Dawn Poem, by John Grey

Dawn Poem
by John Grey

It always takes sky for its cue,
never streets, the houses,
the few with lights on.
Clouds are nothing.
Not even gray can worry it.
I have to think it beautiful
no matter what.
It’s a film God made.

And its back story is
that what shines through windows
matters more than lover,
job, family, thirsting for a drink,
nervous for a cigarette.
Like I said, even when it’s
gray overhead as shed roofs,
it still shines more than people.

My waking doesn’t influence it
one way or the other.
And what it did yesterday
is merely a suggestion.
It offers hope because
that’s its job.
Even when there isn’t any.

Can you believe
that there’s been more dawns
than all the weeds in Connecticut,
the eyeballs in China.
The sun parks
somewhere in the universe
like burning gases will.
And the earth turns
because otherwise
half the planet would
have the nightclubs,
the other half, the ball-fields.

Poets are drawn to it, of course.
Some write up the colors
like it’s an assignment
from their soul’s last English class.
Others merely scribble
how crappy the new day
makes them feel.
The hour’s alive with coffee.
Thanks to dawn,
a farmer in Bolivia
can feed his family of six.

I’m on the porch,
don’t know really what to make of it.
Half-yawn, half appreciation,
half sips of java.
That’s more typical of my math
than my feelings.
I knew a woman called Dawn once.
Many a night she lit my way
but never in the morning.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Washington Square Review and Floyd County Moonshine. Latest books, Covert, Memory Outside The Head and Guest Of Myself are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.

Why I Sometimes Drink, by George Freek

Why I Sometimes Drink
by George Freek

As day turns into night,
my life spreads across my lap
like a confusing map.
The past is a book of the dead.
It’s better left unread.
Darkness enfolds the moon,
like a smothering cocoon.
I’ll think no more of it.
Thinking is a bottomless pit.
I shiver with a sudden chill.
I’m unable to move.
I have lost all will.
The stars look down,
but the stars are twisted
into the fabric of night.
And I fear there is
no God to set things right.

George Freek’s poetry has appeared in numerous Journals and Reviews. His poem “Written At Blue Lake” was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Ice Time and the River, by George Freek

Ice Time and the River
by George Freek

Clouds say what they say
to this sullen night.
As the moon climbs the sky,
the sweetness of apple
blossoms comes to my mind.
But spring is far away.
Snow is falling on the trees.
Starlings huddle frozen
on barren branches,
without their leaves.
Last winter, my wife
would be making tea
for my friends and me.
But she’s dead.
The friends, I no longer
try to see. The end
of life is bitter.
The river still flows,
but turns to ice in the winter.

George Freek’s poetry has appeared in numerous Journals and Reviews. His poem “Written At Blue Lake” was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

By The White River, by George Freek

By The White River
by George Freek

The dying sun still warms
the trees, as they prepare
to lose their leaves.
As the sun sets,
I fall to my knees.
Let the stars tell their tales,
of the bodies singing
from their graves,
bodies, who thought
they would never die,
who know nothing
of where they now lie,
whose upturned eyes
will find no hope
in this October sky,
and the swift flow of life,
as like a river it passes by.

George Freek’s poetry has appeared in numerous Journals and Reviews. His poem “Written At Blue Lake” was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

The Lake on a November Night, by George Freek

The Lake on a November Night
by George Freek

The sky is a white blanket.
Nasty weather is coming.
Dead leaves drop from the trees.
The sun is a dying ember.
The stars are hiding
from this winter weather.
Across the lake, I watch
a boat, barely afloat,
battling the heaving waves.
The boatmen struggle like bats
lost in a cave.
They’re miles from shore.
I can pray for them,
but can do nothing more.

George Freek’s poetry has appeared in numerous Journals and Reviews. His poem “Written At Blue Lake” was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.