a poetry e-zine

 

 

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Poems By John Grey

THE OLD FARM

 

The house, long skeletal,

finally collapsed.

Now, it’s no better than

the scattered graves.

At least there’s wildflowers

that skirt the grizzled tombstones.

The ancient cellar’s stocked

with bitterweed and mole holes.

A rusty woodstove swears

it never cooked a meal.

So who was happy here?

Who curled up on the broken bedsprings,

sat staunch before the dying fire?

 

Even the traces must die to rejuvenate.

A family of dust and bone

is surely less here than the hoot owl’s cry,

a raccoon’s scrounging.

So why do I sense them in the air,

the grass, the feel of foot on stone,

not dead, but as alive

as cawing crow, the elderberry rustle,

the milk snake in the grass.

 

The sun is warm as an embrace.

Puffy clouds make faces in the sky.

Every silence is a voice.

Each titter of leaf, tickle of grass,

a presence.

And then the wind picks up

and how we laugh together.

 

 

 

John Grey is an Australian born poet, but has been a US resident since the late seventies. John works as a financial systems analyst.  He has been recently published in Slant, Briar Cliff Review and Albatross with work upcoming in Poem, Cider Press Review and the Evansville Review.

Copyright 2011  Chantarelle's Notebook