Poetry by John Grey

Some People You Don’t Know

Men on horses, in britches,

staunch black caps atop their heads,

shouting “Tallyho”

and riding off behind the hounds

to corner a fox or two.

And there’s people on golf courses,

though I know your brother Chris

tried out his lousy drive

at a beginner’s range.

But I mean real golf courses,

greens cut within an eighth inch of their lives,

and bunkers and ponds

and NBC cameras parked among the trees.

And there’s actually couples who sit on balconies

and sip cocktails.

And others who study stock ticker tape…

well check up on their holdings on their cell phone

at any rate.

Some even do simple things

like collect shells at the shore.

Or they take their kids to zoos,

spend hours staring at the elephants,

or are thrilled by what’s most human

about the chimpanzees.

You don’t know these people.

They bird-watch.

They read books on American history.

Some are doctors and lawyers.

And there’s this game called croquet

where you tap a ball between hoops

with a mallet.

The only requisite to playing it

is not having a care in the world.

Let’s face it.

Outside of Roy and the beat cop,

you only know you,

the half-face staring back at you

from the job lot window.

Now I can tell you what happened to the other half.

I borrowed it for this poem I wrote

for these other folks

about some people they don’t know.

“Tallyho,” they said.

The All Night Diner

Everything is changing but this.

The stools, the booths,

the countertops,

are as they were before the war

though which war nobody can remember.

The department store closes an hour earlier.

It’s the recession, so they say.

The chic coffee shop begins its day at 7.00 a.m. now.

It wants to catch the off-to-work crowd.

But the diner’s still open all night.

And the floor tiles are black and white

like the movies used to be.

I can’t dance to the music anymore

but I can still sit at the pace

of a cup of black coffee

I’m aging in the mirror

but not in my half-reflection

in the plate glass window

Time may ask me to move on

but the waitress lets me stay.

The Rite of Morning

Interesting, what will look you in the eye:

a kettle, a gas bill, a common kitchen implement.

Nothing is as disengaged as you might think.

Even the man in the mirror, once he’s

done shaving, will line you up in his sights,

stare without blinking for as long as it takes.

Everything’s demanding honesty from you.

And just enough pride

to keep you coming back for more.

The newspaper says, “Read me.”

The cereal refuses to be eaten by anyone but you.

The coffee could stir the blood of any person in the city

but you’re the one it chooses to ignite.

And there’s that man in the mirror again,

matching you comb for comb.

His lips don’t move but his eyes say everything.

You’re alive. Now live with it.


Australian born poet, John Grey, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Poem, Caveat Lector, Prism International and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become” with work upcoming in Big Muddy, Prism International and Pinyon.


Hypertext Magazine and Studio (HMS) publishes original, brave, and striking narratives of historically marginalized, emerging, and established writers online and in print. HMS empowers Chicago-area adults by teaching writing workshops that spark curiosity, empower creative expression, and promote self-advocacy. By welcoming a diversity of voices and communities, HMS celebrates the transformative power of story and inclusion.

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