Poetry by John Grey
CONTRAST Three in the morning, and I’m wide awake, in a room silent everywhere but in my head. My thoughts won’t lie down. My imagination tosses and turns. Beside me, my wife is so deep in sleep, the contrast between us never more stark. So it’s not just her rom-com movies versus my horror flicks. Our nights could never be more different. So her “meet cute” wakes up refreshed. My “demon encounter” still has hell to pay. VACATION TIME I wish you wouldn’t stroll around this particular lake while I am seated on the porch of this cabin in New Hampshire sipping my morning coffee. Living in the city, I don’t wake up to such a glistening blue stretch of water surrounded by lush greenery with the possibility of a loon sighting somewhere in the quiet ripple. And I see attractive women every day. But my eyes are drawn to the wind in your long blonde hair, your shapely figure, a face a modern-day Raphael would set aside his Madonna and Child to paint. I’m here to get away from it all. And, thankfully, it’s all here. THE METHOD ACTOR He took acting class at school and the teacher said, “You are a tree:” So he stood still with head high, legs together and arms spread wide. When the class was dismissed, he still didn’t move. The teacher said, “It’s okay, you’re no longer a tree. You’re a boy again.” But trees don’t understand human language. It’s years later The new kids in acting class have to work around him.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, Santa Fe Literary Review, and Lost Pilots. His latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. He has upcoming poetry in the Seventh Quarry, La Presa and California Quarterly.
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