Poetry Break: By John Grey

Editor’s Note: 

John Grey is a prolific poet. He’s been published multiple times in reputable poetry reviews, magazine, and anthologies. We’re proud to have him as a part of the Two Drops family of poets. 


TIME FOR A SHOWER

All it needs is some rain around here.

The land doesn’t need to tell me that

but it does.

The weary pasture cries out,

“I can’t do this on my own.”

Even the toppled fence posts

would prefer to mildew and rot

from the inside

than sear like bullock skulls.

 

Every silence is about the weather.

Unworked fields. Mute birds.

Uninspired seeds.

A cloud does float in

from the horizon,

with patches of gray

like those shadows on the moon.

But from below,

it’s like a drifting safe

to which no one knows the combination.

 

This landscape feels as if

it once held its breath in expectation,

an expectation never realized.

So it gritted and gripped

until its lungs gave out.

 

To cap off death’s allegory,

I see, between a sorry looking grove of trees,

an old abandoned shack,

its derelict partner of a barn.

Someone tried to make themselves a life here.

 

But then a drop of rain

taps on my shoulder,

And another splats gently on my head.

The weather has finally broken

but like a patron who arrives at the theater

long after the actors took their bows.

Finally, the cloud splits open

like a wet paper bag.

It rattles the roof of that shack.

I know what it’s saying.

“We’ll make a farmhouse of you yet.”


WHY YOU’RE HEARING SONIC YOUTH AT SUCH DECIBELS

I’d live in orange milkweed

if it were a country.

I’d travel the lands of birdsong,

sleep in the vale of streams.

 

But nature,

for all the purity of its intent,

is obsessed with people.

It herds them in great numbers,

makes them live shoulder to shoulder,

attitude to attitude,

belief to belief.

 

I get along fine with Solomon’s seal,

the skittish rabbit on the trail

and the breeze,

even when its gets so full of itself,

it becomes wind.

 

But I’ve neighbors on either side

and they have me.

The air is thick with others breathing.

Every sound is littered with their words.

I either make allowances

or go to war on these intrusions

into my sense of self.

Sometimes, I just turn up my music loud.


THUNDEROUS

I hugged her to me

as a road-train crossed the sky,

or was it a chorale of drummers

or the choreographed stamping

of the Chinese.

 

It was temporary.

Nothing that loud ever lasts.

 

A million rough-voiced sailors.

the combined clang of a thousand factories,

an angry god – not the God

but one no longer worshiped –

 

I was delighted to be at least their equal

for she felt safe.

 

After a half hour or so,

the locomotive left the station,

the rocket burst out through

Earth’s upper atmosphere,

a multitude of rifle ranges shuttered.

 

She fell asleep.

Sorry Angela, I told her,

I can’t help you there.


Authors Bio:

jgreypic

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Stillwater Review, and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Columbia College Literary Review, and Spoon River Poetry Review.

Other links for John Grey:

  1. An interview with John Grey at The 3288 Review
  2. HEArt Online
  3. Google results for John Grey’s work

Published posts on Two Drops of Ink:

1) Poetry Break by John Grey


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S.W. Biddulph

Scott Biddulph is a published writer, author, and poet from North Georgia. He began writing as a youngster and followed his lifelong dream of reaching people through the written word when he returned to The University of North Georgia in 2013 to finish earning his BA/English with a concentration on publication and creative writing. His publications include the following: an eBook, Apples of Gold: A collection of inspirational short stories and poems (Smashwords, 2010) and a paperback, Voices from the Heart, (Createspace, 2012). His poetry is published in Papers and Publications Undergraduate Research Journal. Vol 3 (2014) and the award-winning Chestatee Review (Spring, 2015), among other places (Check his LinkedIn profile for a full list of his publications). He is currently working on publishing poetry, creative non-fiction, academic essays, and his memoir. Scott has also worked as an intern editor for the University of North Georgia Press. As a freelance editor, he has done the layout and design of several books and magazines. He is currently working with several authors on various publication projects in which he is either ghostwriting, editing manuscripts, or doing the layout and design. Scott continues working on his memoir Twisted Ride. He also maintains a Christian blog: A Disciple's Journey. Finally, and most importantly, he is a father, grandfather, husband, and dedicated Harley Davidson rider (with a huge beard). He and his family enjoy the beauty of the North Georgia Mountains where they live—especially their screened in back porch where they love to bird watch. - "I love realism. I love writing about the raw, down-to-Earth, heartfelt realities of life. I love to write in a way that reaches into the human soul. I love to take the greatest pains and struggles in life, and make them a blessing to others. Fantasy is a wonderful, interesting thing—but real life situations, feelings, fears, and dreams are an unexplored ocean of stories that need to be told." ~Scott Biddulph~

7 comments

  1. Hello John. Time for a shower made me pause and reflect on a memory of when I spent ninety days in the Mohave desert. It did not rain once, only two terrible wind storms. Great visuals in your writing. Thank you. John.

    Like

  2. Hi, John. Once again, you’ve captured emotions, visuals, and make me wonder. I find that all of your poems do that for me, and I’m appreciative of someone who can give me pause from the daily concerns.

    Thank you, John.

    Like

  3. John, I really enjoyed this poetry break today while slowing sipping a cup of tea as well as your words.
    All three of your offerings are beautiful.
    I can especially relate to Time for a Shower. I could feel the dryness of every living thing, all begging for rain. Then the relief and joy as at last it poured forth. Living in the Deep South, I have experienced the extreme of both weather conditions. Your poem placed me in the middle of both again.

    Like

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