1960
My mother wailing over a casket,
uncontrolled arms flailing
as my eleven year old child eyes
recorded the event through tears
tears surrounded by the South
of Jesus on a fan on a hot day.
Old men wiping sweat from the brow
with a handkerchief
creating commotion at the door.
My father’s black friends wanted to pay their respect.
The crowd said no
These old, then young eyes
saw my five foot one hundred pound mother
tear through that crowd of George Wallace old men
like an unrelenting knife of grief itself
that would not be denied
on this day.
on this day.
On this day her wailing grief
suspended Jim Crow
and for a moment
there was an eleven year old boy
who knew what it meant
when his daddy said to shine.
——————————————————-
Never thought your last hours
in this house would be as
keeper of the basement,
with the old furnace
and boxes of musty papers,
your father’s tools,
the webs with their dark,
secret spiders.
You never imagined you could
ever bear to sell this house
but now you find it’s
like those blouses, dresses,
two sizes too small
and out of style anyhow.
Finally, you couldn’t wait
to get rid of it,
a house, too cumbersome,
too demanding, to store memories in.
With the worry of it off your mind,
it can be the lives lived in it
once more.
A little sun pokes through
the clouded windows,
fractured rays of light
to match your scattered insights.
A touch of love here,
a comforting hand there.
A good meal,
a warm fire.
A cozy bed,
the echo of old laughter.
Above, you can hear
the murmur of the real estate agent
telling potential buyers
everything this house is not.
And there you are,
down below, immersed
in its selling points.
THE PACK
Her life is solitaire,
a hundred or more games a day.
Mostly she loses.
And even when she cheats,
the cards still refuse to fall her way.
The suits are worn with age,
sticky from spilled coffee.
But she’s not ready to replace them.
They’re her companions.
And, unlike their flesh and blood equivalents,
they do not die on her.
Sure, they show up as a jack
when an ace would have done
so much better,
or they’re black when red is needed,
or they willfully hide, upside down,
at the bottom of a pile.
But there’s always the next hand,
always more cards to be dealt.
There’s something about
plastic-coated paper.
With the mere touch of it,
she’s one of the pack.
CARNIVAL
I love rinky-dink carnivals
with Ferris wheels of six gondolas
and three-horse carousels.
Imagine a love like that,
in the candy-cane glisten of summer,
where you stop at the top
and the moon’s only
half your height nearer,
or you spin round and round
in an arc so downsized,
you never quite leave where you are.
Imagine a love that wins you
a fist full of cheap trinkets,
and a button-eyed bear
with his stuffing burst loose.
And just for knocking down
some tin cans with a baseball.
The prizes are worth less
than the cost of participating.
Imagine a love like that.
I could name you at least three.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, City Brink and Tenth Muse. Latest books, “Subject Matters”,” Between Two Fires” and “Covert” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Paterson Literary Review, Amazing Stories and Cantos.
The Old Men Walk
and want to run again
To run again.
I walk my three miles
because I’m glad I can walk
There are others like me.
I pass them.
One walks briskly and says little.
He doesn’t have to.
I see him walking his walk so resolute
as if he sees his last walk
or that wheelchair
and he’s gonna walk,
by God!
I wonder if he knows the Doctor,
ear, nose and throat who walks every day,
the two miles and back
to a restaurant.
He has a new white beard
and wishes to go to Florida.
These are my heroes
these days of hoping
for pleasant conversations.
as I talk to strangers
and trees.
I spoke to a big hickory today
and spread some nuts for my
wisest friend.
The young people go by,
jogging
usually without the need
for pleasant conversations.
I have a hard time forgiving them.
We should have never taught them
to not talk to strangers.
Oh leaola
oh leaola
You must talk to strangers
and trees
Rounding the curve, halted by the SUV’s emergency blinkers winking like some Dis tower, I fell obediently in line as a first grader in the cafeteria.
Head on collision, the officer said, before directing me to the detour ahead. Passing the crumpled car, front shoved in like a monkey playing accordion, I noticed the blanket covered form loaded like a cord of wood into an ambulance.
This one on a final detour from Sunday morning church. But aren’t we all on deviations, diversions?
Through the rain, the mist, the mountain road, around one bend & an Amish horse & buggy clattered on asphalt. What detours awaited that black capsule?
Who could know. Detours. Bypasses in time like a train switching tracks.
If I had detoured from the first love, where would the train have taken me? Not that moment, so not this minute. Daughters instead of sons. Dogs instead of cats.
Detours.
What about your sidetrack? you would have married another & never went with your wife to find her brother three weeks dead sprawled in the doorway halfway between the bathroom & bedroom. You never forgot the smell.
Or your sister who lost her rosary & became a whore not a nun & never met the suicide she would have saved.
Detours.
Like the Amish above who swerved away from the 21st century, zigged instead of zagged, found themselves in a 19th century wormhole so that I would spy them on this Sunday detour on a road with many curves.
She has had an illustrious lifestyle and many well-earned accolades; donates to some causes quite worthwhile she has gongs and awards now, in spades.
Her mansion’s been featured in Tatler in Mode Avantgarde and OK; She’s been called a trooper and a battler and she always has plenty to say.
But her face is a bone of contention it is fixed in a permanent grin from a facelift hauled too tight to mention and too much Botox in her skin,
And her lips, in an unnatural rictus, have a top lip that sticks out too far, Yet she boasts how her surgeon could fix us if we weren’t as poor as we are.
She goes to cafés with her ladies all from the same era as she; and their pooches are treated like babies and given fresh truffles for tea;
And when she is smiling or laughing The waiters recoil in sheer fright For her terrible grin leaves them gasping She’s like a cobra poised to bite;
and some of her friends look like harpies and some of them look like vampires and their eyeliner’s drawn on with sharpies and they drink to lost loves and desires;
But they carry on laughing regardless For they clothes-shop at Rodeo Drive; They are diamonds of high grade and hardness, though they look to be barely alive.
Sara Louise Russell, aka PinkyAndrexa, is a UK poet and poetry ezine editor, specialising particularly in sonnets, lyric-style poetry and occasionally writing in more modern styles. She founded Poetry Life & Times and edited it from 1998 to 2006, when she handed it over to Robin Ouzman Hislop and Amparo Arrospide; Robin now runs it as Editor from Poetry Life & Times at this site. Her poems and sonnets have been published in many paper and online publications including Sonnetto Poesia, Mindful of Poetry andAutumn Leaves a monthly Poetry ezine from the late Sondra Ball. Her sonnets also currently appear in the recently published anthology of sonnets Phoenix Rising from the Ashes. She is also one of the first poets ever to be published on multimedia CD ROMs, published by Kedco Studios Inc.; the first one being “Pinky’s Little Book of Shadows”, which was featured by the UK’s national newspaper The Mirror, in October 1999. (Picture link for Mirror article)Angel Fire. And the 2024 AI version of The Perils of Norris cartoon, by Sara L Russell using Canva Pro AI, Episode 1. The Perils of Norris featured from this site Poetry Life and Times
