Tag: John Grey

Two Poems by John Grey

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

That Fire of Long Ago

Flutter of curtain at night,
descendent of ancient flame

when the house that once stood here
was destroyed by fire
a hundred years ago –

that’s why,
within the gentle rustle,
there are shrieks to be heard

and as I slip slowly into sleep,
all around me
shadows throw themselves
against the windows
in a desperate struggle to escape –

flutter of breath at night,
my body fully rested,

though always with the caveat
that it could wake up as ashes.


The Surviving Side of the Family

Where is Mark?
At the beach rubbing oil into Janet’s fine skin.
And Marcus?
He’s from the extinct side of the family.
He has no blond, American grandchildren.

And Dinah?
She’s buttering the corn.
But Magda looked back like Lot’s wife.
And Lot and his missus have no place
on these rolling Cape Cod dunes.

Not everybody gets to be a snapshot
taken by a cell phone,
send from laptop to laptop
so much faster than the speed of history.

The water is light and salted
and filtered through years of suburban living.
There are no flashes of Jeramiah.
Everyone here can touch their nose
and raise their right hand at the same time.
The family tree may be bare on one side
but, on the other, even the third cousins
are accounted for.

What of Donna?
She’s a painter.
And Cassandra?
She’s married and has children.
The genes are in good hands.
They’re spread across the northeast.
Some have even ventured to the Midwest.
And Chloe’s scrambling eggs.
And Jake has travelled widely.
He’s even been to the old country.
No one there knew it was him.




John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Tenth Muse. His latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert, and Memory Outside The Head, are available through Amazon. His work is upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa, and Shot Glass Journal.

Two Poems by John Grey

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

A Poet’s Autobiography

I write poetry
because it was
the last art form standing.

I took piano lessons
but my hands, eyes and ears
never could come to terms.

With easel, palette and canvas,
I strode off into the landscape
in hopes of becoming the next
Thomas Cole or John Constable.
My first disproportioned oak
would be my last tree.

My sculpting skills
resulted in a dash to the emergency room
to reattach a fingertip.

I finished three chapters of a novel
but lacked the perseverance to go on.

In my one and only ballet class,
I slipped on the lake floor
and almost drowned the swan.

But I discovered that,
after every one of these failures,
I could retreat to my bedroom
and, with pen and paper,
jot down how miserable I felt.

After that, I could easily adapt my scribblings
to my disappointments, my fiascos,
in everything from romance
to work life to family.

One day, back in the mid-nineties,
something good happened to me
and that inspired a poem
of sheer optimism and joy.

I made it a point
not to put it with my other poems.


Other People

Other people have entire lives that are not mine.
They go to baseball games. They shop at Macy’s.
And they invest money on the stock exchange.
They sit, one among many, at the dinner table.

Other people have family dogs.
They attend banquets, celebrate trophy winners.
Their good deeds roll up into what they call “charity work.”
They try to be disagreeable only part of the time.

Other people are rarely alone and, if they are,
they tend to pace about the room.
Their writing life consists of taking a phone message
for somebody who’ll be home later.

Other people take their medicine religiously
and their religion like medicine,
They garner meaning from the day’s meaningless labor.
They do their utmost to be nothing at all like me.




John Grey is an Australian poet and U.S. resident recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. His latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert, and Memory Outside the Head, are available through Amazon. You’ll find more of his work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa, and Doubly Mad.

Two Poems by John Grey

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Famous Writer’s Long-Johns

I’m on a tour of a famous writer’s house,
standing behind the rope,
taking in details of his parlor,
bedroom and bath.
Everything is as expected.
Genius is surely not in
his choice of soap-dish.

The kitchen table is set
with plastic food.
I hope it wasn’t like that
in his day.
But the books on the shelves
are real enough.
I notice a couple that were published
after he died.
How prescient of the man.
And there’s a desk in a small study
where he wrote everything long hand.
This was before carpal tunnel syndrome
was invented.

Truth is I can read
whatever of the famous writer is out there
and know so much more of him
than in studying his old coffee mug from a distance.

But the point of these places
is to make the great seem ordinary.
That’s the least their houses can do for them.
For example, I can see
the dull wooden wardrobe,
with a hook to hoist his long-johns.
It’s not a scene he would have written.


Lack of Evidence

It’s the only photograph of my father
that I still possess
and it’s not displayed in some prominent place
in my house
but is shoved inside a drawer
with dozens of other snapshots from the past.
Besides, it’s faded.
I can barely make out his features.
It might even be of one of his brothers.
No one bothered to label it.

We were never a family
for whipping out our cameras
like six-guns.
We didn’t take aim at everything that posed.
But people died or moved away.
Memory wasn’t mighty as expected.
And no one ever imagined the role
regret would play some day.

The man died only months into my life.
And at an age that I have long since passed.
Truth is, I know nothing of him but his name.
The photograph adds nothing to this.
I can’t even tell if he’s smiling
or, like I said before, who’s smiling.




John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review, and Floyd County Moonshine. His latest books, Covert, Memory Outside The Head, and Guest Of Myself, are available through Amazon. He has work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review, and Open Ceilings.

“How Do I Reply to ‘Do You Love Me?'” by John Grey

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

Yes, that’s my head you see
sitting atop my voice.
It is responsible for the machinations
of the tongue, even the gestures
that conduct sound into meaning.
Behind my brow, are my thoughts,
my motivations.
Sorry you can’t chisel through
and see for yourself.
You’ll have to take my word for it.
And my head is perched
atop my word.
Containing a heavy brain,
it can’t help but exert pressure
on the throat.
So that’s why sometimes,
the explanation comes out garbled,
like a wrestler struggling
not to be pinned.
Or it’s whispered
as if it’s trying to avoid
the attention of the giant above.
Or it just gives up,
says nothing,
despite the head’s
stream of instructions.
Right now, I’m silent,
though the head is loud.




John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, and Hollins Critic. His latest books, Leaves on Pages, Memory Outside the Head, and Guest of Myself, are available through Amazon. His work is upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline, and International Poetry Review.

“Your Sleep” by John Grey

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

is a ritual of memory and fantasy,
below ground, above water,
a dream with music
the moment you drift off to sleep,
broken here and there
by a bruise of snore,
the past coming in odd shapes,
rolling in like a tide,
darting through the room,
making a dent in the pillow.
floated and falling,
flooding the room
or funneled through the last thought
your head held before dozing;
it’s a sonata
played for you each night
by an orchestra of absent musicians
who make you feel
buoyant and protected,
who imagine you
as much as you imagine them.
You do not know I’m in the room.
I don’t hear the song.
I fade into the blueness
of our small bed.
While your subconscious
fills your mind with metaphor,
I insert myself into sheets,
my weight
against your weightlessness,
address the quiet face in the light
but unable to broach the activity within.
These are your dreams,
your soundtrack,
your willingness to keep good times alive,
to revive the beached bodies,
give flesh to shadow,
like a glimpse of shadow
celebrate birthdays with the ones
who never made it to that precious age,
listening and laughing,
eyes closed
melted in stillness
un-mourning the dead
washing over grief
with bouts of happiness,
time’s parallel blue plate special,
the right notes,
the superb hush,
the giddy surprise,
a game played on the present
that separates you from me.
The moonlight
is the shape of my grief.
The night sounds
are of wounded animals.
Through the window,
I see a child’s hind leg
caught in a trap.
But you know none of this,
your certainty as
white and firm as a shell.
Now and again,
your head makes a slight turn
in my direction.
But my presence goes undetected
unless, that is,
you’re relieving the day we met.




John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident recently published in Penumbra, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. His latest books, Leaves On Pages and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. His work is upcoming in Lana Turner and Held.