John Grey ----- new poems

 

A REST STOP IN BAVARIA

 

The ancient monastery

may as well be a tankard

for all the beer that’s made

in its cells.

 

Having passed fields of barley,

cruised parallel to a Spring river,

I now know where this is headed,

a countryside oasis

where religion and ale

not only co-exist,

but spur each other on

to deeper faith

and hardier brews.

 

Outside tables

are adorned by

brimming brown flagons

served by waiters in robes,

their placid faces topped

by well-cut crowns with bald bullseyes.

 

I sip this rich nectar,

so close to its oakwood womb,

I can almost taste the umbilical cord.

 

 

THE HEART OF AN AUNT

 

Her heart’s gone the way of history.

It makes good reading but it’s not up to date.

And it’s totally useless if you’re trying

to put together a portrait of how she is now.

Her breath can’t help you.

Nor can the photographs in the album.

Or the crooked paths of her memory.

Her eyes are more concerned with

the wallpaper and teacups on the table.

They are not an entranceway.

 

There was a war I’ve heard

and her heart went missing.

Her hair turned from light brown to white.

But an organ does more than just change color.

In truth, it does much less.

Yes, her floral dress is from a time

when that heart was still with her.

But cloth has little memory.

It can’t even explain away its stains.

Her shoes are silent even when she walks the floors.

 

She bakes. She puts the kettle on the stove.

Anything the heartless can do, she’s adept at.

But her cookies are just cookies.

There are chocolate chips but no love in them.

And when she pours, it’s all steamy water.

There’s not a single drop of herself.

Her conversation revolves around the weather,

how unbearably hot or bitterly cold it is

She shivers and she sweats from the outside in.

If it wasn’t for temperature, she’d feel nothing.

 

I often wonder what happened to her heart.

Was it lost somewhere on her travels?

Does it, to this day, wander around Marseilles or Sarajevo?

Or pace the deck of a ship somewhere

between Portsmouth and New York?

Or is it still on the stage, singing and dancing

while her piano man pounds out the tunes?

If a man has it, chances are it will never be returned.

Her heart was designed more for show than utility.

And now it’s a no-show. And of no use either.

 

THE OBLIGATORY VISIT

 

Aunt Elaine,

she of the rheumatism

and heavy black shoes,

limps to the door to greet me,

humming old Pattie Page songs,

and rugged up for winter

even though it's July out.

 

At the kitchen table,

she speaks in a whisper  -

those next door listen through

the walls, she warns -

and she offers me tea

out of that morning's sorry bag

and cold ham on stale bread -

I nibble and sip slowly

so she won't push seconds on me.

 

Her apartment's in

an assisted living facility,

a drab place where nurses

come through every day

to remove the smiles from the faces -

and everything smells of Listerine and talc.

 

Conversation's brief

and ends with her walking me

gingerly to the door,

my visit bookended

by her aches and pains

and the floral cotton dress

she wore for me the last time.

 

Aunt Elaine -

she never married, never traveled,

never did much,

just lived in her body long enough

so she could no longer

look after it herself.

 

I tell her, "You're looking well."

She replies, "You're all grown up."

Only one of us is lying.