Poems by John Grey
ORANGE Holy scent of after rain, the sigh of breezes in the canopy, flowers unbowed by gilded rainbow, brisk tanager chirps crimson in the mist. Such birthright. Such bequest. Fervour of daylight, silky sheen of utter midday, luminous dawn, crisp with heaven's air, twilight, the second wind of fire. Night falls. I eat an orange, cut in quarters, slices of the sun. THE TRAUMA THAT REMAINS You’re terrified of fire. I can see it in your eyes. A roaring hearth before you. You struggle to tamp it down with tears. Your mother and sister perished in a blaze, caused by a faulty electric wire. You were staying with friends at the time. You’re also afraid of staying with friends. You need to leave, go home to your empty apartment. There’s no one there in need of saving. At least, not until you get there. THIS IS MY WORLD The lake below the town is a blue haze in which two mute swans glide back and forth like yellow-beaked sailboats. The old fishing shack is half-smothered in moss. An egret is shaking out its wings. Light fades from the sky. A chanting chorus of frogs pulse the edge of day. You can catch me at home later. I’ll be listening to jazz.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and the Round Table. His latest books, Leaves On Pages and Memory Outside The Head, are available through Amazon.
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