John Grey

‍GHOST

Ghost.

Phantom.

Revenant.

Can’t even get the name right.

Here’s the drill.

Terrifying the cat / or curled in your ribs / or neither.

An ancestral leakage.

A gleam. Rind. A body made of almost.

And what gives?

A shoulder.

A weather pattern.

The thing behind the weather.

And then there’s

wind-wail.

Confession sponge.

A job without description.

Just masks rotating.

Dust and mist cojoining.

A punch clock outside of time.

What are the rules?

Should it scare?

Or comfort?

Should it be an email from the afterlife?

Or misguided proof that this life never ends?

And what are the boundaries?

Cat = streak of refusal.

Hallway = escape route.

Ghost = undecided.

SOME TIME

The windows

are open

yet the house

holds its breath.

the children

lie about -

too hot

for television,

for books,

for toys

that sit

like a box

of nails

that the sun

is not through

hammering.

LEVEL

Distance.

Age.

Number.

Thickness.

2X765-242"X10

76 (7X 12, or 62

77-995" (2x19")

43-21" (2 RC)

Millennial age through a world perfected.

The geometric arises out of its pryamid base.

(accords with the conceptual framework)
Death distances itself from axis.

Enlightenment emerges through the mists of utter imperfection.

Gain or loss is merely an interpretation.

(A statement in code writ large in my brown eyes.)

PRODIGAL SON

Back home          basic symmetry

            I’m the son of a persistent cough

Once kicked out to the sidewalk

before careering on ahead.

Then forgotten

            now being involved.

Pricking the child’s bath bubbles

            fixing ten thousand dripping taps.

Prodigal son       many a winter elsewhere

            but back in the land of his birds and bees.

Blushed my way through then

            now I’m as buoyant as white-capped waters.

Even now bodies have a bad reputation

            along with books and music.

Books                          music

            celebrated the broadsiding of society.

Then here’s me with many boxes

            a bracelet but no breast.

Brown cheeks and brow    breath some of the old air

            work my way into weightlessness.

Float above my old life           in tight-fitted jeans.

            the pose in the mirror mesmerizing.

I grew up in an age

            of grit and florets weaving together.

No idea what any of it meant

            (haze separates mountains from land)

Then there’s the girl next door

            still next door and uncomfortable on her own./

Dark brown eyes meet mine and she smiles

            I am something old yet unexpected.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Willow Review and White Wall Review. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the MacGuffin, Touchstone and Willow Review.