The Depths of My Concentration, Herbs & Spices, by John Grey

The Depths of My Concentration

“Listen to the snow fall,” she says
but I am sorting through some papers
out of earshot of everything
but my thoughts.
So I don’t hear the clouds break,
the tapping on the roof,
the glissading squeak
on every window-pane.
And, most of all,
I don’t hear her.

I trying to make sense of something.
Everything else can go on
as senseless as before.
She concedes the lack of meaning
in these flakes,
but is willing to subsidize
the events in her life
with gentle drops of nature,
myriad shapes,
sounds so soft
she willingly invents them.
​
“Just listen,” she says,
but I just concentrate
on what I’m doing.
“To the snow fall,” she adds.
But if I don’t get this done now,
I’ll never get it done.
After that, she says no more.
For all of my progress,
I hear her no less.

Herbs & Spices

​you disappear
into your blue robe
after patting down
your date for the night
in your exotic herb garden -

in the morning
you bring him
a bowl, a bouquet,
but not the pregnant possibility –

life follows a pattern –
you don’t like sadness
you prefer fading to blue
you’d rather a bed of nails
than a family picnic
& you mostly prefer
bicycles to men –
​
in your life,
happiness works by addition
to your lovely garden,
everything green & prosperous
& spicy
when plucked (not fucked)
for your amusement only

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. Latest books, Leaves On Pages and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon.