WHERE IT ALL BEGAN
It was back in the Garden
when it was just two people,
one man, one woman,
and there were no jobs
because jobs weren’t needed,
for all was provided for,
from luscious fruit,
thick shady forest, perfect weather,
to creatures neither wild nor tame,
but perfect accoutrements
for any situation.
Sure, there was the one tree
of the forbidden apple variety
that was marked off-limits
but everything else
was for the couple’s pleasure.
But then the snake got involved,
sold the female
on the thrills to be had
by biting into one of the fruit
from the off-limits tree,
and she succumbed
to his seductive hiss,
even involved the man
in her disobedience,
unwittingly introduced the concept of sin
This led to banishment,
the need to provide for themselves
in a hostile world,
and a situation where everything they did
would be a moral, a warning,
a metaphor, a literary reference,
for those that followed.
Your friends you get to choose.
But you’re stuck with your creation myths.
TO THE BIRD WHO FLEW INTO OUR WINDOW
That blue sky
reflected in my window
is just that – a reflection.
What you just flew into
is nothing but glass.
you were merely stunned,
could gather your wits,
The thing is
that this house
has many windows,
many images of blue.
The clue should be
the wood frame that surrounds them.
What I’m trying to make
you understand is
that this is a house,
a human habitat.
The windows are for us,
the family, to look out of,
to make believe we are part
of what’s outside.
And, yes, that includes sky.
It’s best for you
if you’re fully aware
of our intentions and pretentions,
and how architecture
is predicated on our lifestyle.
In other words,
for your sake,
and so we have no
you stick to the real sky.
the one with the drones and airplanes.
Hands in cave pool,
You could be a third way,
got it one moment, lose it the next,
kind of guy.
You'd have one pocket empty, the other full.
And one hand would steal
what the other couldn't give away.
A great number of
Secrets are impossible to keep.
at this beer-soaked wedding party.
People feast on rumor like bees on flowers,
Tell the ugly truth now.
Forgive yourself later.
Or, better yet,
if you’re the gossiper,
face as hairy as a caterpillar,
and just as many moving parts.
Everything in nature
is an outraged mixture
of slow anguish and bottled fury.
In the domain of human linkage,
you know you’re not at your best.
You choke on what you ever saw in her.
There’s not enough
trapdoors to go around.
Throw some shine on the leaky walls.
You’d rather be home with the baby.
Feel the wrinkles in your brow.
Fingers like cars on a bumpy road.
You left early.
One last glance in her direction.
Still infatuated with bourbon and the dark.
No sign of your eyes.
A breeze from somewhere.
Such an unanswerable question
Survive first, that's your motto.
She's no longer within your reach,
only your want.
She’s run off with an ex-boxer.
He’s right ear looks like a club steak.
So much for the former debutante,
You’re both actors frozen in tepid applause,
Something in the water.
Blind fish perhaps.
Afraid of the intruder.
What if you told the world you were the father?
What if you love were less juvenile?
You could be building a nest
for your pink shivering offspring.
Instead, you’re exploring a cave.
John Grey is an Australian poet/US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books “Leaves On Pages,” “Memory Outside The Head,” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.