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Best Poems Written by James Graham

Below are the all-time best James Graham poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | James Graham Poem

Powerless

Six forty eight,
sitting in a cab at Madison and LaSalle.
Present in hand, Spongebob encased.
A look at the schedule just to confirm
the train leaves at seven PM.

There’s shade in this canyon
but its still hot as hell.
Smog laden air buzzes over the street.
A man from IT or Accounts Receivable 
walks with purpose holding his suit jacket.
The jacket screams that this man cares no more.

We roll along then come to a stop.
Gridlock.
Wide traffic cop 
shakes her head and talks to a friend.

I let out a heavy sigh.
The yellow eyes of my driver
flash back at me in the rearview mirror.
His eyes stand out against his blue-black skin
and chiseled cheek bones.

A siren whines, drawing near.
The Doppler effect
smashes the sound waves pitching higher
against the rear windows of the sitting cars.

Jean Baptiste, as the license says,
looks around and now
lets out his own audible sigh.
A droplet of sweat rolls down his temple.

Airhorns blow again and again.
Our cab nudges forward
pinning the heat of the engine 
against the exhaust exiting
the Crown Vic sitting in front.

A bike messenger weaves on through.
The ambulance grunts pesteringly.
A piece of crap Dodge starts to steam.
The meter silently ka’chings.
A yard of space enters Jean’s view.
Its now seven ‘O’ two.

Details | James Graham Poem

Lather, Rinse, Repeat

Alison weeps at the fake Senior Prom.
Alison creeps out onto the lawn.
Alison’s skin turns to purple from pink.
Alison’s flesh beginning to stink.

A stench too great to look away.
Poking at the children who’ve come to play.
Poking at Alison with a big long stick.
Flies alight with each small kick.

Alison floats above the field.
Amongst the birds and clouds to shield
her from the view of those below
who move through life ignoring the glow

of a vacuum in midst of spring air.
Gliding and growing beginning to tear
through the surface tension of a calm morn.
Swirling the tempest, igniting a storm.

Driving rain drops pelt the surface
of grass and concrete and metal, with purpose.
Cleansing the stains of stigma and pain.
The dirt drains away. Crispness remains.

Who will remember poor Alison?
When time has passed and we’ve moved along.
Who will remember the lessons she taught?
Lessons engraved, but I guess you forgot.



Jim Graham
2010

Details | James Graham Poem

Lump

Tiny spiders spill forth from a crack
in the plaster wall.  Crawling, spelling
out the answers I’ve sought.
Filthy wall vibrates with words.

Words, that drip and ooze down
onto the asbestos tile. Breaking
up, each letter sizzles into a small 
cloud which rises into flickering fluorescence.

Words that are the answers
I’ve sought all along.
Answers to the questions
that I never asked.

If only I could remove myself
from this concave mattress,
capture the smoke.
See what I saw.

Thaw.
10 tons of icy sins
crushing my limbs.
Preventing all movement.

Save a blink here and there.
Clearing the blur of dried eyes.
Bringing into focus her approach.
Injecting dull relief into my veins.

Fighting sleep to learn
more.  I can’t ...

Details | James Graham Poem

Cleanse

Bare feet step onto the cold black and white mosaic tiles.
A few tiles are missing, revealing beige glue embedded with purple lint.
An inconveniently small black knob, striped with old toothpaste
is twisted 
to illuminate the reluctant fluorescent fixture above the sink.
Red blood vessels peek through the yellowed whites of tired eyes.
Invisible throbbing temples nag about the previous night’s
transgressions. 
A spot
on the forehead.  New, maybe.
“What the hell is that?”
Water makes the spot more prominent.
Closer inspection reveals nothing to Ignorance.
Hotter water.  Washcloth.  Scrub. 
A patch of red grows underneath pressing fingers, 
framing the spot, adding significance.
Diligence.
The sharp, chipped medicine cabinet door creaks open.
Crusty accouterments reside inside.
Razor, rusty tweezers, safety pin.
Nail file.
Tap water attempts to cleanse the stainless steel.
The coarse grain is pressed against the skin.
Softly grinding.
Harder, more pain, white flakes.
Stop abruptly.  A deep breath.
Resume. 
Bite down. Grind harder, specks of blood.
Inspection.
It’s still there.
A thumb grazes the pointed tip.
The tip is pushed underneath the blemish.
A heavy breath bounces off the hard walls.
A wave of hurt banishes the demons.
A slight twist to peel the flesh. 
Blood streams around the brow and down the cheek.
The offending piece sits on the point of the file.
A flick casts it into the toilet labeled Standard.
Flush.
A wad of toilet paper pushed into the wound.
Rinse the file and put it back to rest.
Bare feet exit.
Leaving a now sweat-stained, mosaic tile floor.

Details | James Graham Poem

Important

Block after block there is a man.
Outstretched hands
presenting a brown-stained 
Starbucks cup.

Steadfast, I must look straight.
Businesslike gait 
creating the illusion that 
I have somewhere important to go.
A lie.

The air between me and the cup and the hands and the man
compresses in my brain.
Like the air in the cylinder of a diesel engine
right before spontaneous combustion.
My hands silence any loose change.

As I pass, glassy brown eyes ask “what’s up?”
A downdraft washes over me.
I can only respond “not much” 
attempting to retract my arrogance.

Gunmetal blue buildings
glare down at me.
My hands remain in my pockets
still gripping the coins.
Cold to the touch.

Details | James Graham Poem

A Memory

Two-lane U.S. Highway in the Midwest.
A canyon of tall corn contains the shimmer
of the road reflecting heat
from the late sixties sky.
Sticky teal vinyl grabs the
bare backs of my legs.
Cast chrome projectiles jut
out from the metal dashboard
attempting to invoke space age
modernity. 
Crossroads. 
Quonset hut on one corner 
dressed up as a diner.
A rusty 7UP sign announces good intentions.
Screened in porch serves as a dining room.
Dust flies and gravel groans as
our whitewalls pull up next to a
not yet faded blue Fairlane parked in front.
Picnic tables covered with paper cloth
serve nicely as the seating.
A woman, dark hair, poodle cut,
takes our order.
A Vitalis encrusted man wearing a white 
t-shirt and gray slacks,
dungarees are for hoodlums,
cooks the food.
A mini-submarine shaped tank of
propane located outside
provides fuel for the grill.
The grill toasts bread for my grilled cheese
A bag of potato chips is unclipped from a display.
Paper plates and napkins soak up the grease.

Nobody can hear the changes
climbing the horizon.

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Small Victory

Gus whose real name ain’t Gus
gets in and creaks the door shut.
Ripped vinyl, jabbing metal
cups considerable weight.

Gus whose real name ain’t Gus
slides the key into the ignition slit
on the dashboard not the column
of this galaxy five hundred.

Gus turns the key clockwise
the starter makes a hearty attempt
turning the engine over and over.
Points are contacted, little sparks erupt.

Gus releases the key which clicks back.
Sun beats down on the faded green hood.
A sigh, another try.
Shove the gas pedal through the floorboard.

The inline 6 roars to life.
Gus whose name isn’t Gus
is on his way.

Details | James Graham Poem

Ballad of An Open Drain

Pulling back the curtain
and wading through a cloud of steam.
I may not be certain
but in the sink there seems

To be a black smudge
that can move on its own.
Drying myself with a mildew laden towel
my certainty has grown.

I know who he is.
Waiting for a morning sip.
Myriad drops of water
pierced by his fang’s tip.

Approaching the basin with trepidation.
We know this cannot last.
I cannot brush my teeth
within this creature’s grasp.

Admiring his decorative abdomen.
Which resembles a zulu mask.
I grab a wad of toilet paper
to help me in my task.

First I’ll run some water
to see if he will slide
down the drain to “freedom.”
Hope as he begins to glide.

Yet of course his minute claws
can grab ahold of the drain.
To prevent a full collapse
and increase my emotional pain.

For we’ve reached the endpoint
and I have to leave for work.
Why should his life be less than mine?
His people were here first.

But that’s not how this goes.
My human size and might
crush his skeleton like paper
and flush him out of sight.

Details | James Graham Poem

License To Dream

A lottery ticket is a license.
A license to dream. 
Just a small piece of paper
spit out by a machine.
Maybe at the 7 Eleven
or a Currency Exchange.

A driver’s license offers freedom.
A hunter’s lets you kill.
The lottery ticket offers real escape
if just for a little while.

“I can quit this painful job.”
“Pay off my bills.”
“Get a kickin' mansion.”
“Leave a little in my will.”

This is an actual possibility
if just for a while.
A small dose of brain candy.
Until this license expires.

Then the day comes
when the numbers are drawn
and you look to see
what you already knew,
you didn’t match one.

But you know that’s okay.
you’re probably better off 
anyway.
A hundred pennies for another ticket.
And dream another day.

Details | James Graham Poem

Sore

Hands that have seen many a storm.
Hold and cuddle the fragile form
Of an infant child’s bare skin.
Pulling him close to keep him warm.

Hands that press forcefully, to pin
The head of a man who can’t win
Into the barrel of a gun
Or a baseball bat crushing a shin.

Hands weathered ‘cause they would not run.
Hammered nails and lifted a ton.
Brought home money and food to eat.
Have grown old as life’s just begun.

Hands chapped and raw from snow and sleet.
Blistered and burned from too much heat,
labored long to prevent defeat,
labored long to ensure defeat.