Categories
Poetry

Dischords and Chords

By John Grey

 

 Big Kid
  
 Kids play street hockey.
 Orange pucks clack 
 from stick to stick.
  
 Matt has at least a head
 on all the others.
 And he’s wider
 than any two of them.
  
 “Shoot it Matt!” 
  screams a teammate.
 “Thump him Matt!”
 yells a voice from the sideline.
  
 But Matt doesn’t shoot.
 Nor does he thump anyone.
  
 He fears what his powerful shot
 would do to the face 
 of that trembling knee-trembling goalie.  
 He worries that a body slam
 could be some poor opponent’s death-knell.
  
 His body’s the biggest, 
 the strongest, there is.
 But he only occupies a part of it.
  
  
  
 The Eel
 
 The eel is long,
 slithery,
 snake-like,
 a bottom-dweller,
 round in front,
 flattened behind,
 its tiny-scaled skin
 coated in slimy mucous.
 
 
 The creature is silvery-brown above,
 paler below.
 Its fins are low
 
 its dorsal continuous with tail.
 But its mouth is large,  
 
 with pectinate teeth,
 and the lower jaw protrudes slightly.
 
 
 One or more of them
 are somewhere down below
 these brackish waters.
 Their bite is harmless to humans  
 
 but their ugliness is not. 
  
  
  
 Spring Morning as played on a Flute
  
 I hear what I hear,
 not a single reed.
 That’s about it.
 A sigh for the unspoken.
  
 Today is one 
 for the heart to memorize,
 a lovely day
 to tweak the fingerholes.
  
 The forsythia is game,
 blown through a woodwind,
 with fluted bright yellow,
 a perfect chord.
  
 It lines the busy street,
 so perfect, so perfect,
 and stretches as far
 as the one note off key. 

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. Latest book, “Leaves On Pages” is available through Amazon.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL. 

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