John Grey- Three Poems

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and Sanskrit with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Owen Wister Review and Louisiana Literature.   

FROM THE REAL BATTLE ZONE

Her nail fought hard against the itch

in her right shoulder. And he battled

the lint in his sweater to an honorable

draw. The kids were the combatants

who actually got to lay hands on one

another but just a push here, a kick

in the shins there. And just as prelude

to the real war: the boy versus all

fifty state capitals, the girl against

the knots in her hair. These were

skirmishes the news forgot in its lust

for bloodier confrontations. No suicide

bombers but a wine glass fell and shattered.

No bodies on stretchers but Band-Aid on

finger cut, dirty clothes in hamper.

According to a reporter in Iraq,

people are afraid. The streets are empty.

So the world is a dangerous place.

But try living elsewhere.

LOVE AT HIS SPEED

The speeding tickets in the glove compartment

don't say much for his obedience to one law at least.

He collects them like…

you bite your thought like it' s a tongue,

before the word "women" slips out.

He ignores the signs.

Should you ignore the one you made -

"Brenda, are you sure?"

And then he accelerates that convertible

on a straight stretch of highway

even though you beg him to slow down.

Your feelings, his needs,

and only one steering wheel.

Will it always be like this?

A crash? A breakup?

Blood or tears ~

they both pour from a vein.

He's going even faster.

Your heart plays ping pong with your throat.

You love him,

but not at this speed.

He slaps the wind around

like it's your face.

And whatever's in the rearview

gets what it deserves.

Finally, he stops, parks by an overlook.

"Lovely," you both say,

he for the drama,  you for the stillness.

OBLIVIOUS

The cemetery forgets itself.

Every stone, every angel,

even that rich man's mausoleum

gleam with sun.

Where is the gloom my emotions promised?

Am I in the wrong place?

In truth, I expected rain.

Not everywhere,

just here,

a gray cloud drooping

over the graveyard

as if pulled on

by the unwitting magnetism of the dead.

But the sun shines broadly.

Amid all these names and dates,

it still finds time for photosynthesis.

It follows me and my bundle of flowers.

Then it's at my side.

And, finally, it somehow reaches

the grave ahead of me.

Is it playing devil's advocate?

Or more likely, it's antonym?

I'm here to be nothing but morose

and yet it offers a presence

at odds with those buried below me.

All around, there are pools of brightness.

Even the willows give up

all pretense of shade and shadow.

Can I really place my bouquet

and be happy doing so?

The word is dark, dammit.

Or if not, the last word in oblivious.