Poetry Break: John Grey

By: John Grey

Poetry Break: John Grey marilyn l davis two drops of ink



On a gravelly New England shore,

my toes never weary

of the gentle

wavelet lashings.


Shells whisper in my ear,

engrave my touch

with their life-time of

whorled markings.


Here is a discarded privacy,

an abandoned refuge,

but also, a sacred spiral

of salty opalescence.


I walk slowly,

accompanied by sanderlings

that dart sideways

ahead of me.


And gulls overhead,

giving shape to shrieks,

flight to the warm sun

on my cheeks.


The water flattens wide.

Land offers little width

before rising up

to the houses above.


And there are boats under sail,

shuttered eyes and curves tanning,

a fisherman on a rock

kissed by constant spray.


From ocean to cliff-face,

the view is worth

a glance in any direction,

a stare at most.




I’m down the last half-hour
according to the GPS,
my little dashboard angel.
It’s not exactly company
but it understands that people need to be
where company awaits.

So I’ve been following its straightaways,
its turns, its circles,
its inestimable nous
for the shortest, safest routes
from threadbare A to inviting B.

Yes, that tiny screen
is more than just
a 21st century version of prayer.
It can synchronize me
with the heavens,
even when the sky is gray
and the light diffused.

And now it gives me
just enough time to consider the portent
of this last stretch of road
as it succumbs to my over-eager headlights.

In the rear view,
I see darkness and solitude.
Up ahead,
as yet unspoken,
“You have arrived.”




Another morning and still no baby.

But the sun came up

so the earth is regular at least,

spun on its axis, stuck to its orbit.

Just ask the clocks.


People call. “Has it happened yet?”

Birds sing. ‘It’s just any old day.”


I dither over coffee

and your latest craving.

You rub the sleep from your eyes,

struggle to remember your dream.

But it’s stillborn and that scares you.


It’s already warm out.

Seventy degrees by the kitchen thermometer.

Just what you’d expect this time of year.

You tell me how much you envy

all that goes as planned.


Overdue… what does that mean here?

Water boils in three minutes

just like yesterday.

Eggs sizzle in the pan

until they’re done, no more, no less.

And with a familiar splat.

the newspaper lands on our front step.


I read the sports.

But your eyes are for birth notices only,

like you’re half-expecting

to see your own name there.


An overdue baby means

a time of crying and whining,

restlessness and anxiety.

Now that’s a baby right there.


Bio: John Grey 


Poetry Break: John Grey marilyn l davis two drops of ink


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, The Poetry Village, Poetry Salzburg Review, Unique Poetry, and Hollins Critic.

His latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. 

Work upcoming in Lana Turner and International Poetry Review.


Additional poetry from John Grey on Two Drops of Ink

Two Drops of Ink: The Literary Home for Collaborative Writing 


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Poetry Break: John Grey marilyn l davis two drops of ink




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