Poetry by John Grey

Poetry by John Grey



A shape
in the form of
a slithering S
hisses softly.

It can’t slide under the door
but the psyche is a different matter.

Saw it
from the upstairs window
as it disappeared into the garden.

Once a floral Eden,
now death-dealing roses,
now chrysanthemums with fangs.


A hand
with a match
near a splash of gasoline
on the hardwood floor
of an abandoned house.

The walls, the shredded curtains,
the sofa, the mantle,
after ten years
of waiting patiently, quietly,
with a great red whoosh,
let fire in.


It’s too late
to reverse course.

It’s like a fine wine,
once sipped,
the cheap variety will never do.

And yet
I can’t help probing
into my own thoughts,
my motivations.

Power is a woman.
I love it
but I just don’t understand it.

And I’m constantly haunted
by how easily the populace
fell under my authority.

Where was their skepticism,
their resistance?

The people are pathetic,
zombies, stooges,
unable to think
or act for themselves.

Two years I’ve ruled this land
and not one assassination attempt.
I’d shoot myself
but it wouldn’t be the same.