a poetry e-zine










Poems By Greg Gregory

Avena fatua

Autumn in the wine valleys, vines pruned
after the crush
of harvest,
sun glistening on the roadside,
soft brome, wild oat, fantasy grass,
each readying its own harvest,
ripe seed ready to burst
from lemma and palea, their petal-less flowers,
awned gondolas glowing to sail
in hordes into
the wind,
the source
of their own future.
On these days we inhale the late wildflowers,
bringing afternoon dreams to
the table, the invisible scents
dissolving Gordian knots of our lives.
We drink the Semillon,
ripe pear palate fat, rich, and lingering, and
the Chardonnay, vinnification sur lie,
nose all honeysuckle and butterscotch.
Our tongues now weave air
into waking dreams, sew
nets of fables to live our lives in, our conversations
hushed in their delicate chances,
all poured into warm breath
webbed in the afternoon light, our words
Delphic, fertile among the airborne seeds.

(Avena Fatua was originally published in Art Beat in 2000.)

Gathering Cattails

I'm playing in
the wading pool
with my two-year-old
granddaughter. She waves
at stray dragonflies and
the sky while I remember
collecting cattails,
into a muddy creek while
the blue darners
wove in the air above
like Fates.
My own
coal miner
in another life, of another
century, as I am, his
hands gathering coal, layers
and layers of shadows pressed
in narrow seams, to be
crawled through, gathered,
solid as
lived fate until its
as living
fire, its final
escaped voice.
are still weaving
paths over the wading pool.
I stand, remembering
creek water with
scents of coal, my own hands
waving at dragonflies, my
granddaughter looking
open eyed at
blue sky.

(Gathering Cattails was originally published in Windsor Review, 2002.)


Her long fingers
move supple
as she puts the next figurine
into the case, posed
through the glass. Her fingers
weave them into tapestries
of small dramas,
her pulse under the fabric of glass,
the fired clay like her smooth skin,
almost a transmutation
of lead into gold under the hand of
an alchemist.
The kiln transmutes clay
into porcelain, life into image
and love
into cast poems.
Her hands, smooth
from lotions and botanicals,
reach for the next image.

(Porcelain was originally published in Spindrift, 2004.)

The Cellar, Amador

Candles flickered as we
ate a rich fondue,
cheeses dripping from
the edges of heaven,
lips intimate in
wondrous folly in small
flames in the darkness.
Live by the sun, love by
the moon. The
is remembered in
secret corners, the heat
in the ears in all the
fragrances of
hibiscus, lavender
and you. Just
the delicate
veils push up and
we see again as
if no time
had passed walking
on the old boardwalk,
mining the ghosts in the
skin of the old building,
into each other again
like a barely felt breeze,
like sunlight on the skin on
a warm day, time
to us as air.

(The Cellar, Amador was the featured as the Love Poem in Poetry Depth Quarterly in Fall, 2005.)

Greg Gregory works in educational media in Sacramento, California although his first love is language and the printed word. He has been published in California Quarterly, Rosebud, Windsor Review (Canada), PDQ, Amherst Review, Poetry Nottingham (England), and others.


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