December 21-27, 2015: John D Robinson and John Grey

John D Robinson and John Grey

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John D Robinson

Bio (auto)

John D Robinson was born in 63 in the UK; he began working aged 15 and continues to do so; he began writing poetry aged 16 and his 1st poem was published a year later; many of his poems have appeared in the small press and numerous online publications; Bareback Lit, Red Fez, Dead Snakes, Pulsar, The Commonline Journal, The Kitchen Poet, The Chicago Record, Mad Swirl, Poetic Diversity, The Clockwise Cat, Your One Phone Phone; upcoming work will appear in Ink Sweat & Tears, The Legendary, Message in a Bottle, The Sentinel Liteary Quarterly. He is married with 1 daughter, 2 grandchildren, 3 cats, 1 dog and he likes to drink wine and stare out into space whilst listening to classical music.

The following work is Copyright © 2015, and owned by John D Robinson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

In the Queue

The usual hideous
saturday morning
queue at the supermarket
in front of me
stood an old guy,
a very old guy
and he was tiny
thin as a pencil;
we waited maybe
15 minutes, then
he was next
and he vey slowly
slid towards the
I was close behind
him and I heard
him say
“Have you any
2nd class stamps?”
“No” the cashier said
“We only sell
1st class stamps”
the old guy shook his
tired head
he couldn’t afford
those 1st class stamps;
“NEXT” the cashier
shouted and the old
gentleman shuffled
the poor old bastard
had wasted 15 minutes
of his ever rapidly
reducing time;
he had tossed away
minutes to buy
2nd class stamps to
send some christmas
cards to some people
to let them know
that he was still around;
but now he would
return home to the
small pile of cards upon
the kitchen table, cards
that wouldn’t be sent and
those people may think
that he may not be around
anymore because he
always sent cards.

John Grey

Bio (auto)

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and the anthology, No Achilles with work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Gargoyle, Coal City Review and Nebo.

The following work is Copyright © 2015, and owned by John Grey and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

July 4th

Streets ran with dogs but those curs outpaced them.
Kids whacked baseballs without much care for windows.
Airplanes flew low or blew messages in smoke rings cross the sky.
Blood-red fire engines clanged and swore,
flew down sidewalks when the traffic would not part for them.
Cops rode horses. Bums ate horseshit.
Everyone was nervy. Will there be enough beer?
The floats came by. Miss Cheesecake flashed her teeth.
A fake George Washington never told a fake lie.
Is that John Adams…no, it’s Georgia Fly, the aging hippy.
And Thomas Jefferson, bless his dressed-up soul,
read a proclamation to three men and a sheep.
The army was out in force. Some real. Some kidding themselves.
One-legged soldiers wore two legged suits.
Medals looked askance at the chests that wore them.
Do I really belong with thirty years of belt-loosening?
The band blew brass in my ear, insisted it was my independence too.
And marchers stomped my one o’clock shadow.
What a July 4 . The chocolate bar in my hip pocket had melted.
This was no way to love a parade.
My mother cried. My father’s hand never left his heart.
My mind was fall of what I’d do if anyone dared touch my fireworks cache.
A hydrant burst. Kids danced, cooled off, took it as a sign.
The crippled guy wheeled himself to his open window.
Flags blew from his lapel.
An old woman snarled something about "no respect."
So many people felt good about themselves,
the very noise-filled air beamed.
A hotdog parted my lips. Harvey Jenkins did the same for my big sister’s.
If you didn’t collapse from the heat, you weren’t trying.
Yet, it was the country’s day, why spoil it with Annie’s cancer,
Rhonda’s beating, Ricky’s drunken fall.
Newspapers kicked up their heels — foreswore
"Middle East War" for "America’s Birthday".
No journalist was harmed in the killing of their stories.



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