Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #4                        Page 44
                                   
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ED'S MARILYN MONROE INFATUATION

The living goddess
who is a long dead woman
fills your television screen,
as if she's always been there
though she never was the once,
still beautiful, still entrancing,
but nothing more than invisible waves
processed into light and color,
and this is what you dote on:
things that seem to be
what they are not;
it's a movie, it's a blessing,
it restores you to the center
of your adolescent universe,
Marilyn's enticing lips, her curvaceous figure,
the screen lathered up with your desires,
with what it would take to satisfy them.

John Grey __

Spacetime
Spacetime by ©Bob Heman
INDECISIVENESS

Indecisiveness is cruel.
My hands agree.
They go around the furniture shop choosing.
I will take this mattress.
This chair is coming home with me.
Likewise, these curtains.
And this lampshade.
How I love the hues of oceans.
I feel, I give the onceover then the twice.
I bounce on beds. I open drawers.
And I imagine what the unalike
will look like together in repose.

The house is already
sated with my fingerprints.
An architect drew it up
but with my hand upon
his wrist and guiding.
Somebody else's choice of flowers -
probably God's -
were immediately dispensed with.
In their place, my plantings.
Dying trees, I let die.
My new pines were grateful
for the opportunity to thwart the season.
give every month their best needles of green.

Of course, I don't think of women in the same way.
No drawing up the plans
and then auditioning, recruiting.
It was all purely ecstatic coincidence I'm sure
that you fit this unconscious model
that's been molded in my head since adolescence.
Really, even if you were different,
I swear, we'd still be us.
You're not the house. You're not the furniture.
You really are your own person.
Yes, I could have proposed on a better day,
to a woman more in keeping.
But indecisiveness is cruel.
And, besides, your sister wasn't home.


        John Grey__



FARM DAYS


My father roused us out of bed
at 5 a.m.
to milk the fat udders
of the cows.

Down the path to the shed
we stumbled
just as day broke
over the hills.

This was long before
the arguments, the shouting,
divorce,
kids slapped around
from country to city
at the whim of some dull-eyed judge.

This was when
pure white bubbled
at the touch of a teat,
when you could have sworn
the horizon gushed from
the swift hands of our milking.


        John Grey__