2.00 A.M.
At 2.00 a.m.,
I lie awake
and listen to the night
while you sleep on beside me,
while trees in darkness
are embraced by a dream
many years old,
that has seen them
from the merest root
to springtime luminaries.
My dreams are intermittent,
manufactured out
of sundry facts and fears,
feelings then and now,
too dramatic for real life,
too ridiculous to sustain.
Taps on the window
announce the beginning of rain.
My quiet musing
has woken up the weather.
The Coming Storm
Storm clouds form a low ceiling.
The horses in the field are angsty.
A hard-muscled body is no protection
against lightning strikes.
Thunder drowns out pounding hooves.
Not even the roan, retired but still
a thoroughbred, can outrun
blinding sheets of rain.
The bay makes chortling noises.
The dappled gray whinnies.
Legs chomp at the hoof
but frenzied hearts gallop.
The herd is a stampede
in everything but movement.
Strolling the Beach After Dark
Such a calm sea tonight.
It’s high tide and full moon.
On sand, on treetop,
the light spreads like honey.
So many stars
talking their good time dying.
And a salty breeze
willing to work with
the turning of the earth.
The sky, the waters,
there’s much unknowable
knowledge here.
I feel blessed to plant
such ignorant footsteps.
About the Author
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.
