by Carol Casey The path is trodden, dusty, level.You know it will take youwhere many have gone. Step off—tangles of brambles,sometimes with blackberries,more often with little clawsthat catch on clothes and skin;and tortuous tree roots—inconvenient, sacred data unearthed—subterranean snakelets somehowsifted into snarls for feet to catch.There are stems that twine…
by John Grey As the model posed on an attic divan,the artist’s brush fought tirelesslyagainst the two dimensions of the canvas,to convince the eyethat there were really three. Then he waged war against her surfaces,gave what he saw as her true selfmore attention in the portraitthan the simple bow of…
by John Grey This is the first fridge, the first stove,that we took equal responsibility for. And this is the cutting boardwhere I sliced my finger dicing onions..That is the sink.The hot tap still provideslukewarm water.The cold tap is as advertised. And look.There’s the dusty bay windowand the hole through…
by John Grey I walked through my sister’s bedroomto get to my own,sniffed out the dregs of their perfumes. A whiff of imitation Parislit up the depths of my nostrils,and traces of powder tickled my throat. I was twelve years oldand there were no man smells in the house. No…
By John Grey Can you keep the 7to yourselfhere in this raging sea-storm,or on the mountain side,above the tree-line,when your fingers are impatientto be counting offyour sudden rise in heartbeats. Can you adds 6 to your don’t call list, and throw 5overboard at the first opportunity. Where vines creep and…
By John Grey The job’s not done yet.The fields must be burnt clear. No patting sweaty backsas the last truck rolls down the roadway.Harvest is not the end. So, in the last of sun,the wicks are lit.The sky glows sparkling grayas flame moves inon slithering snakes, scurrying rats,crackling stalks and…
by John Grey At this roadside attraction, a mountain lion in a cage is the main draw. Even behind bars, his ferocity dwarfs mine. I stare in big eyes, wonder what they want. The tempered growl, on the other hand, can only mean one thing. It’s not a prisoner’s grumble….
by John Grey I’m on the side of whoever is out there frolicking,whether it’s the otters like furry rolling pins in the riveror the young groundhogs darting from rock to rock,and whatever nibbles on something that beginsto grow back the minute it’s done feedinglike the deer or the hare or…
by John Grey Is it just me or are the summers growing shorter, the winters longer? Have I become nothing more than an inveterate weatherman, disbelieving what the television, newspaper says, believing only . in the forecasts of my flesh, my bones? And I’m being loved shorter, unappreciated longer. And…
by John Grey Raccoons stare at their reflection in the clear edge of the pond. “Wow we really do look like bandits.” Deer find an old water-logged paperback of Felix Salten’s “Bambi,” lick through its pages, never until then knew how capable they were of sorrow, despair and redemption. Thanks…