John Grey

 

John Grey

 

From Your Astronomy

 

Out of a box of clothes and books,

you heave a dusty telescope,

brush the lens with your elbow.

 

You take me on a tour of your childhood sky chart,

at midnight, constellations like diamond rings

round the tip of your pointing finger.

There's Canus Major, the begging dog.

And Leo, the glittering lion.

Not forgetting, Gemini, those boisterous twins

who never once gave you celestial grief

for being an only child.

 

These are the places, grand in their remoteness,

that begged you come,

those nights when you, so small,

were almost weightless

and it seemed as if, propelled by dream

or merely fancy,

no star begrudged your reach.

 

But you're a guide now, reciting histories of others.

Even your own younger self is a stranger.

The heavens haven't changed

but hand separates from heart

when you nudge Taurus from his grazing,

Aquarius from her golden jug.

You're twenty five and gravity has taken over.

You still have that telescope

but the sky looks down on you.

 

 

Lessons In Sneaking Out At Night

 

First thing is learn to

open and close the windows silently.

Grease them if you have to.

Every Gulag must have its reliable tunnels.

 

And come the late hour,

train yourself to not fall asleep.

Being wide awake at midnight

is as comforting as blanket used to be.

 

As out the hatch, from house to tree

and to the ground you slip,

tell yourself how boring it will be

when you can come and go

through the front door any time.

 

Head toward Main Street, a half a mile away

though it feels like you're going and going.

Meet the guys or the girl

at the preordained time and place,

like they're anybody, anywhere.

 

Hang out for a while, with a moon that

slipped from under the sun's nose,

and outside a barroom where more

escapees cock whiskey-red noses at absent keepers.

 

Everything's forbidden: your breath, your laugh,

the words you speak

that you don't know the actual meaning of.

And the sidewalk is taboo. The shuttered stores are outlawed.

The shimmering street lamps are everything

your parents warned you against.

 

And, instead of dreams, others just like you...

sin never boasted such a cast list.

Then sneak back in, from tree to wall,

through the frame of that window conspirator.

 

The good thing is that

they won't know how clever you are.

The bad thing is the same.

 

 

The Party At The End

 

Midnight, quiet congregates

around the edges of the conversation

though still a few will fight against it,

the last vestiges of thrice-told stories,

a laugh at a joke remembered.

 

But it's a time

where a moment lost in thought

overwhelms a tale

of drinking and fishing.

 

And what somebody told somebody

at the office the other day

looks down the barrel of sleepiness.

 

Even a sigh assumes power unheard of

when the party got going

five hours before.

 

And a blank stare

beats back an agitated eye

coming and going.

 

Lucky for the crowd

it isn't always midnight.

There'd just be silent people speaking.

Only tongues would listen.

 

JOHN GREY

 

JOHN GREY is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. Latest book, “Leaves On Pages” is available through Amazon.