The May Selected Poet is John Grey

Please feel free to email John at: JGrey10233@aol.com

PRECIOUS

White and still
and yet you’ve become this diamond,
blushed with inner light.
Sunken as your eyes may be,
they peer so keenly
between the veils
of flesh and time.
Weak at the hand that limps into mine
but strong as the centuries I’ve lived,
that you will live.
Near death,
they whisper
at the gravestone watch
of your eternity.

ROSES IN YOUR GARDEN

In the garden of one white rose and one red rose,
pale thorns recede, the crimson lengthen.
Under moonstruck light, one stalk is drawn
toward a trembling other that bends away
as far as fragile roots allow.
But rouge delight sequesters milky fear,
overwhelms such timid chalkiness.
Blood petals enrich themselves,
more ruby, more fire.
The pearl grow frail and ashen,
sucked clean down to roots.
All night, the ravenous red rose feasts
upon the helpless white.
And, in the morning, there’s but one black rose
fluttering in the bloated, belching wind.

THE OTHER ANNA

My heart is unavailable,
will my throat do.
My life is in me sleeping
but my death shimmers on the surface,
soft and lithe, welcoming.
The years I’ve lived
are burrowed down in dreams
but eternity floats me up toward
your waiting mouth,
those scarlet lips,
gleaming teeth,
fathomless thirst.
No you can’t have me,
but this perfect proxy,
luscious image,
falls before your sweet seduction.
Love it, embrace it,
drain it of its blood,
then, at cock crow,
slip it back into my mute,
unmoving form.
Ah, my twisted lover,
before you leave,
hear me breathe
its prodigal return.

AS NIGHT APPROACHES

Resist the day's termination.
If there's no limbs of love, of company, within reach
then, at least, cling to your bewilderment
that everyone's deserted you.
As shadow husks the valley,
unstitches the seams between
buildings and sky,
forest and earth,
find a frantic impulse or two
in your makeup,
follow them to where their jangling leads.

Total your assets...
the thrust of blood,
the intermittent hallelujahs of the brain.
Imagine them as beams.
Consider how they'll hold up
against the coming juggernaut of darkness.

Yes, I know there's always stars.
So hold that thought...
even dead lights have their shine.

Australian born poet, John Grey has been a United States resident since late seventies. During the day, he works as financial systems analyst, and during the night, he meets his muse.

John has been published in Connecticut Review, Alimentum and Writer’s Bloc with work upcoming in Pennsylvania English, Prism International and the Cider Press Review.