Shore Life / First Robin by John Grey

Shore Life 

Beyond the shore,

the Gulf is a calm in constant motion.

The waves at my feet don’t do much

but their patterns, their incessance,

cannot be denied.

On a beach of gentle waters,

my footprints stay longer,

are a slalom course around cockle and pebble,

mussel and stringy green weed.

The birds are wary but not fearful.

A skimmer skims. A turnstone overturns stones.

And the poet writes poetry.

Not in the moment,

but as a modest stroll towards some place

where his writing tools await.

 

 

 

 

First Robin

 

The first robin has no idea

what it means to me.

Its head is in robin world.

It's on the lookout

for a lawn with a reliable food supply.

 

It doesn't care

that my mood has lifted

at the sight of its dark wings,

orange breast.

So I've been snowbound all winter.

Big deal, it says.

Of course it doesn't say anything.

It barely knows I exist.

 

It has no understanding

of cabin fever,

temperature in the single digits,

blizzard conditions,

driveway shoveling,

and a thousand other of my winter woes.

 

We both have lives to get on with.

What I call Spring,

to the robin is worms.

 

 

 

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Novus and Calliope. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Levitate, White Wall Review and Willow Review.

Going Home in a Near-Blizzard / Green Mountains by John Grey

Going Home in a Near-Blizzard

With the slashing 

of sleet,

my eyes are half-shuttered 

by ice-tips on lashes,

whitewashed, 

as snow grows around my feet,

my bicycle wheels,

as I plunge forward

in whirling air,

beneath the agitated bridge,

with not a star to be seen,

just houses, here and there,

inanimate objects

but for a nucleus of light.

  

 

 

 

Green Mountains

 

I hike in green mountains.

My mind is as refreshed

as my lungs.

 

What better to do

but wander

with an eye out for the trees,

an ear for the birds

and the crackle of brush,

where timid creatures live.

 

My boots snap twig,

clip-clap on rock.

A breeze blows gently.

The trees rustle.

Softly, softly,

I walk towards what comes next.

 

 

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Shift, Trampoline and Flights. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Levitate, White Wall Review and Willow Review.

Late October Afternoon / Look Around You by John Grey

Late October Afternoon

Lady-bird in my palm,

I whisper,

"Fly away home."

 

It's October,

late afternoon,

the lake done with sun,

ripples shadow

from man in boat

to dead maple leaves

that nestle on the shore.

 

Geese prowl

the last of the plenty.

A blue jay cries

through countless meanings

A chipmunk is here

and is gone.

 

Fish splash. Wildflowers shutter. 

Breeze blows. Mallards sleep.

Every stillness muses change. 

Each disturbance masks a calm.

 

 

Look Around You

 

The forest in fall -

a wide damask

layered by slanted light

that blinks in brassy foliage.

 

Everywhere, a weave of pastel color

where fading feels like an advance -.

bird song in constant praise

of a cooler air -

apples ripening like kisses.

 

Another October, that begins with us

holding on, clinging to birthright,

to landscape, to a season

as brief, as kindling,

as a log tossed on a fire.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Floyd County Moonshine. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.

Larkspur by John Grey

The larkspur,
purple and pink,
grows slowly
and in one direction,
toward the warmth and light.

It takes sustenance
from the ground beneath,
and yesterday’s raindrops
that are still making their way
down the stem.

Plucked,
it would be
stuck in a vase
in a dull room,
fading away.

Out here,
I can say,
“How lovely”
and mean it.

Inside,
from experience,
I’d be talking
in the past tense.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Washington Square Review and Floyd County Moonshine. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.

Moon Poem / Aurora Borealis by John Grey

Moon Poem

Out of fitful clouds,

gaunt horizon,

emerges a shiny core 

of spun looking glass,

 

that could be lifted

or slipped like a coin 

between the stars 

or worn, as a pendant, by the dark.

 

A crux of luster,

of stone, laminae,

of gleaming tissue,

with affinity to human texture.

 

Where awed breath 

meets cycle, sequence, 

where blood stirs

 

 

 

 

Aurora Borealis

Shimmering crystal bright
through the pores of the sky,
the northern lights
offer their shiny antidote
to endless summer days.

The dark, the cold,
are so bitter and obstinate,
but one window display
of delirious dancing green
and my blood switches
from shiver to heart-beat.

 

My horizon is of

brownish-red emissions,
glowing blue emulsions,
pink solar wind
with a dash of vibrant yellow,
like great silent fireworks.

Here, at the edge of the world,
the scenery tries much harder.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Red Weather. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Washington Square Review and Open Ceilings.

The Apple by John Grey

In winter, I’m never far from loud radiators,
those hissing metal bulwarks,
and I start to feel as old as the weather,
as if flakes are landing in my hair
and, even when they thaw,
some of the whiteness stays behind.

That’s why I’m always ready for spring,
when my fancy turns to pruning,
cutting away the dead or the selfish,
and the rain doesn’t bother me
because I always figure some of the growing
will include me in future blooms.

Summer is my ambivalence, bare feet versus sweat,
greenery in one corner, humidity in the other,
and a weariness spiked with cookouts
as the sky presses down on me.

And in fall, I embrace the pastel passion,
even if it’s a dying hue,
foreshadowing the somber gray,
the skeletons to come.
For I can reach up to, pluck, then eat
the sweetest, ripest apple in the world.

The seasons have their reasons.
I get away with one.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.

A Night in a Boyhood Home by John Grey

After long hours at the kitchen table,

telling more tales than Scheherazade,

instinct takes over,

turning crooked fence, spotty lawn,

into moon moored to a break in the clouds,

the scattered houselights up the hill. 

That’s it.  We’ve caught up.

The past’s invasion of the suburbs is complete.

I’m not thinking. Just doing.

Up the stairs. A gargle of spring water.

Old bed, old banners, old wallpaper.

Falling asleep like a child.

There is no other way.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in West Trade Review, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.

Swamp Time by John Grey

Every morning,

one blackbird,

on a spruce branch,

chants the nearby females to attention,

with "I am a great red-winged Romeo."

Sunup on gray tidal flats brings

a caravan of crabs,

terns stepping around stones,

mussel shoals.

Midday, same blackbird,

same song.

Late afternoon,

crickets begin their chirp,

but one blackbird

can out-warble a thousand insects.

Evening comes

to birds in reeds, in cypress.

Surrounds are dark as its feathers.

Gulf waters, moon-instructed,

move in, wave by wave,

flood silence with a swish and roll.

Head cocked sideways,

sleep comes to all great red-winged lovers.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.

At the Lookout by John Grey

The lookout must be scenic.
The sign tells me so and it's been here since the 50’s.
And Autumn forests, from this height, are radiant enough
to light the darkest mood. The pastel smoke extends to lakes.
Cold air smothers warm and ghosts arise. Sun skis the slopes.
A cloud or two puff vexed they can't be blue.
A red-tailed hawk spreads his wings.
Thermals bear the weight of flying.
In brush below, warblers sing praises of what only they can know.
A hasty note to Paradise:  I've seen your blueprint.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.

The New Winter by John Grey

Down at field’s edge,

winter rises up against

the first crop of wildflowers,

tries brief deceptive hibernations,

comes at night when it thinks

no one is watching,

then finally settles in the dog’s metal dish

on the front step

where the season is gulped down mercilessly.

That’s it.

Only pleasure henceforth.

We can now answer the question,

“What is a lake?”

Or survey the rise of a gentle hill.

Or take a shovel or rake to the soil

for this year’s plantings.

Or merely sit out on the porch

and watch the grass grow long.

Winter’s truly gone by this.

There’s no sudden lurch back to life

like Glenn Close in the bath.

It’s defeated by the dog

and the boredom of the weather forecasts.

Yes, it will come again.

But without the confidence of prior years.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dunes Review, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Thin Air, Dalhousie Review and failbetter.

The Dresser by John Grey

The perfume bottle
is in the shape of a glass fountain
atop a font of pale yellow.

The fancy comb and brush set
is polished shell,
hand-painted with Chinese figures.

A hexagonal glass box
adds sun or light-bulb sparkle
to the jewels below.

There's pot of powder,
tubes of lipstick,
various sprays
and ceramic knickknacks.

As far as the mirror is concerned,
this all constitutes a person.
A face, when it comes,
has been by already.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Schuylkill Valley Journal, Cape Rock and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Poem, and Spoon River Poetry Review.  

Back to Nature Drive by John Grey

Leave the highway, even the road that's 

a turnpike in its dreams. 

Go where the twilight is pointing.

Abandon the car. Let the grass be your guide.

The soft light is beckoning.

The wildflowers are purposely your favorite colors.

Even the shadows are kind with their dark.

The willows, the hemlocks,

these are the neighbors you didn't know you had.

The pasture's as friendly as its broken fences.

The river bubbles with its happiness, with yours.

The mallards will not harm you.

Moorhens glide by with such grace.

Even the deer nibbling tufts at forest's edge,

forgo their apprehension

for a conference on the most tender shoots,

the dainty eye-delights of a fawn's speckled body.

Really, the wildlife eats from your heart.

The foliage blooms out of your head.

Everything around you is everything in you.

Your body's the earth with a face.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, South Carolina Review, Gargoyle and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Cape Rock and Spoon River Poetry Review.   

Wood-Carver Poem by John Grey

If I weren't carving,

I’d be doing nothing.

My life would be

this solid block of wood.

The knife puts years

on either side of me.

It brings me to this moment.

It lets me live on in something 

you'll someday hold in your hand.

I make shapes to get shape out of me.

I cut through this wood

where the surface

screams loudest,

where the inside

hungers most to be.

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.   

Interview w/ Poet John Grey

1.  When did you start writing poetry and why?

I started in my teens. For the usual reasons I suppose. Looming adolescence,  an urge to write and the fact that poetry came easier to me than prose at the time.

2.  What is your writing process?

These days, I write from 7.00 A.M. to 7.00 P.M. with breaks for lunch and exercise. It’s not all poetry. I write short stories also. And, of course, some of that time has to be set aside for what I call the secretarial work such as submitting and keeping track of work. 

3.  Which poets throughout time have influenced your writing?

The most influential poets remain the ones I encountered in my school days and more of a case of despite them being part of the curriculum. I tended to appreciate the classic dead white males at the weirder end of the spectrum such as Coleridge and Poe.  

4.  What do you consider your poetic style to be? 

I try to write at least four poems a day, more if possible. The only way I can do that is to try to take different approaches each time I sit down to write one. So my style and subject matter do vary a great deal and it’s difficult, from my perspective, to pinpoint any one in particular.

5.  What topics do you tend to write about?

See answer four. Anything is grist for my mill. From politics to relationships to genres like horror and sci fi.

6.  What advice would you give to a novice poet?

Read and then read some more. Write and then write some more. It helps to have a handle on how serious you plan to be on learning and practicing the craft.  And a thick skin is imperative. 

7.  What advice would you offer to someone who is frustrated because his/her work is constantly being rejected by journals he/she submits to?

Knowing what kind of material they accept is a must. But, if you’re comfortable that your material is appropriate, my philosophy is try to write something better than what you sent that was rejected.    

8.  What is your ultimate goal as a poet?  Are there any specific awards or prizes you strive for?

My goal is to continue to improve my work. Other than that, I just take whatever comes my way.