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Poem by John Grey – Scarred Face in a Mirror May 19, 2018

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Ugly zigzag lines
slide down the glass like mercury,
a recurring wave
that stumbles the sound of confidence.

Flares fly off wherever skin is visible,
May as well point out horror with a cue stick.
And the mirror being cruelly convex,
a face bulges toward its source.

Promised some grafting,
you’re restless as the raindrops on the pane,
longing to be have it done
no matter the cost, the consequence.

Without new cheeks, new chin, new brow,|
there is no tenderness, no amusement, just regret.
A mirror cannot keep a secret.
This is the face that belies description.

It looks much better in dreams.
This view, even in the waning light,
can’t protect you going forward.|
It is a life with visible scars.

It has no dimension other than
what someone did to you
or what you did to yourself.
There is no honor
in any attempt to conceal it.

And indifference is a lie.
You are scarred for life.
You are scarred for living.

BIO: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Evening Street Review and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.

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Poem by Jade Blackmore – The Hospital Roommate March 4, 2018

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I was 15 when my appendix was removed,
the old-fashioned way, with a scalpel and incision.
As they wheeled me back from surgery.
The pediatric hospital ward overflowed
And they wheeled patients two or three to a room
The little boy holding a red balloon,
The blonde girl with a bandaged forehead,
The freckled star quarterback on crutches.

Easter baskets lined the reception desk
In a failed attempt to make the kids
Forget where they were.
The fluorescent lights flickered on and off
Above slippery white linoleum.

Two nurses accompanied me to my room.
One nurse checked my blood pressure.
“You know, you’ll never be able to wear a bikini again,”
“No, no, they put the scar lower now”, the nurse rearranging the other side of the room corrected.
“That’s a relief,” I said, and my nurse chuckled.

An orderly wheeled in a strange-looking machine that looked like a small iron lung.
While the other nurse and a second orderly moved a bed to the other side of the room.“You have a new roommate.” The nurses said, and everyone left the room.

“Hi My names Claire,” A disembodied head with a pixie cut of sandy blonde hair and a pretty face emerged from the front end of the cylindrical machine. Her voice was outgoing, almost brash. We talked for awhile about the nurses, the bad food, David Bowie’s new album and neighborhoods how much we liked pizza. Her mother came in with a bottle of Coke with a straw in it, and Claire sipped some of the drink.

“Why are you here?” Claire asked me.
“Had my appendix out. And you?”
“She has some problems with her spine,” her mother said,
The rapid fire timbre of her voice
rendering further interrogation moot.
“Mom, it’s okay,”
“Shush. It’s getting late.”
A nurse came in and shut off the lights.

I drifted off to sleep and heard the girl weeping, “I don’t want to go through this again. Not another operation!”

Years later, I temped at a health agency for dialysis patients
And they sent me an errand to a nearby hospital.
I walked into a gymnasium-sized room
And made my way a circular desk in
The middle of a hundred cots
With bodies covered by sheets,
Some faces barely alive, some
Worse than any horror movie
The blinking of digital screens,
Complemented by cold plastic and knobs
Assaulted the sterile walls.
I stepped up to the desk.
The nurse looked up from her copy of People and I gave her a bubble-padded envelope filled with vials of blood

And as I left the room
I thought of the girl in the machine
In the hospital room all those years ago.
I hope she is taking her kids
To the supermarket or
Sitting in the audience of a Broadway play
or enjoying the ocean breeze at the beach,
free and whole.

Poem by Jade Blackmore – The Past, Five Times Removed February 21, 2018

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She wanted to visit her grandmother’s old house
But the cherry tree by the bedroom window
Was replaced by pale brown dirt and
Subway wrappers,
The front door was boarded up,
The lattice railing where she climbed with her brothers
Long gone.

There was a robbery in the cell phone store
Where the video place used to be.
Parolees in fencing masks
Shot the teenager behind the counter.
There was a beheading behind the church
Where she had her first communion.
The body buried in the backyard
Where the lady who made Barbie doll clothes lived
Until she moved to Arizona.

The library where she once checked out opera records and Beatles albums
Once bustling with schoolchildren sneaking in candy bars,
Now smells of stale cigarettes and urine
As homeless men sleep in chairs scratched with gang graffiti.

Downtown,
The factories turned into lofts,
The Gothic stone
Crumbled,
The greasy spoons
Are gone.
Long, leisurely
Post-drunk nights
Belong
In another century.

The dark, cloistered building
That housed her first job
Out of high school is
Now bright and airy
And filled
With floor to ceiling
Windows
And offices
Without old ladies
Or the clacking of typewriters,
Only the morphing sparseness of the present.

Times will change
The world will bend to the whims of
Rich criminals and poor thugs.
Everyone in between doesn’t matter much.
The world doesn’t care about her memories
So she keeps them close
It is all she has.

 

 

Poem – The Couple by John Grey February 6, 2018

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THE COUPLE

Pony-tailed, bearded,
tattoos riding both arms,
his vision of driving big rigs
from coast to coast
has mutated into the reality
of pushing a lawn-mower
through someone else’s weeds.

 Straight out of high school,
bright red hair
too tight to be braided,
both cheeks freckled
and lips cherry-red,
her fantasy was to be a movie star,
but she married the big lug
and now has three kids
to prove it.

They live in a trailer
and barely get by.
They never almost had it made.
They didn’t once feel it
fumbling from their grasp.
The closest they came
was a ride in his uncle’s
ramshackle Chevy
and her drunken night
at a karaoke bar.

Big rig, singing star –
with those two?
Dreams know better.

BIO: John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Studio One and Columbia Review, with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.

 

Poem by Jade Blackmore – The Morning After Dream January 21, 2018

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The Morning After Dream

I had a dream where I was an assistant to
An ethereal, tortured soul
And I could not keep up with him.
He ran off in the middle of the street
And sat in the back seat of his dealer’s car
Smoking a joint.
I tried to get him to leave
But he reeled me in.
For a minute I was right there with him,
Cocooned into his world
How could any other dream
Be as enticing
Correct, or comfortable?

When the smoke cleared, he was gone,
And I returned to an apartment with brick and lumber bookcases,
Cats and quirky roommates.
Brooklyn before and after L.A.

Just another cliche,
A generation collapsed
Under the weight of its arrogant joie de vivre.

Now the sky is colorless
Because it is better,
They tell us now,
To be safe and erudite.
And the clothes are thin and disposable,
So are the people,
The fame.
The truth
is a malleable concept,
You create it from scratch,
You make it into
Your own image.

A phone buzzed as the dream
Continued,
The text read,
“Will you come backstage and see him?
He likes you
And wants you to stay,
to work.”

But when I got there,
The theater was an empty shell,
Stripped of ceremony,
Smokeless and silent.
The world had moved on.

Poem – The coat of many colours by Helen Burke January 9, 2018

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helebartwork1818

Artwork by Helen Burke

I want. I want . I want a different job. Not this poet job.
This stupidity, dandy, nonsense.
I want to go in to work, do something
Useful , talk about rubbish , feel the end is In sight. Then ,
Go home , sit on the sofa
Eat a hamburger switch a light on and off
And call it recreation.
Have a phone call from someone called Smith ,
put the garbage out.
Go to bed and have not a single dream.
That’s what I want.
And when it’s Saturday I want to go into
Town and buy a coat, the sort of coat
No one notices, that in a crowd is swallowed
Up by the world.
And my hair to be innocuous and no one
To comment on it , or covet it or my coat.
And my words to be few and Spartan

 

Poem- Gentrification by Jade Blackmore January 5, 2018

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Gentrification

 Livable but slippery
Once red brick villains,
Now a horde of liars.
Vinegar tears from the old guard.
A concrete asp left over
from maladaptive days.

Protests fall on deaf ears,
A broken, lingering fear.
The mundane tapestry of day-to-day life
Shocked into submission by
The din of construction cranes
Perfecting
a permanently vacant building
Only the rats and spiders see their paper-thin but sustainable walls.

Laws were broken, then changed with the customary sleight-of-hand.
The lights go out
At the gymnasium where a one-eyed millionaire from the Valley
Tells bartenders and store clerks
How another luxury building will benefit them.
Homeless men raid the snack table
Then go down the street to sleep in front of the
Picture window
Framing a brand new, cobwebbed lobby.

 

Poem – Shinier Objects by Jade Blackmore December 7, 2017

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Shinier Objects

Cool and hip.
Trendy,
sexy,
flashy,
outspoken,
loud and obnoxious.
Decadent,
obscure, snarky and intellectual.
Academic and narcissistic.
Luxurious,
violent,
And lacking in all protocol.
Edgy and underground,
Art fuck-y and self-absorbed.
Mix and match the adjectives with
Decades of faces and nothingness.
A parade of sculptures
With no discernible filling.

But tucked away in the corner
Someone,
or maybe a few someones
forged a steady presence,
now neglected
for the wrong reasons,
for shinier objects
with nothing to offer except
eventual crash
and splatter.

They’re gone,
because like
Sylvia,
they were too
pure for
you or
the barren, angry blur
the world has become.

They still exist somewhere
in a sliver of time and comfort
Back inside a cocoon
untranslatable,
and unable
to defeat the
patina of lies.

 

Poem by Jade Blackmore – The Same October 22, 2017

Posted by vscorpiozine in Jade Blackmore, Los Angeles, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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the same

the wreckage of a generation.
the good ones die early,
the evil ones fall like a house of cards,
the mediocre simmer and fade
to leave room
for the next generation
to perform
their version
of the same.

Poem by John Grey – The Breaking of the Drought August 11, 2017

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THE BREAKING OF THE DROUGHT

The rain is, at first,
like giant’s spit.
a few drops on the window,
a couple on the roof,
and then a half-hearted volley
that scatters its rat-a-rats
across the parched soil.

But then that giant
switches on his sprinkler system.
There’s no great force
behind the drops
but they slip into a welcome routine,
follow one behind the other.

But the big guy’s not done yet.
He starts emptying out his wells
and the sky is a grey melee
of a million tipped buckets.

Before long, the land is soaked through
and the word “drought”
is as forgotten as yesterday’s pop star.

But that giant likes nothing more
than to light his fire when he’s done,
sit down before it’s huge flames
and smoke cigarette after cigarette.

It’s the same giant.
Despite praise to the contrary,
there is no other.

BIO:

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Front Range Review, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Abyss and Apex and Midwest Quarterly