I AM THE ANT

If I am faced
with the truth
and given a choice
between a beast of brute strength
with skin as rough as
a cat's tongue --
a rhinoceros, even,
and its poor vision --
chewing slowly on some grassy stuff

or another creature
so aware of its smallness --
like the ant --
that each day is a victory
for having withstood
the weather-beaten mound of earth:

if it means choosing
between these two types of dying
and each rapturous way
to spend the currency of my life
in breaths of working towards the light,
then I am the ant,
forever
and
unapologetically.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

IRONY

Is it me --
listening, this morning,
to an audiobook of Walden
on my commute to work --
or you --
shirtless pickup truck driver,
undoubtedly listening to
the latest country standard
while picking your teeth
with your pinky finger --

who will notice
the small, gray rabbit
carefully treading
across the railroad track,
with his nose to the wind
and only a rumbling beneath him?
 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

CAPTIVATION

Driving past the wildlife park
near the edge of the highway,
parts of me are torn away
like an old perforated stamp
when I think of
an old, confused rhinoceros
attempting to moo

or a panting lioness
helping wrangle wild horses
on an open Texas prairie
(a cowboy, perhaps, rewards her
with a belly rub)

or the forlorn ostrich
who stares out into
fields of wildflowers
with no real place
to bury his head.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

OLD TIES

I wouldn't call us enemies
nor would I say we're friends;
maybe strangers, then and now...
but on whose memory depends.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.
 

LOVE, IN THE TIME OF TRUMP

The other night,
I had a dream
that the President threw himself
off the roof terrace of the White House,
and while all the king's horses
brayed a bit,
the king's men stood
stone-faced and solemn
while a gray-orange mass
lay motionless on the cobblestones
outside Pennsylvania Avenue.

"Won't you help the President?"
I cried.

But they said nothing.
They did not move an inch.
And then I, in a moment of bewilderment,
wondered why I cared so much

and, upon waking,
why I still do.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

THE WEATHER NEVER CHANGES IN A SNOW GLOBE

1.
There once was a priest, a rabbi, and a black guy, and they all walk into this bar. No, no, no: is that right? A priest. A rabbi. A black guy. Sure. So they walk into a bar, and the priest — he turns to the rabbi, and he says, “Reb, have you ever had pork?” And the faithful rabbi looks both ways… and he says, “Yes, in my youth, I tasted the flesh of swine!” And then the rabbi says to the priest, “And you, father? Have you ever had relations with a woman?” The priest turns red with a wild grin. “I was known to taste the flesh of a woman before I entered the priesthood,” the father says under his breath. And the priest and the rabbi laugh the whole time and carry on, drinking their beer and wine that was on the house from the regular bartender.

The black guy sits alone on the other end of the counter, forgotten.

2.
At the end of several years, he noticed there was nowhere to go but up since this was the farthest down he had traveled, so he took his world and turned it upside down, shaking it up a bit, watching the snowy white bits of plastic and glitter fall gently on a lawn made in China.

He waited for a long time for something to happen, and legend tells us he is still there today.

3.
At the other end of hello, the boy finally meets the girl, and they fall in love for a while until they decide they are too old to understand each other anymore, so they both travel opposite directions out of the forest with only tears and bread crumbs trailing behind them.

four.
She lays in bed, naked and remembering. After a few moments, she brushes the sunlight from her cheeks and the years of embarrassment off of her hips so that she may properly face her cat, Chester, a mischievous little rag doll that, up until now, had not yet grown horns.

They stare at each other for hours, and eventually they both turn to stone, but only one of them will live on as a statue in a museum for souls. The other will be a trinket for grandma’s china closet, but you guess which one is which.

V.
This is not yet the end, I’m afraid, but we’ll all know it when we see it.

5+1.
At the end of seven years, the boy finally meets the girl again in a matter of pure coincidence, but they struggle to recognize each other because the boy is now a man and the girl is a woman, and they have both emerged from the chrysalis different from what they once were though it is arguable for better or for worse.

5+2.
The man-boy runs out of bread crumbs, so he sits on a rock and begins to wonder if he made the whole thing up. Soon, the sky will weep white plastic snow, but he will not notice.

5+3.
The girl-woman watches the man-boy sit on his rock at the edge of the forest from the window in a bar several hundred yards away. She does not use binoculars. A priest and a rabbi carry on, drinking their beer and wine that was on the house from the regular bartender. Another man smiles at her from the other end of the bar. She smiles back.

They are wearing the same shoes.

NEIN.
- I promise you’re gonna laugh this time.
- Please. No more.
- A rabbi, a priest, and —
- Seriously.
- Just hear me out!
- A rabbi, a priest, and an Indian walk into a bar —
- Like? An Indian?
- You know.
- Native American?
- No. From India.
- Oh.
- Dots, not feathers.

(They stare into each other’s eyes. Who will dare to breathe first?)

diez.
Lo más triste del mundo es no entenderse.

FINALLY.
Our hero finds himself staring at the one thing he thought would change him. And this is the most tragic part of the whole dumb tale, which is far more tall than true: he finds himself staring, so he stands motionless — with only his future before him and what he chooses to remember behind — and he stands for a very, very long time, waiting for something to happen.

coda.
This is the end. Nothing has happened, yet everything has changed.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

MOMENTS IN THE WOODS

A little boy
threw a basketball
inside of a milk crate
and, for a moment,
he was Michael Jordan,
and though there can only be
one Michael Jordan,
it didn't take much --
just a little imagination
and a good free throw --
for him to envision
his world beyond 157th Street,
a world where it is always hot
with neighbors screaming
and the car down the way
blasting music too loud,
a world that had a place both for him
and what he knew he could do.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

PURPOSE

I was born to laugh
and cry and dance,
to reinvent myself,
to clothe my shoulders with change,
to sit quietly and breathe deeply,
to look upon the stillness of a lake
before mischievously causing ripples,
to wonder why, why, why
there is some need
for such a vast universe
where an angry fist
and the back of your hand
stroking the graying hairs on my head
are brothers,
foretold in Joshua:
"For I know the plans I have for you..."

You do not need
an x-ray machine
to see I am perfectly broken,
but I'm gather myself
daily,
darning the tiny fragments of my heart
to my sleeves,
not so that I may again be whole
(for I never was)
but so that I may continue,
foolishly,
an attempt to be useful.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

BLUE MARBLE EGG

Someone I once shared a bed with
is now a complete stranger:
there are phenomena
in this overcrowded world
more important than
a feeling of melting away,
but how do you know the world is ending
in the moment between the smile
and a calloused finger on the shutter button?
Each firing complication
shows us, now, 
all of the subtleties avoided.

There is a daughter with a strong name,
difficult to say.
Her name is a sword I cannot swallow.
Her name burns a tattoo
in the lining of my esophagus,
a permanent reminder
of a temporary feeling.

Heroic memories
etched in stone
on some vase of my early twenties
are no stronger
than the weekends we spent
on the beach:
on those hallowed glory grounds, 
I would forget
(like Eurydice)
and I would look at you
and you would look at me
and, soon, my mouth was full of sand
and only --
only --
the ocean stood between us.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

CORNER PIECE

One stop before I get off the A train,
I find myself humbly asking
what one does with the build up --
the accumulation --
of the unnameable inside?
Where does the lump go
after rising and falling
in your throat
after the diagnosis?
What happens to the butterflies
in your gut
before the first date?
How does the cup runneth over
with a bittersweet hemlock
when watching your graying pet
slowly grow from puppy to grave?

Complicated, they say:
a bit of crying over spilled milk
and tears from not making the team
to missing the boat and the deadline.
There's also the second hand
faithfully saluting
when nobody is watching;
therein lies mercy
and exonerations
and piecemeal humanity
in the form of a wink
from the amethyst eye
of someone else recognizing they love you
for the very first time,
and what will you do with it --
the unnameable inside?

I am but the tip of an iceberg,
and I look across the train
on my way out
at a man with tiny round spectacles
who has been staring at me,
wringing a smile from his porcelain hands:
for at least three stops,
he has been turning over my brokenness
in tandem with his own
and long enough to figure out
that we are both jigsaw puzzles
with most of our pieces
(for now)
displaying, 
dependent on the angle,
some larger-than-life
picture of the Taj Mahal.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

GUERNICA

Imagine, if you will,
Beethoven counting out sixty beans of coffee
before making one cup,
and if you can picture that,
you may be able to understand the Eroica Symphony
or, at least, a few of the string quartets.

I often thwart sleep
thinking about Beckett
and why Krapp seems obsessed,
as if by name, with indigestion
when good ole Sam
would hole himself up in the siege
with scrambled eggs and red wine.

Then, there is Alice Munro,
like so many women,
who raised children and wrote short stories
(at the same time, mind you)
in a series of long midnights:
where is the time to be a Salinger
when there is duty, responsibility, all of that?

“What’s the point?”
one may ask,
when changing a dirty diaper
or mowing the lawn
or paying taxes
or visiting Grandma at the home.

I look in the mirror,
and I see the silent gray surface of the moon in my eyes.
I am an artist without a sketchbook.
My scars are not filed away in old drafts.
My regrets are placed neatly onstage for general admission.
My atonal future is dancing uncertain and unwieldy
with a limp on its left, bionic side.

The truth is that
my heart has been tattooed in blue-black ink
across the backs of napkins and in coffee shop restrooms, 
in the eyes of old friends
and in hugs that I hold on to more now,
five seconds, ten:
the real truth is that there is no truth,
that we all do the best we can in some way or another,
some do it with a paintbrush
or eight times a week
and some do it better than you,
but you should do it if you want —
make a cup of coffee with sixty beans if you want —
there is no point to this poem
other than to say
I’ll still be here
with my scars on display
because, truth be told, 
if I want a chance to understand
what survives of the truth,
I may have already said too much,
and that’s why I’m alive to begin with.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

HIGH DIVE

Somewhere between here and there,
one must reach his hands above his head,
back flat on the floor,
eyes closed,
and jump headfirst
into that storm brewing inside of him
so he may find
the cold, calm eye of a hurricane
where everything is noise
and promise,
flickering bulbs
and static on the radio:

There is a difference between
being alone
and
being lonely.

No boy is an island,
but laying on the beach,
the rocks warm,
the tide rises,
the sun sets,
and, at the end of the day,
when all is done
but not necessarily said,
even the footprints in the sand
(one by one by one)
march into the ocean,
despite lightning in the distance.

This is a place I could stay,
though the greens will fade with the years
and the distance in my mind
makes me question
if it was a pelican or a seagull
that landed on that mossy rock
or if there was a mossy rock
or if there was a beach at all,

but, for now, I'm back,
flat on my back,
alone,
arms above my head,
an island
surrendering to what once was,
save for a whispering breeze
and rust on my bicycle spokes
and a few slowing breaths
resembling a rallentando in 7/8 time.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

IDIOM

Look at you:

Burning the midnight oil,
caught between two stools,
your time worth an arm and a leg,
making a long story short and
discovering the method to your madness.

Piece of cake, isn't it?
Jump on the bandwagon, kiddo,
because in the heat of this moment,
your actions speak louder than words,
for when the cat has your tongue,
it's all out the door.

To add insult to injury,
it takes two to tango:
one to pull the wool over your eyes,
another to let sleeping dogs lie.

This bitter pill makes you
but a dime a dozen,
and, suddenly, you're all ears
at the drop of the hat --

back to the drawing board,
the ball is in your court,
but you're barking up the wrong tree,
beating around some proverbial bush.

The naked truth
is that you're not some hot potato,
but maybe that's a blessing in disguise
because you do have the best of both worlds, 
don't you?

Take it straight from the horse's mouth:
your guess is as good as mine.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

A FOLK SONG FOR MODERN TIMES

I say to hate is easy, to love takes courage,
an ounce of brains is worth much more than brawn.
And all those things must make me good,
so that's how I’ll go on.
That’s how I’ll go on.

Protect my friends, lift up my neighbors,
my word is stronger than a cop’s baton.
I think that’s what makes me good,
so that's how I’ll go on.
That’s how I’ll go on.

Let ‘em talk and call me stupid.
Let ‘em poke holes in my dreams.
Let ‘em say that folks are bad,
but folks are never half as bad as the best of ‘em, it seems.

So I’ll be damned for doin’, I’ll be damned for nothin’
like some seven-headed beast of Babylon.
Still, I have faith that makes me good,
so that’s how I’ll go on.
That’s how I’ll go on.

I am scorned just ‘cause I’m diff’rent,
choosing lovers' arrows while guns are drawn.
Isn’t that what makes me good?
It’s hard for me to see as time goes on,
but that’s how I’ll go on.

Let ‘em say I don’t know nothin’.
Let ‘em say I ain’t worth the reach
‘cause I know I’ll have walked with giants
by puttin’ into practice all those fancy words I preach.

Still, hatin’s easy, lovin’s different
when night turns on its side and faces dawn.
Sometimes, I don’t believe that folks are good,
but, still, I must go on…

Then, I remember that love takes courage,
so that’s how I’ll choose to go on.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

IN REMEMBRANCE OF PASSION

The earth shook
and we said some words
in a language we thought we both understood,
and at the end of it,
I forgot I was a poet,
not because it was forgettable,
but because the way the light
floated down between the birches
on that gray morning,
I no longer recognized the earth.

It was not a place I could see anymore.
I could not hear her song.
Sounds no longer danced lightly on my earlobes,
and my two fingers on her pulse
were reduced to a memory
of what I swore was there:
when I first blushed
at the sight of her strapless dress
falling slightly underneath her left shoulder,
when I tasted a ripe peach
only awaking from a dream, hungry,
etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

There is an absence of words.
I cannot shake that she is only hiding,
yet I suppose
I will spend the remainder of my days,
like a wandering, vacant Orpheus,
looking for what I think belongs to me.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

FAKE NEWS

I stopped taking most things seriously
since I found out that I could not,
indeed,
lose weight by clicking there,
and I did click there
only to find dashed hopes
and cruel intentions.

I remember where I was
when I discovered
Gilligan died a second time,
and scars from the first
(some ten years earlier)
radiated with the changing weather.

One of my relatives claims
ISIS IN TEXAS!!!!!
(with five exclamation points, no less)
on her Facebook page
with a link
claiming a source
from sourced sources.
Icy is her silence
when asked
why border patrol
would let known terrorists
into our country,
but that's a conversation
in and for another time,
I suppose.

The truth is that it is all terribly boring:
I struggle to pay attention now
as it is very early
and I'm driving to work
and I have just enough coffee
to remember to write down this poem later
when the Rolling Stones
remind me of the simple truth:
that I can't help but love
the French horn and guitar
being together in those opening moments,
like an internet video
of a chimpanzee
cradling a baby goat
(which I learn, now, is actually inhumane
because sedation is involved).

And it is inhumane, friends,
that you can't always get want you want,
but that's what keeps you
driving down this dark, dawn-lit road
to take you
everywhere you wish to be --
that's what you get.

In this morning,
and every other after,
that's what you need.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

THE "NOT-MY-PRESIDENT" RAG

Hmm-mmm…
Hmm-mmm…

What do you do with states of red and blue
and the amber waves of grain so grand
while plainer folks are the same old jokes
and politicians keep their iv’ry hides so tanned?
If only you were paid enough,
you probably could be swayed enough
though blaming is easy, and thinking? A drag!
Since the White House went black,
by God, you’ll take it back
and sing the “NOT-MY-PRESIDENT” rag.

What do you say when, to Jesus, you pray?
“I pray for all the heretics and fools,
the darkies and queers and the sum of our fears —
if only we had prayer in the schools!”
And while you scream and grip your rights,
the suits still try to strip your rights,
while, grinning, on your lawn, you don a flag!
Rather face what’s true,
you’ll sport a strip of blue
and sing the “NOT-MY-PRESIDENT” rag.

But tides will turn — this you’ve assured:
when you handed me silence, you gave me your word.
You tell me: “Abide!” “Take up my side,
despite all the rage and the scorn I’ve supplied!”
And for what, I must ask, and at who’s expense?
“A more perfect union” becomes the common defense,
but “a more perfect union” without common sense
and “a more perfect union” behind a steel fence
is “a more perfect union” that’s perfectly tense.
This is the offense, the threat to democracy,
and “crown thy good with brotherhood” is the example of hypocrisy.

“America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
Till nobler men keep once again
Thy whiter jubilee!”

So what to expect when we’ve lost all respect
for an office that once was highest in the land?
I’m choosing to speak for the mild and the meek
while you would rather sit than take a stand.
And though I’m here to fight for you,
I’ll do my best in spite of you
so, pardon me, should I choose to gag!
Now that the master race
has stared me straight in the face,
I’ll sing the “NOT-MY-PRESIDENT” rag.
(Now, it’s my turn!)
I’ll choose the “NOT-MY-PRESIDENT” rag.
(Pretty, ain’t it?)
I’ll use the “NOT-MY-PRESIDENT” rag.
(OH, CAN YOU HEAR ME?)
How much have we learned
now that the tables have turned?
Someone’s always singin’
the “NOT-MY-PRESIDENT” rag.

(That’s all I got so back to hummin’ I go…)
Hmm-mmm…

 

 

Copyright © 2016 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

WHO'S LIKE US? DAMN FEW

Old friends in new times:
both monuments in stone
and astral creatures
with a closed door behind us,

I, too, remember when
we have been strangers
more than I wish to say.

 

 

Copyright © 2016 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

LADY SINGS THE BLUES SO WELL

Civilization began
when the mother of the universe
dropped a crystal plate
on the black expanse of the sky,
shattering into a billion stars.

With a desperate ragged breath,
she knelt,
sweeping up the constellations
and putting bits of far-off planet
in her apron pocket,
knowing that, once broken,
nothing can ever be put back again
and thinking to herself
that we'd all
be much happier
should this one moment
and the next
and the next
be, simply, a beautiful accident
of necessity and circumstance.

 

 

Copyright © 2016 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

SYMBIOSIS

There are moments when
I feel so small
and so broken
that you come along
and inflate me
like a blue balloon
and, though I can only
go so high,
I am who I am
because you think I can;
and the thought
of a blue balloon
against the bluest sky
makes us rise
(together)
on short breaths of helium
and optimism
and what-we-could-bes
and hope
and just a little doubt
and all of those thoughts
that keep us up
in the middle of the night,
in that half-awake place
of dreaming and reality,
when, suddenly, it is very late
and you stand with your prosecco
and me with my martini:
we stare up from the same park bench,
sharing a twine string
and a blue balloon
and a few aspirations
which will get us through
some very lonely winters
and (daily)
of the moments in between.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2016 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

www.johngrimmett.com