Poetry by John Grey
REGARDING THE POETS
So the poets saved the word “love”
for themselves.
They had no other choice.
Who’s better prepared to work with it?
Lawyers? Firemen?
They have their own argot –
contracts and ladders.
But love?
In poetry,
it’s as common as the letter “e’.
There’s nothing formal in its usage.
It’s raw.
It’s emotion, pure and feral,
the kind that howls at the moon,
that kisses and claws,
that burns in the belly
and hisses in the bones.
Besides, love was being neglected.
So the poets stepped in.
Cops were too busy.
Truckers had other roads to travel.
But love -- that’s a poet’s beat.
And they walk it daily.
A BOY AND A PEBBLE
A gold vault of ragwort in bloom,
speckles the quivering pond
with heart-shaped shadows of leaves.
Sky snoops through treetops.
Its pale blue reflection
makes surface contact
where it can.
Young enough to despise stillness,
I toss a pebble,
disrupt the bright water.
Dragonflies disperse.
Tiny fish schools
swim to safety
in all directions.
A disturbed snapping turtle
rises up, like a splash in reverse,
through the calm eye
of outward rippling rings.
(I was an instigator then.
Now I am a caretaker.)
IN FLORIDA SCRUBLAND
twisted trunks of saw palmettos
don’t know vertical from horizontal
wilted look
to the fronds and flowers
but stubborn roots
dwarf oaks
barely a man’s height
with leaves dry and wrinkled
as a farmer’s face
prickly pear cactus
paddles of spiked green
gripping together
in parched soil
a scrub-jay pecks
a skink slithers
here and there
in search of beetle larvae
patches of sand
in dense thicket
like the last stand
of an ancient desert
looks like
nothing should live or grow here
but never doubt living things
REGARDING THE HEAD
I marvel at heads,
what’s inside the skull,
under the cheeks,
crammed within the jaw.
And there’s the ubiquitous nose
of course, some more ubiquitous
than others.
And the ears, those worthless wings.
When I look at faces,
I’m supposed to think
beauty or ugly
or something in between.
But anatomy and physiognomy
are more my fields.
Forehead to jaw,
it’s all about symmetry.
And having a head
has got me thinking.
Not bad for a mere
carry-case for bones.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Novus and Abbey. His latest books, Bittersweet, Subject Matters and Between Two Fires, are available through Amazon. He has work upcoming in the MacGuffin, Touchstone and Willow Review.
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