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John Grey

HAUNTED BRIDGE

 

Bridge at midnight,

swaying like a hammock

just the wind

that's rocking in it.

 

And the ghost of

that old Buick

rumbles over wooden slats,

drunk boy behind the wheel.

 

Damn, that car can't see,

one headlight blinking,

spins sideways,

crashes through the railing,

topples down into

the slow brown water,

a splash so big

the spray near slaps the moon.

 

Bridge at one a.m.,

tranquil as a hammock,

a year old drunken tragedy

quietly sleeping it off.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF OUR TIME

 

Your eyes still speak of what they were.

Kisses follow suit, warm as a sailor home at last.

You paint your nails a color they clearly remember,

as pink as your checks in winter.

Clothes tend toward the more comfortable

but even your sloppy t-shirt, tattered jeans,

keep their date with fashion.

And just holding you

is time travel made to order.

I love the blur our closeness brings.

Is it today? Is it years ago?

Your hair's no calendar.

It falls across your face

as it has always done.

Nor is your touch

a guide to place and time.

Truth is, you will never grow old

for as long as you once were young.

PHOTOGRAPH OF YOU

 

Time has removed itself from the rest of time

It is floating like a photograph in the tips of fingers

It centers on beauty, holds there like eyes

 

Time can't get going again until I slip

the snapshot back into the album.

But it's not impatient. Besides, it' s been regular so long

 

And love may well be the only thing that it defers too.

For up to now. forever was time's province.

But now it's looking where I'm looking

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and Sanskrit, with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Owen Wister Review and the Coe Review.