ADIRONDACKS IN FALL
by John Grey
The great bird forest
sheds its red and gold feathers;
on the trail through the woodland
they alight
as soft as palms patting
the heads of babies;
across the pond
where a few leaves float
like crinkled lily-pads,
a beaver slips
from shore to dam
with kindling in its teeth;
the breeze blows cool
and the dead descend,
from a sun
now even farther afield,
light pulling away
from weary trees
grown tired of growth;
free of civilization,
I needn’t recognize
a single aspect of myself.
TUBES TIED
She had her tubes tied at 35.
Too many failed pregnancies.
Too much anticipation
bleeding on the kitchen floor.
She confessed it to the priest.
His response was garbled.
She retreated into a dozen
half-hearted “hail Marys”,
and fingers wrapped tight
around rosary beads.
But her body would
never fool her again.
It would be the provenance
of sickness and disease
and nothing more.
No more exhaustion by hope.
None of that doptone
on her stomach
listening for ghosts.
From now on,
if she isn’t feeling good,
the reason’s simple.
There is no good to feel.
HAWK
So the bird you feed
is killed by the hawk you didn’t see coming.
You put the seed on the tray.
You hung it from the oh so visible branch.
You watched as birds descended in their numbers.
You took advantage of their hunger.
You invited the victims in.
And then you stared in horror
as the huge predator dropped down
and gripped a startled starling in its talons,
snapped its neck,
flew up to a rooftop,
and devoured its flesh,
spit out the feathers and bone.
But you still feed the birds.
You watch their antics from your window.
And they still sing between mouthfuls,
get in their thanks
before your return as a hawk.
DEGREES OF SEPARATION ANYONE?
For me to be with Angela,
I had to meet a man
who introduced me to his cousin
whose best friend worked
at a bookstore I was unaware existed
which I began to frequent
on a regular basis
where I found myself
one Tuesday evening
side by side with a
young woman in the
“American History” section
who invited me to
a gathering of herself
and a number of like-minds
at a nearby coffee shop
where I began chatting
to another young woman
who, after a date or two,
felt like it wouldn’t work
between us but that
her younger sister and myself
were a much more likely couple.
And, here we are, years later,
and I run into that man
I met way back,
and I neither thank him
nor blame the guy
for my current situation
because it would be
too complicated,
too convoluted to explain,
and, as for the younger sister
of the woman I dated
who was part of gathering
of like-minds
in a coffee shop
that I became temporarily
involved with
thanks to another woman
I met in the “American History”
section of a bookstore
where worked this best friend
of the cousin of the guy
I met way back
and had just run into
for the first time in years –
her name wasn’t Angela.
No, Angela was the lovely woman
the man is out walking with.
This is where my story
really begins.
BIO
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, River And South and The Alembic. Latest books, Bittersweet, Subject Matters, and Between Two Fires are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Rush, White Wall Review, and Flights.
