The Tambourine Man and Other Poems

By John Grey

The Tambourine Man

Stringy gray hair grew long enough to tickle his belt loops,
but the top of his head was as bald as rock.
Rough sideburns extinguished half his cheeks.

He sang backup on the chorus,
in a voice like a young rooster 
learning to crow.
And if he tried to dance on stage,
his movements were busy and awkward 
like trout in a pot.
But mostly he stood apart, bemused by the antics 
of the rest of the band.

His instrument was the tambourine,
thumped against hand or thigh,
low down in the mix to not interfere with the music.
He smiled at the audience occasionally
because they were the ones who, over the years,
had paid for his rehab.
 
He was a star in his youth 
but, at that age, merely a legend –
He was twice as old as the rest of the guys
but a hundred times the myth. 

The Photo of the Band

Sarah, daughter of old fiddle tunes,
singer in a musty group framed
by bearded men, animal skins
draped over shoulders.
Tom, Clifford, J.P.,
all those dead before I was born
extend their existence
in back-stage sepia,
cling to instruments,
tea-chest bass, washboard...
the Gospel according to
do it yourself.
I long to be in the audience,
even pick up the mandolin,
pluck the odd tune I've been writing
for this photograph to play.
Sarah, ascetic and grandmotherly, you exist:
your ballads, kin to my songs,
your endurance frames
whatever tune I'm mutely rendering.

Nicole’s Poem

The poem was nothing at all
like she hoped it would be.
It was mere words.
There was no feeling.
And such flowery language.
It was so far removed
from her own life 
she could barely believe 
she had written it.

For her, the true poem
came into being
when she took that piece
of paper in both hands,
tore it into tiny pieces.

And it said so much more
about her when she tossed it
out her window like confetti
for the parade that didn’t come by.
Or when she scattered it 
like birdseed though the sparrows
and finches would have 
nothing to do with this inedible gift.

And the poem finally took flight
when the wind picked up the shreds
and blew them in all directions,
far and near.

What once as whole
can never be put back
together again.
That was the poem 
she planned to write.

Noise Factor

The shepherd’s barking
in the back yard –
some other creature 
moving in on its domain
perhaps –

and on 
a block 
on Thayer Street
Eddy’s playing his sax
as disinterested college kids
stroll by –

they’ll have degrees 
when they’re done,
won’t have to bark
or blow the buttons off their brass
to earn a living –

could be a racoon 
or a skunk
or feral cat –
or a change in the wind –
or nothing -

or something by 
Pharaoh Sanders,
Ornette Coleman –
anything he can 
apply his breath 
and fingers to –
the passersby don’t care –

there are noises in the air –
no meaning
beyond who makes them.  

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Sheepshead Review. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and California Quarterly..