by John Grey
Behind the mist,
beyond the window, the forest,
body murmurs, refutes the
sleepy council of its dreams,
waits to be peeled apart
by an engaging fingertip.
Morning–sun so light and equal to
whatever task I give it–
and I think of the man with everything. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by John Grey
Nobody knows me here.
No friends.
I’m totally alone.
Then you call. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by John Grey
I strolled through the alfalfa field
circled by panicked insects
and with a storm slowly making something
of the warm, too peaceful, air. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
Hawaii Pacific Review 