Poems by John Grey

THIS HEAT WAVE

It's over a hundred.
Trees droop close to melting.
Air-conditioners whirr and whine.
The electrical grid sputters close to blackout.

Air is slow to get around
and some climate skeptic
in a row house on Broadway
wipes his brow,
unpeels his shirt,
thinks maybe this really is
the hottest it's ever been.

In my house,
with every window open,
I imagine a crystal blue stream
cascading down from mountains.
Even in my mind,
it turns to steam in an instant.


LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT THE MOUNTAIN

It was gold up there
and my head could see clear
to the next state
and to the people I knew in childhood.

Forget the wind 
and the soughing boughs
and the cold rocks
and the clotted dry grass --
there were sounds
like bells ringing
and steps that penetrated clouds.

It was like a table 
set for me.
And lit by one candle, one sun.

I approached 
gods fit to worship
and they thanked me for my kind words
but then directed me 
to deities even greater.

When I reached the peak,
the sky was a wide blue altar.
I climbed so high
just so I could drop to my knees.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterlyand Lost Pilots. His latest books are Between Two Fires, Covert and  Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. 

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