To further distinguish our site from other literary ventures, Logos will no longer be accepting works of prose and verse that have been previously published, whether online, in print, or both, and, from now on, will only accept original, unpublished manuscripts of prose and verse. Excerpts from a novella, novel or poetry collection slated to be published, however, may still be accepted.
verse
Kindling
Upstay the course, the wood is vast,
beasts there chitter, in dark amass;
fabrefaction—blade from bone,
amarulence to the thorny throne.
Ramiferous lanes, newly cleaved,
swift through, gather fallen leaves.
And in the clearing, xylem stacked,
by sanguine tongues, the ochre wracked.
Tawny char there howls ablation;
the raze but kindling, for creation.
Starglaive
Thrilling cut, through meekness, strike,
to fracture earth and skin alike.
Malformed, craven, sickly clique,
upon them horrors, savage wreak;
til blood is strewn across the stars,
precursor to their fate once ours.
My Forecast
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 it right.
Now it’s down to
the people forecaster.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.
The Small World
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 a rock.
Its eyes are two black pinheads.
There’s a drowsy buzz
where dragonflies feed.
And blenny darters skirt
the limits of a pool,
feasting on midges.
Even the leaves for grass are in on the miniature.
A cricket pivots on one.
A second is free but blustered.
I am on my knees,
immersed in a world.
strong in detail
but thin on drama.
But then a bobolink
claims an unwitting fly.
I spoke too soon.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.
The Carcass & The Spire
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
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.
In My New England Home
By John Grey
Damn. I’d have to really hate myself
to believe she’s never coming back to me.
Look in the mirror and throw up.
Smash in my skull with a hammer.
But I’m merely waiting here,
as stoic as Zeno of Citium.
So she left without a word.
And I find nothing to console myself
in the sun-burnt reds, the crepe-like yellows,
of Autumn. In fact, I long to shake
every tree in the yard, the neighborhood,
the forest, so their leaves come down
ahead of time. Stark trunks and
gutted branches – that’s my motto.
But she’ll return. It’s too lovely out
not to.
*
John Grey is an Australian author, published in Hawaii Pacific Review, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty, currently residing in the US.
Calamitous Crown Of Infinite Sky
Slip the gates—the ragged swell
Leapt winged proud beyond the spell
Oft muttered in dark ages past
Cloying rope to curb mind’s grasp
To hold the antler from the ground
Lest it pin the bearer down
Cloudy tumult—star’s expanse
No grounding unto which to lance
Bearing up—the diadem high
A calamitous crown of infinite sky.
The Consumption Of The Red Duomo
His scalding words accost the court
In chitin—pitch’d—with dark cavorts
Cocottes scattered—cloisters cracked
Quenchless gyre’s consumption wracked
His tower high, over the dead
Blossoming fog—past colors fled.
Circular 2/15/20
PROSE
From Fictive Dream: Pickers by D.S. Levy. A garage sale brings back old memories for a woman unusually devoid of sentimentality.
Right, Colleen thought, just like the cow would match the purple moon hanging over their house.
§
From Jokes Review: …In Space! A new issue of the satirical magazine.
Will there be milk on your spacecraft? I hope so. I’m bringing some Ring Dings for a snack because I figure the tin foil wrapping will protect them from any cosmic rays we may encounter. (Message to Zargofarse The Third…)
§
From Okay Donkey: Ladybird, Ladybird by DeMisty Bellinger. A surreal story about a woman contemplating her life while eating a talking bird (maybe).
I imaging taking one of my chopsticks and turning it away from the deep-fried tofu and towards him. I see myself forcing its dull tip into his chest, breaking beyond errant bones and stringent skin, plunging through to his heart.
§
From The Drabble: Perfect Match by Amanda Quinn. The (very) short tale of a romance too good to be true.
Things moved fast, but never at yours.
§
From Write Ahead / The Future Looms: Handiwork by V.F. Thompson. Of hypercode constructs and domestic tensions.
Barley went quiet, staring at the galaxy that whirled beneath the missing tile.
§
VERSE
From The Cheesesellers Wife: The Letter. A tribute to the author’s Great Grandfather, husband and soldier in the Boer War.
tells of the fury and terror of local thunderstorms
talks of photos and chocolate received
§
ESSAYS
From Momus News: Technobabble Versus Technical Description by E. A. Wicklund. An insightful article for novice fiction writers.
Any topic, from rockets to magic to basket-weaving can have their technical aspects, using terms and concepts most people have never heard of. That doesn’t mean describing them is therefore technobabbling.
To Sculpt The Stars
The barren plane, hushed and vast
The arrow flies and must be passed
The stage of contest, endless night
The dark undone in curtains flight
Threads of thought, like gold out-spun
Threads of thought, to braid the sun
To sculpt the stars, like wetted clay
To hold the seasons, one must pay
Coinage flowing—slick and red
Mintage of the psyche bled
Algid silence, from the tomb
Pulsing notes, as from a womb
Ruptured by the plenum’s ire
Thrumming fierce as serpent’s fire
It to be expunged—consumed
Reforged amidst the death of doom
/////Logos Literature 