BLACK MARKET LIT
About John Grey.
This Dancing Life
As someone who writes a lot of poetry JOHN GREY finds classification a difficult task. Yes, most of them are free verse although he has been known to churn out a sonnet from time to time. But when it comes to subject matter, to his mind anything's fair game. These poems delve way back into his past when everything was new, and he was piling up sensations by the moment. For obvious reasons, he wasn't in a position to put pen to paper then. So now, he can only imagine. But, to be honest, that's what he always does.
A boy, newly born in blood
while, elsewhere, bones creak
and, somewhere, always somewhere,
feet still fit for dancing.
Snip, snip, the umbilical,
and god bless the pill cabinet,
but also, 70's rock and roll,
far from the pioneers, the innovators,
but still beat enough
to drive the body senseless.
Birth and death get by on doctors, nurses,
but living needs the guitar player,
the madcap drums,
the bass, the sax,
the caterwauling singer.
The first cry, the last groan,
unaware how well they balance
the shaking, the yelping,
the skipping 'cross the floor.
So much to look forward to,
so much to look back on,
and, in between,
so much of that so much.
How long I crawl...
I lean a little on the sofa,
I think here and there,
I speak but not enough sense
to anyone but me,
I reach out, finger after dimpled finger,
to where a foot is waiting,
I look up to where I would be
should I try to stand ...
it's not much in the way of height ...
I should stay where I am.
But no, says the voice,
and the hand reaching down
but never quite enough
.So I make the false effort
,ankles wobble,
knees cave.
Luckily, there's not enough of me to bruise.
Laughter boomsfrom somewhere above me.
It's an everyday occurrence
but someday ... someday.
I gurgle. I coo.
But revenge is immortal in my language