Poetry: John Grey

John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, California Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, “Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Amazing Stories and River and South.

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TIGER

The creature wears 

a magician’s cloak

of yellow and black stripes.

It can make itself disappear 

in dense jungle, forest or 

even fields where the grass grows high.

It moves, like the wind, as a rustle.

Its feet are the lightest 

to ever touch ground.

Someone has sewn,

into its forehead,

the Chinese character for king.

But a king doesn’t prey on,

kill and devour, his subjects

At least not personally.

And now one 

has been glimpsed,

moving in a slow lope

between stalks of thick bamboo.

Farmers quickly, quietly,

usher their children 

inside the house,

their cattle into the barn.

The big cat is hungry.

If there’s meat on your bones,

be wary.

If you’re vegetation,

you’re fine.

***

A WALK IN LATE OCTOBER

The maple’s shade is heavier on light

now that the first leaves have fallen,

and the birds bare their chest feathers,

are more than just song,

and our whistling together has faces,

theirs and mine.

The time of limitless day is over,

the believers ensconced,

warming their blood by a fireplace.

But the walk is easier,

my arms flutter like wings,

and a mile, free of sweat,

is child’s play.

A month from now,

the air itself will be the true distance,

freezing up,

keeping everyone close.

But I indulge in what I have,

the delicate cool,

the colors halfway between zenith and nadir,

no wars within me,

just an ongoing trail,

firm underfoot, 

by the unfrozen pond,

the saturnine stream,

the wild apples fallen,

but their crispness left behind.

***

MISANTHROPE

The man who hates everyone

is loving the baby

placed gently in bis arms

by the young woman

on the street corner

waiting for a friend.

His venom toward

Jews, blacks, Spanish,

Italians and Vietnamese

is put on hold

while he tenderly

squeezes soft infant flesh,

tears up at sheer beauty.

But then the mother

takes back her child,

the ride arrives

for the two of them.

His heart recedes.

His head takes over.

Neighborhood's going to the dogs,

he says.

But then a dog licks his hand.

He warmly pats its soft thick fur.

***

A STRANGER MYSELF

Reaching my own stoop

I look back

at building after building,

joined at the stone hip,

and people,

all strangers,

on their own stoops,

some going out,

some coming home,

an old woman

overloaded with 

shopping bags,

a kid manhandling a bicycle,

some guy duded up

like a date’s in the offing,

a young woman

slinking up her stairs

with head down,

then I slip inside,

close the door,

and that’s everything, 

and that’s everyone

no more.

***

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Setu, May 2025