the act
if there is no act.
So how about that irresistible embrace.
I’m Adonis.
You’re Aphrodite.
Let’s kiss
otherwise, it’s a boring time for all.

 

 

 

 

AT THE PUEBLO

From the circular gathering room
to the carvings in the clay,
ancient places have a voice
as do the bones of family fused together
and the painting of the old woman
with her crown of pure white hair.

History has no need to recreate itself.
It’s here in the Navajo hunting lodge.
In the huts. In language that shimmers behind
the clipped bright explanations of our guide.
In the dogs that bathe in dust.
In the tears of the leather-skinned man
as he tells his story.
To us, it’s just the day’s destination.
To him, it’s like the earth’s lullaby.
a million times replenished.

The gift shop offers
turquoise and silver bangles,
carved sandstone
seared by years of desert sun,
a rabbit jawbone,
or stones, perfectly round,
picked like fruit
from the surrounding cliff-face.
The woman behind the counter
has such delicate, dream-like skin.
Or could it just be
I’m in a delicate dream-like mood.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

—Carl Sandburg

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks and welcome back to John Grey for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 Edge of Evening, Monument Valley
Navajo Tribal Park, Arizona

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poets Club of Lincoln features
Allegra Silberstein today
in Lincoln, 3pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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the heat~