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.   

MASSAGE

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

THE WAKEUP FLOWER

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.