John Grey


The trees are rattling, waving,

like they're welcoming me home.

Even the azaleas rub against

the shingles like they're me.

Window-panes, shutters applaud.

Squirrels dig deeper, more relentless,

in the soil, like they're burying

this moment of my return for later.


The dog is leaping up into my face,

trying to lick me. I'm all the

tennis balls he's ever fetched,

the rags he's chewed. Even the

cat forgoes its predator instincts,

rubs against my ankle.


And that's not even mentioning

the sun and the wind and the air itself,

all in greeting mode.


My father's in the back yard,

bending down into his garden.

He's admiring a rose the color of

blood. He's grown the one that's

beautiful. Next step is to grow

the one that stays.

John Grey, an Australian-born poet and U.S. resident since the late seventies, works as a financial systems analyst.  His poems have appeared recently in Connecticut Review, Georgetown Review and REAL with work upcoming in Poetry East, Cape Rock, and Pinch. 



Current Issue
Contributors' Notes

Email this poem Printer friendly page

A CLOSER LOOK: Alice Friman

Elvira Bennet

Kristin Berkey-Abbott

Cliff Bernier

Nancy Naomi Carlson

Michael C. Davis

Brent Fisk

Martin Galvin

Taylor Graham

John Grey

Clarinda Harriss

Nellie Hill

David Hornibrook

Jacqueline Jules

Rose Kelleher

Robert S. King

Ann Knox

Judy Kronenfeld

Lyn Lifshin

Diane Lockward

Donal Mahoney

Laura Manuelidis

Nancy Fitz-Hugh Meneely

Julie L. Moore

Judith S. Offer

Roger Pfingston

Oliver Rice

Lynda Self

Ellen Steinbaum

Karen J. Weyant

Edwin Zimmerman














Last Updated: Mar 10, 2021 - 2:35:35 PM

Copyright 2005 - 2021 Cook Communication.