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.

EXPIRATION DATE

Sometimes, I envy a ripe banana:
it is a thing that hangs,
watched,
until just the time
when it is ready for the world.

Instead, here I stand
with my shirt off --
my guts hanging out --
and either no one sees
or everyone does
while they quietly gather
the nails to drive
through my palms and feet,
checking my pulse
a forkful deep at a time
to see if the cake batter cooked,
only as if to say,
"You're sweet, really,
but you've never amounted
to much more
than pudding."

Meanwhile,
the avocado blanches,
and I take the pit
and place it on the shelf
as a reminder
that every ripe fruit
must, at once, know its core.

 

 

 

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.

A PARTING SHOT

It is a dark midnight:
I sit here living and alive
(two extremes, a duo of vast conditions)
despite it all.

 

 

 

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.

SONNET FOR INSANITY

You say the sky is blue.
I say the grass is green.
Yet, the road from me to you
is mixed up in between.

You're shouting now (oh so loud).
You say I do not hear.
I say that you are much too proud.
We're not listening -- that is clear.

For I refuse to see the sky;
you, to sit upon the grass.
Stuck in all the reasons why,
we wait for time to pass.

The world, unforgiving, keeps on spinning.
We've lost another argument that never was worth winning.

 

 

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.

DRUM

You can love someone
without liking them,
and that truth isn't a wound
as much as it is a drum
for things you thought you knew
but didn't.

 

 

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.

THIS IS WHAT BLACK FEELS LIKE

THIS IS WHAT BLACK FEELS LIKE, you tell me,
but I cannot see
for I am blind.

Inside of me,
there are rooms big enough for both of us,
but there are locked doors,
built long enough ago, 
giant gates we know we didn't put there ourselves:
they are welded shut.

And through these fences, 
I feel your soft black hands:
they are both a wisp of smoke
and a crown for the stars.
I feel your soft black hands,
but I still cannot see what it means to have my words called "slang"
or to have my mistakes searched for in defense of my murder.
My success has never been considered lucky given my circumstance.
The ratio of my achievement to my work ethic has never been unfair.
When I raise my voice, it is not because I am angry but because I am strong.
When I stand up for myself, it is not because I am defensive but because I have conviction.
When I question others, I am brilliant instead of unaware.
When I am smart, I am because I am
-- and it surprises no one.

THIS IS WHAT BLACK FEELS LIKE, you tell me,
but I cannot see
for I am blind.
Instead, I feel your soft black hands:
like me, you are someone's child,
someone's someone.

THIS IS WHAT BLINDNESS FEELS LIKE, I start to say,
but you've evaporated through the chimney
as if I could show you the flue
(you see, how will we call this world our home
if even the constellations have wounds?)

I relinquish my blindness,
aware of its removability.
I see only rooms inside of me
big enough for both of us
with cracked ceilings
and cold windows
and locked doors.

Drops of blood fall into my eyelids.

I rust.

 

 

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.

A LIFE IN ART: A MANIFESTO

An artist's view on being born
- An artist does not ask to be born.
- An artist must learn to love the parents he has.
- An artist must not hate his parents for what he does not have.
- An artist must not hate his parents for what they do not give.
- An artist must be himself from an early age.
- An artist must be himself from an early age.
- An artist must be himself from an early age.
- An early age is any age at which the artist realizes he is.

An artist's view on being conscious and somewhat alive
- An artist must watch and wait and be patient.
- An artist must not commit crimes against other human beings.
- An artist must not harm himself consciously.
- An artist must breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth.
- An artist must breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth.
- An artist must breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth.
- An artist must sleep enough.
- An artist must work more than he sleeps.
- An artist must make things in order to be considered an artist.
- An artist must make things in order to be considered an artist.
- An artist must make things in order to be considered an artist.
- An artist must make things in order to be considered an artist.
- An artist must make things in order to be considered an artist.
- An artist must make things in order to be considered an artist.

An artist's view on theatre
- An artist believes the theatre is important.
- An artist believes the theatre does not matter.
- An artist believes the theatre is important.
- An artist believes the theatre does not matter.
- An artist believes the theatre is important.
- An artist believes the theatre does not matter.
- An artist believes the theatre has something to teach us. 

An artist's view on music
- An artist believes music is important.
- An artist believes music does not matter.
- An artist believes music is important.
- An artist believes music does not matter.
- An artist believes ALL music is important.
- An artist believes ALL music does not matter.
- An artist believes music has something to teach us. 

An artist's view on the visual arts
- An artist believes a painting is important.
- An artist believes a painting does not matter.
- An artist believes a sculpture is important.
- An artist believes a sculpture does not matter.
- An artist believes color is important.
- An artist believes color does not matter.
- An artist believes anything you can see has something to teach us.

An artist's view on dance and creative movement
- An artist believes dance is important.
- An artist believes dance does not matter.
- An artist believes dance is important.
- An artist believes dance does not matter.
- An artist believes dance is important.
- An artist believes dance does not matter.
- An artist believes physical expression has something to teach us.

An artist's view on literature and books
- An artist must read.
- An artist must read.
- An artist must read.
- An artist must write.
- An artist must write.
- An artist must write.

An artist's view on mathematics and science and the rest of the world
- An artist believes that everything that is not art is also art.
- An artist believes art is also science.
- An artist is unable to see a difference between art and science.

An artist's view on politics
- All art is an act of defiance.
- All art is an act of compliance.
- All art is political.
- All art is.

An artist's view on death
- An artist is not important. The work is important.
- An artist is not important. The work is important.
- An artist is not important. The work is important.
- There must be gratitude.
- There must be hope.
- There must be the unnameable.
- There must be every reason (and none at all) for a life of musts or manifestos.

 

 

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.

STARING AT THE CEILING FAN

When it is too late
and I am still awake,
I count the millions of tiny mountains
hovering above me
before drifting off into other.

I am never awake
long enough to count them all,
but I am able to see,
somewhere between
the fan and the roof
and an immovable twilight,
the ceiling wears a skin of gratefulness,
and I,
one of drowsy solemnity.

 

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.

GOODNIGHT MOON

Last night,
a storm woke me
by dancing on my roof
and, giving thunder a twirl,
it began a steady pitter-patter,
which gave me cause to open one eye
and watch the ceiling fan
spin and spin,
hoping I'd return to
laying on the beach with you
or winning the lottery
(boy, that one was hard
to wake up to),
but instead,
I found myself making lists
and reminders of what to do
upon waking:
pack the bags,
make the sandwiches,
read the other lists...

"There are so many places to be,"
I remember thinking
before drifting off again,
but maybe right here --
maybe in that place
between comforter and pillow case
that glows warm and cold
like a hopeful picture of the Earth
from the Hubble telescope --
maybe in this container
where I am safe
from the elements, at least --
maybe this is not where I should be
as, simply, where I am,
for now,
with only the sound of raindrops
on my eyelids
and the same gentle fan
whirring above me
as it has since the days of my adolescence,
ushering me back into some bewildering unknown
for the next several hours
or until the cawing alarm clock
beckons me to grow up,
grab my lists,
(futile, failing)
and get out.

 

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.

A THOUGHT AT MIDNIGHT

Most days,
I cannot see the trees for the forest;
most days,
I do not stand in awe of anything except a half-alive coffee maker,
myself half-alive,
and I think that it’s not that the earth spinning isn’t
exciting or wondrous or useful or any of that.

It isn’t the gray haze of morning
as I drive my car underneath a rising sun
or through a curtain of blue rain.

It’s that, once heaven paints the ceiling of the sky, 
each thirsty day sinks into the parched mouth of history,
the cardinal star crawling slowly
from Calcutta to Paris
to my backyard
where I am in the center of nothing
and in the middle of everything.

This is not an explanation.
This is not an insight
or an enlightenment.

But it is a notion —
the idea —
that our handprints
and our signatures
and the big toe used to make a pond ripple
is both the smallest necessity
we will always know
and the largest prayer
we will never hear.

 

 

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.

A BELOVED MAPLE

If you suffer from dendrophilia like me,
you look up, on days like today,
into the long slender fingers of the oak branches
and contemplate the complexity
of cracking an egg
or a walnut in half,
(for you always get what you expect)
but what of the poor yolk of my heart
or the crisp, difficult nut meat of my uncertainty
when, leaf by leaf, the sun peeks through
the twisted joints and roots of a moment,
untouched by all that is before me,
especially when the sky is so full of hope?

 

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.

ANOTHER OF THE SAME

Maybe I am destined
to write the same old poem
like Pinter wrote a play
or Steinbeck a story
but here I am, nonetheless,
thinking of you —
of us —
in the magical mystery
of times gone by,
when we could not possibly understand
the smallness of what we were:

Here is Hamlet,
we said,
“to thine own self be true,”
poor, poor Polonius
dying a thousand deaths
at the hands of our amateur.

Here is Beethoven,
we played,
our fingers long and clumsy,
plunking note by note
of a sonata in moonlight
in the middle of a dull hot day.

Here is poetry,
I said,
and I gave it to you,
the words thick and sweet like honey,
but with only me, 
it stuck to the roof of my mouth.

Later,
after we had kissed —
when love died on my lips — 
I realized I had only words,
and you moved on to larger things
as I stood there
in the craters of your footsteps
considering all of the reasons
of how you and language abandoned me
and why I could not dream
of anything 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.

ABSOLUTION (IN FIVE PARTS)

I.
Every Sunday, 
a mother sits alone on a church pew.

Her family accompanies her
twice a year
to show her
they have not forgotten.

 

II.
Aware of her own resentment,
a daughter sits quietly in the back seat
of a long, four-wheeled road trip
with sounds buzzing in her ears
and something whirring about inside her belly
and as she tries to figure out what it is,
there is a great big pull in her chest
and the anguish inside of her
streams down her cheeks.

She inhales carefully
so that she may remain invisible.

 

III.
A son sits on a bench and waits to be picked up from school and it is very late now and he is the last one and he knows it and he knows daddy must be on his way but probably got tied up in a meeting or a phone call or something more important and he knows it and (though it should not matter it does) it doesn’t take long before a terrible gray knot grows in his throat as he looks down at his plastic watch and he knows it and finally the boy screams so loudly that the gray explodes through his mouth in a furious surge of red hot goodbye.

The sun melts on the orange horizon.
Suddenly, headlights in the distance —

 

IV.
A father lays dead and buried
somewhere on a hillside
while his three young children sit around
and wonder about the people
they are to be without him.

Their mother cannot replace him,
and that is half of the difficulty, at least.

 

V.
What will it take
to stop blame
from dripping slowly
from the leaky faucet
of indignation?
The touch of your palm
against mine?
The jasmine scent of your sorrow?
Your eyes of sapphire?

Maybe the only answer is time:
when the scars have turned blue-pink and worn,
when the accidents have been appreciated
through an ancient translucent windowpane,
when we are able
to sit and watch the sun rise
and really truly
start over without any answers,
with only the soft purr
of a boiling tea kettle,
that old friend
who tells us
day in and day out
it will all be fine
and, later, 
we will make it home
just in time for supper.

 

 

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.

WILL NOT EVER TELL ME WHO I AM

One of these days,
I will understand —
and perhaps it is not understanding
as much as it is restlessness —
I will understand
how to let myself give up
that which keeps me
neck-deep in a mound of earth.

One of these days
I will know the mercy of trees —
and I doubt that means charity
as much as it means awareness —
I will know the mercy
of long moments in the shade
with a book or a thought
or both.

One of these days,
I will surrender to peace —
and maybe that is less about surrender
and more about allowing a little forgiveness,
and that would be alright, too —
I will yield to the moment
when my insides are not on fire
among the geraniums and paper whites.

Daily, I crack and smolder at dusk
like a thousand tiny crickets
made of ash and longing,
and in the middle of the night,
I stare up at a starry vault
of collective wondering:
to see myself is fortuitous
but to know I am there?

Already,
I am learning.
Already,
with a few quick strokes of my pen,
the wind carries me
in another direction,
the way my mother used to
when I was a child at the beach,
when my life was colored
in soft cotton tank tops
and unassuming pastels.

 

 

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.

A VOID UNFILLABLE

How do we say goodbye
he says to me
you understand he says to me
with the end up like a question
but I don’t understand

he says it will be a long time
before we see each other again
I know I say
but it is not what I mean to say
I mean to say
I regret the moments we have spent frivolously
because if I could see this moment coming
boy wouldn’t I spend time with you the correct way

we would not be human
he reminds me
he reminds me
we would not be human

this is not goodbye-goodbye
he says it’s a beginning
and all that
and that sounds fine for a while
but soon I grow tired
and a little teary
and somewhere down the road
where we were once children
I slowly unravel like a worn piece of fabric
who suddenly discovers
he is not simply a piece of fabric
but a hole in the cloth of living
working his way slowly outward
and dividing himself in half

and that’s how I know I am alive
for now
for the time being
and he has been talking
and I have been watching his eyes ignite
while the cat in the window
rises and stretches
and leaves us
to brave the impending winter.

 

 

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.

THERE IS FIRE DOWN BELOW

Today, it rained for the better part of the afternoon,
and sitting by the window feeling particularly bland,
I started slowly counting backwards
from the larger to the smaller,
the moments of my life reticent:

the alarm clock going off
to the night before
and the food I should not have eaten;
to the holidays
and birthdays
and family reunions;
to the button downs and silence
from messy hair and loud music;
to the friends I used to have
and the man I should not have loved
and the girl I should not have thought to love
and the ones who I’ve remembered to forget;
to the moment I learned how to ride a bike
to the moment I fell off, cracked my teeth and haven't ridden since;
to discovering color and numbers:
that red and white made pink
or that 100 had another digit after 99
and would take 899 more friends to push him over the edge;
to the thin line between the should and the should-nots
and at what point, I wondered, that I had become unaware.

With a little sigh,
my dog laid his black bristled head on my knee
and helped me — like good dogs do — 
gently let go of this halcyon catastrophe,
giving me permission to listen as it washed away,
waiting maybe for a “good boy”
but that, I’m afraid, would be too much disappointment
against the slow and steady rhythm
of it all coming down.

 

 

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.

COMMUNION

I was drinking my coffee on the back porch like I always do
and making a list like I always do
when a small squirrel happened upon me
through the slats of my fence,
eyeing me carefully
the way, I imagine, Cezanne would study a bowl of fruit.

I humbly offered a bit of strawberry
(my breakfast)
that, with a few more cautious moments,
he gladly devoured,
and after celebrating the unlikely eucharist,
off he went to loftier adventures,
abandoning me with my coffee and a thought:

this is how it will always be,
wandering from this to that,
praying that God grant us strawberries
or understanding
or something in between.

 

 

Copyright © 2015 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 SHORT PRAYER TO AND FOR THE EARTH

You do not have to sweat in fields of time
or lash yourself over and over again
for a crime you did not directly commit.
You do not have to apologize
or burrow yourself underneath mounds
of fresh, hot shame from your mother's dryer.

Tell, instead, of the reason your eyes turned
from a sea of azure to a gray, glassy silence,
and I will open my arms
and let forgiveness pour out of me
like the unrelenting frost
of mountain snows
not yet trod upon
by the violence of man.

 

 

Copyright © 2015 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