Short breath falls the worms arraign, flesh before a clamoring hain. Hungry ore, the mold it fills, maw surpassed, now overspills, the marble blue, to gild the dark.
by John Grey Snow falls on snow. And, in between, I trudge. Yes it’s beautiful but it chills my bones. It decorates. It beautifies. But my fingers freeze despite my gloves. I am on my way to a place that will offer me radiance and discomfort in equal abundance. The weather forecaster got… Continue reading My Forecast
by John Grey Firs and hemlocks reclaim this land for forest. An old rusted train track doesn’t deter them. The last echo of a whistle died eighty years ago. Same with the buzzing of the saws. Logged out, replanted, throw in a few alders, cedars, many years worth of rain, and the woods rejuvenate in dampened… Continue reading Reclaimed
by John Grey It’s blanched white tunnels that tube-worms dig, swirling around in complex patterns like the trail of a child’s finger in cake frosting. Or the emerald gleam of glowworms. Or tiny scarlet and blue-jeweled crabs. The world offers small as much as it does large. A lizard stares up at me from beneath… Continue reading The Small World
Let no deceit from memory pass, that buried all may be the frass. Tainted pips from wilted trees, auspicious of unborn perfidy. Bound in amber, dry, confined —therein, sure an ax to find.
Shattered stones, the waters bound Hushed be wind, the roots unwound Ichor bled, from sea and sky From space and earth, til wet was shy On that fire, supped and filled And with the remnants, pyres trilled From the carcass, dark and glassed A fleshspun spire by hunger massed.
Auric wings, undulant Fierce, the torch alights; Unhindered by the zephyr That roils on the heights Empyrean forge, prolific Unveiled in umbral flight Bares iron talons, adamant To encircle endless night.