Back in the Long Ago Day
The cave faces the west,
away from the bitter east wind.
Only one entrance,
so easy to guard,
but welcoming of light and sun,
protecting from the ravages of weather.
Inside we are secure and warm,
calmed by our own company.
But outside lurks danger,
demonic shapes that inhabit
the realms of darkness.
And one of us,
with a stone,
sketches monstrous shapes
on the wall.
It’s what he imagines
these creatures to look like.
It’s rudimentary art,
but advanced psychosis.
The Perils of an Ocean-Going Rodent
Surely, it’s not just a storm
but some great beast
gathering in the sky.
Out at sea,
we must seem easy prey
to something
that is so huge,
I cannot tell
where it begins or where it ends.
The first mate shrugs his shoulders.
He says he’s seen the like before.
The crew just go about their business,
manning sails, tightening ropes,
fastening everything down.
Even the captain, in the wheelhouse,
is as calm as a dead sea,
as he scans his maps,
plots his course as if it is other
than straight down.
I should never have scurried
aboard this ship.
But I was seduced by bags of grain.
What happens when that monster
crushes this vessel in its foul hands,
and everything on board
falls into the roiling ocean?
I can’t swim.
And there’s no life preserver for me.
I’ve heard that tale
of rats deserting sinking ships.
But the story always ends there.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Soundings East, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in West Trade Review, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.