MEN WITH NETS
They’re sweeping the water
How easy is that.
No wriggling worm ruse.
No patient line dangling,
reeling the bounty in one at a time.
No arm muscles rigid as bricks
fighting the big one.
No shrug of the shoulders,
tossing the minnow free.
It’s just one huge trawl of the ocean,
hauling out whatever’s there.
It’s not like meeting you.
It more like the flood
swamping a thousand homes.
It’s no quiet, canoodling,
interplay of fingers.
But a forest fire,
a flame that doesn’t know
oak from possum,
green from brown.
And yet the fish taste the same,
whether trapped in their flapped thousands,
or pierced alone on a hook.
And so you and I
are in a sea-food restaurant
and we can’t taste the difference.
But we sure can tell the difference.
THRILL-SEEKERS OF THE KING SIZE BED
I don’t know about these things.
Stock car racing? What’s that?
And gun running?
Who’s out there in the jungle
I know love, I believe.
But not tiger watching in Bengal.
And the feel of a woman.
But cliff diving? Running with the bulls?
There’s no adventure in my holding you
so why does it feel so extraordinary?
Would a spin around Le Mans
provide a bigger thrill?
Or a tight rope walk across Niagara Falls?
One soft, warm, kiss.
Why am I not yearning for
the ten million warm, soft kisses
of downhill skiing?
Or surfing off Oahu?
I make love to you
and I feel as if I’ve done it all.
But something’s missing.
Deep sea diving? White water rafting?
No, we make love again.
The Iditarod never saw that coming.
Mush, my love!
John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial systems
analyst. Recently published in Bryant Poetry Review, Tribeca Poetry
Review and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become”with work upcoming
in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Osiris.