3 poems by John Grey

THE BULLY IN THE TREE

In the fork of a tree,
stands the bully boy.
Gripping a branch in each hand,
he puffs out his chest proudly.

Even if you can’t see him
from where you are,
you’re surely familiar
with the broken window,
the kid with two black eyes,
sobbing on the doorstep.

And you’ve no doubt heard
of the money stolen
from a neighbor’s purse
And the cuss words
uttered loudly in the school room.

A gust of wind tries
but can’t blow him down.
Someone shakes the trunk
but that doesn’t move 
him either.

But here comes 
the kid with the two black eyes
and he’s clutching some kind
of hand saw.

His eyes brighten
as he thinks ahead.





IN BUSINESS-ESE

I can't speak French or Latin
but who needs romance languages anyhow,
when I have business-ese to wrap my tongue around.
"Funds transfer pricing", "regulatory reporting", "intercompany eliminations"
my business meetings are pure theater.
What need I of the arts when I'm creatively customer focused, conceptually production supportive, devoutly process empowered.
Bach is neither here nor there
but I'm inspired
when my manager exults us all
with "Teamwork," "diversity,"
"inclusive meritocracy."
That's all the music these ears need.
"Business safeguards," "system impacts," "cost overruns" - step aside Rilke, those are sheer poetry.
Even if Dostoevsky had never written "The Brothers Karamazov" I'd still have "hardware requirements," "rules of engagement" and "processing flow" and I wouldn't feel the least deprived.
Okay, so I'm kidding.
I suffer all this so I can feed a family,
write and read, listen and admire, in my spare time.
At this juncture, I'm trying to launch a new poem. Chapter seven of "War And Peace" is my next action item. I'd just love to go hear Beethoven's Fifth later tonight but I'm not sure of my availability. And that opening at the local gallery is on the backburner.
Anyway, I'm not sure if this poem explains where I'm coining from, but it does offer you a baseline.





SENOR

Man’s Mexican.
He calls me Senor.
His English is better than my Spanish.
So, we converse in my native tongue.
But he still calls me Senor 
and not mister.

He says he came to this country as a boy.
Just him and his parents.
His older brothers arrived later.
His papa worked in the orange groves
south of Los Angeles.
Year after year he’d come back
from his tiny village
to the north of Vera Cruz
until the very last time 
when he decided to stay.
The man never mentions
the word “illegal”
but he continues to call me Senor.

Man’s seated next to me
on a bus ride 
from San Diego to LA.
His head goes down
when he sees a motorcycle cop
speeding by our vehicle.
Just instinct, he says,
without further explanation.

He works for an uncle
in his hardware store.
It’s not exactly the American dream.
I don’t think it’s the Mexican dream either.
But he says his uncle’s a good man.
He too worked the orange groves.
Now he’s somebody.
Somebody, senor, he says.

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John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing,

California Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books,” Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the Seventh Quarry, La Presa, and Doubly Mad.

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