Death Row
By
John Grey
All day long,
in my corner of death row,
I bend over my work,
weaving hemp and jute,
into sturdy rope,
knot my masterwork
to form nooses,
and with eyes for nothing
but my busy hands
as my ears ignore
the cries of the desolate,
the dreary, the despised
and the doomed
who populate this grim
murderer’s ward.
And I hammer planks
of wood into place, construct
many a gallows, one for each
condemned man’s cell.
The prisoners wake
to my handiwork,
during the day,
can never not see it,
fall asleep under
its despairing spell,
The end may come elsewhere
But the visions
can only happen here.
WILL THIS ONE DO?
a strange scent went searching
through the sleeping room,
lightly like a soul
and all the things that were night
softly followed it
and, unbeknownst,
she turned her face to where
the redolence was coming from,
breathed it in,
breathed it out
more potent still,
soft lips, white throat
and heaving breast,
compelled by fear
THE WITCH ON HER HUNDREDTH BIRTHDAY
My powers
are denuded by age.
What spells I do remember,
my cackling whisper of a voice
renders harmless.
I drool.
My joints ache unmercifully
and I can't remember
the names of my cats.
I was a hag,
then a crone
but there's no name
for what this measly
beggar's bag of bones is now.
The passing years are a much more
willful witch than I have ever been.
One hundred years of age…
the curse is irreversible.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, City Brink and Tenth Muse. Latest books, “Subject Matters”,” Between Two Fires” and “Covert” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Hawaii Pacific Review, Amazing Stories and Cantos.
By
John Grey
All day long,
in my corner of death row,
I bend over my work,
weaving hemp and jute,
into sturdy rope,
knot my masterwork
to form nooses,
and with eyes for nothing
but my busy hands
as my ears ignore
the cries of the desolate,
the dreary, the despised
and the doomed
who populate this grim
murderer’s ward.
And I hammer planks
of wood into place, construct
many a gallows, one for each
condemned man’s cell.
The prisoners wake
to my handiwork,
during the day,
can never not see it,
fall asleep under
its despairing spell,
The end may come elsewhere
But the visions
can only happen here.
WILL THIS ONE DO?
a strange scent went searching
through the sleeping room,
lightly like a soul
and all the things that were night
softly followed it
and, unbeknownst,
she turned her face to where
the redolence was coming from,
breathed it in,
breathed it out
more potent still,
soft lips, white throat
and heaving breast,
compelled by fear
THE WITCH ON HER HUNDREDTH BIRTHDAY
My powers
are denuded by age.
What spells I do remember,
my cackling whisper of a voice
renders harmless.
I drool.
My joints ache unmercifully
and I can't remember
the names of my cats.
I was a hag,
then a crone
but there's no name
for what this measly
beggar's bag of bones is now.
The passing years are a much more
willful witch than I have ever been.
One hundred years of age…
the curse is irreversible.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, City Brink and Tenth Muse. Latest books, “Subject Matters”,” Between Two Fires” and “Covert” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Hawaii Pacific Review, Amazing Stories and Cantos.
