John Grey

GREENHOUSE

The greenhouse is artificial tropics.
Orchids grow here
like it’s the heart of Africa
or deep in the Amazon Basin.

Outside, a flake of snow
flutters groundward,
skis down the glass roof.

In the jungle below,
a Venus flytrap
slams its mouth shut
instinctively.

SINGULAR FLOWER

All night, snow fell on snow,
like the footfall of small animals.
By morning, under clear sky,
the world wore
its white cloak of homologous mesh
through which some crocus
saw its chance and took it.

A WALK AT DUSK

Sun reduced to small favors here and there,
streetlamps dull and glassy,
but the moon, already up and about,
crosses the field of your eyes,
your mouth, your cheeks.

I take your hand,
stroll into a world
that treasures its moonlight
more than any other shine.

IN THIS PICTURE I HAVE OF YOU

You stand at the blackboard,
before a labyrinth of equations,
wonder who could possibly understand
what you have written –

for all you might have been,
teaching is where you ended up –
you have the look of someone
who’d rather I wasn’t looking at you. 

HANDOFF

Together
for the first time
since the divorce,
a child handoff –

she’s looking well,
he’s looking well –

the kid’s just looking,
mostly at his shoes. 

ONE JULY DAY IN NEW YORK CITY

I passed by
Paul Shaffer
on Seventh Avenue.

He gave one of those
“Yes, it’s me” looks.

Unlike Paul,
I don’t have
a look like that
in reserve. 

TO BE ALIVE

It’s good to be alive.
To not be dead.
Or dying.
Or sick even.
And it’s good to hear yourself say,
“It’s good to be alive.”
Remember,
life is always
in your best interest.

~~~

John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review, and Sheepshead Review. Latest books – Between Two Fires, Covert, and Memory Outside the Head are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the
McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review, and California Quarterly. John was first featured in 2020 and then again in 2022. You can click HERE to review them. Selected pieces of his work were published in The Short of It – Volume 1 – The Sound of Brilliance and Volume 2 – Reflections & Revelations.

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If you’d like to be featured on The Short of It in the future,
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In Recovery

Redux

It took my last bit of strength to pick up every last bit of shredded me off the floor.

Left with bloody fragments of a torn heart, a distorted mind, and a shaken psyche.

My existence, Picasso’s The Weeping Woman feel to it.

Feeling awkwardly out of place and lost in my space.

I had to recalibrate; I needed to rebuild.

Now I’m new and different, possibly improved.

A little wiser for the wear; a lot harder around the edges.

More protective of me, not so naive anymore.

Self-preservation took me to new heights.

I’m back and ready.

Don’t ever hurt me again.

Originally published 9/9/2018 on I Write Her.

Shattered

pixabay.com

this was all a test
where was the love and sweetness
oh my, how you failed

Originally published 8/9/2018 on I Write Her, presented with slight revisions.

Askew

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our home
is off

it’s slowly
shifting

drifting
in the wrong direction

collapse
is imminent

us
becoming rubble

Frosty

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it’s
damn cold
in my world
safe haven no more
shit

New Directions

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Inspired by Free Verse Revolution April Writing Prompt #3 – The Things Left Behind

Of all the things I left behind,
I miss the promises the most. You said…

… we’d have a future of unending kisses,
embraces, and stability.
You dangled sweetness
making it seem possible
there was nothing more to fear.

… I deserved all the loving gestures and smiles.
You had me bubbling with joy,
planning a future.
Committing to a lifetime
of being grounded.

… ours was the greatest connection.
You filled me with passion,
left me hungering for more,
always.
As if I could trust you.

… you would show me a love I’d
never had before.
I’d be safe.
I’d be calm
because it was real.

I was naive and young.
And I was wrong.
The ugliness which brought me here
finally revealed itself,
shattering those promises.

Now, I start over.

Best

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Deserving spectacular, with you I’m not.

In Recovery

Forever Alone

It took my last bit of strength to pick up
every last bit of shredded me off the floor.

Left with bloody fragments of a torn heart,
a distorted mind and a shaken psyche.

My existence, Picasso’s The Weeping Woman feel to it.

Feeling awkwardly out of place and lost in my space.

I had to recalibrate; I needed to rebuild.

Now I’m new and different, possibly improved.

A little wiser for the wear; a lot harder around the edges.

More protective of me, not so naive anymore.

Self-preservation took me to new heights.

I’m back and ready.

Don’t ever hurt me again.

Shattered

Untitledpixabay.com

This was all a test.

Where was the love and sweetness?

Oh my, how you failed.