Poetry by John Grey

Two poems
by John Grey






My One and Only Virgin

drops of blood
expecting hers
but they were mine

scars
not old as man
but newly minted

a kind of communion
with the glow of
stained glass
and the moaned prayer
but the giver
and the receiver
got their wires crossed

oh love sure
I was there for that
but since when
is emotion
one more device
to thrill the
bleeding body

I protested
though the sheets
are for pleasure
not for arguments

she merely said
through ruby lips
if you can't stand
the whips
stay out of the bedroom

-------------------

Olde England

Forget London.
The countryside is the true England.

Chugging trains. Quaint stations.
Green hills
dotted with nibbling sheep.

And, of course,
villages of
thatched roof cottages.
And tea shops.
I can't stop drinking the stuff
even though I don't like tea.

Everything reminds me
of PBS television shows.
Good morning miss
but aren't you Tess of D'Urbervilles.
And you, sir,
or should that be squire,
the Mayor of Casterbridge surely.

Nothing like a rattling good
game of darts in a pub
called the Duck and Drakes
or a long conversation over
warm brown ale
with a farmer
whose accent is thick as mead.

Must be time for a good juicy murder
I'm thinking
as I make my way
back to the hotel
down a long dark lane.

It has to be the only place
on the planet
where I can imagine
a victim saying that.


Author bio:

John Grey's latest book is “What Else Is There” from Main Street Rag. He has been published recently in Agni, Worcester Review, South Carolina Review and The Journal Of The American Medical Association.