Friday, April 22, 2022

John Grey _____________________ three poems


The heroes, the heroines,

the casts of thousands,

made themselves comfortable

on the blanket top.

Then they went to work.

It was December.

The trees outside were stripped bare.

Head cocked on my elbow,

I reported to the protagonist

as he scampered across the hillside,

pursued by soldiers.

Shots rang out.

He tumbled down the side of a hill,

Thankfully, the bullets missed.

Wind picked up,

rattled the windows.

It began to snow,

even in in my room,

but only for a page or two.




Another fake spring.

Some melting.

A bud here and there.

A sun worthy of the name.

But then temperature drops.

More snow falls.

Thawed liquid freezes into ice.

Buds retreat.

Old Sol is more trickster

than benefactor.

The calendar givers orders.

Eventually, weather does what it is told.





Wild rain and better things to come.

Bird calls from all over the globe

not just the wintry residents.


Inspired by wind,

I'm whirling and twirling again.

I can still be cold

but not the kind of bitterness

that moves in for the kill.


The nights don't smother the day any longer,

fit neatly into their appropriate hours.

The full moon is fuller.

The new moon is newer.

The half-moon ignores the other half.


From meadow to forest,

wilderness is wildness once again.


Soon enough, pollen invades my nostrils.

Long, languid days drag me sunward.

An old song sings in my mouth and my skin ripens.













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