POETRY by John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and the anthology, No Achilles with work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Gargoyle, Coal City Review and Nebo.   


Fingers up spines finally
mutate from fingers
into angel wings
brushing my bone

and the tingling of my blood
through with writing
that great poem
on walls of sighs
turns its attention
to the mists beyond
my right elbow where
the seraph must emerge

and your mouth
imitating your eye-lids
in a girlish fluttering way
that says both would kiss
if they had a mind to

and somewhere
down the back of my legs
I sense your thighs
billowing like sails
on the hard wooden ribbed boat
of our love

that rocks
my next thought
all sensuous


In her dream, a man approaches the bed
flaunting a rose the red of her nipples.
She's prone, vulnerable on blue sheets,
head on pillow, nightgown open to the waist.
He kneels beside her, brushes her throat
with that rose as she reaches up unconsciously,
fondles the petals as if that touch is
what she would want for her own skin,
gently breaks each from the bud
until they flutter down to her breasts,
tickle her awake, disconcerted,
until she sees the brown hair, the tanned
lender face above her. Slowly, her arms
reach out to his warm neck
as her lips graze on his mouth, a nibble at a lime,
and her back arches slightly
as the embrace thrums through her,
and she drops her head into his upper chest
so lhal his breath can prove
the validity of dreams
as it eases through his ribcage
in the fullness of a flower,
and all before a word is spoken,
as if silence itself is fully aware
that nothing need be said.

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