John Grey
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, River And South and Tenth Muse. Latest books, “Subject Matters”,” Between Two Fires” and “Covert” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Paterson Literary Review, White Wall Review and Cantos. John Grey THE RECEPTION AFTER THE READING Young women gathered around the well-known poet. The lesser-known male poets in attendance stood in line for wine. One of his admirers brought his glass of cheap red to him. He put it to one side for he had books to sign. In a city of Providence’s size, I estimate there’d probably be twenty to thirty females in their twenties willing to gush and sigh over some guy who has a way with words, is under forty and is passable looking. At least half of them were in attendance that night. The lesser-known poets attract none of these women Their poetry says as much. PREGNANT TREE There is no need to stand by the swell of your belly, feel the kick, listen to the echo crying deep inside you. Instead, I watch a tiny sparrow clinging to a branch. The thin, swaying limb is the safest place extant. Yet the bird covets sky. In one brave extravagant gesture, it flexes it wings, lets go that bough, soars out of the tree’s thick green uterus. The sparrow flies and flies, just to bless that moment it gets airborne. THIS SEASON’S DEAD A formless night in winter, as ephemeral flakes fall and sleep-bound fishermen enlighten the waves on tomorrow’s journey in the presence of decks rife with snow. THE CICADAS Seventeen years underground. Seventeen years of such uncommon patience. Then out they come for a summer, in our world, sucking on sap of oak and willow, laying eggs, vibrating their membranes, shredding the air with their ticks, whines and buzzes. Then seventeen more years underground. As if deep in the dirt, stillness and silence, is the real life. And the time up top is merely the dream, the motor whir of a subconscious, What we see is a cicada imagining itself as a cicada. What we hear is the sound of an insect playing along.

Poetry

Five Willows Literary Review