A Grey Day

It is a grey day in November as I sit here, across from a sleepy woods,
The trees as naked and denuded as barstool dancers.
The trees shoot out limbs and branches that crisscross as they puncture the sky,
And the limbs are as sharp as the Popsickle sticks that I sharpened against the sidewalk
when I was just a wee bitty kid who would got lost in the sharpening.
The dreariness of the woods in November overwhelms me,
Suffocates me.
The trees outside my window are moldy and lifeless,
The bark on their outer shells tracks like naked ancient ribs that transgress up and down
the trunks, which feel leaden and stiff and impermeable.
It’s a long afternoon in one’s life.
Time tumbles around the nude trees and comes to rest in a seemingly dead or extraneous
branch or a limb.
The world is dormant, waiting.
Outside another condo unit, Christmas trees lights are visible.
They shine pathetically against the dark urgent grey of the day.
It is a dead time of the year.
My soul feels dead.
Limbs and branches spread from the trunks of the trees
Like veins carrying sap.

The River

The wily Des Plaines River flows and seeks its way south,
Originating in Wisconsin and toddling through northern Illinois
Until it reaches Ryerson Woods, where I am now standing
In utter delight and astonishment at its quiet and slurky beauty.
It is a modest river.
It is not the Mississippi.
It is a river of quiet charms and hidden wisdom.
It makes its shy and incandescent way, taking its time.
The river is much cleaner than when I was a kid and could smell its putridness as I
approached it at Dam No. 2 in Des Plaines.
I stand near the riverbank and gaze north, and before me, a tree of mystery has
plummeted into the river, its limbs and branches broken and bending into the
plane of the quiet river and interrupting the silent wisdom of the river.
The dead limbs are black and tangled together like a neurosis of nature as if they
had some mysterious incestuous spirit.
Before me, a great blue heron perches on one of those dead limbs, its neck like a
stovepipe, its body as slim as a whisper, its legs like pencils.
A leftover from the Age of the Dinosaurs.
The sight of the bird flies me against reason and memory.
I walk farther north, tracking with the river, and see that about a quarter mile further,
The river bends elegantly to the west and takes its current and due course,
The bend is impossibly sophisticated, and trees tip like sharp-eyed witnesses to hover
and protect the river.
I think immediately of the Potawatomi people who once danced and fished and canoed
on these ancient waters,
And lived on land that we absconded, that we took without asking, that we took with
mischievous treaties written in obscure and legalistic language that should and
does cause shame.
I hike along the river in the ghostly footsteps of those Potawatomi and hear the faint and
cursed echo of their ancient presence and the chant of spirit that refers the
river to evanescent enchantment.
The river glides with resurrectionist spirit and rids me of the ancient screams of
significance.
The river glides like making love, with thoughtful and steadfast and regal insouciance
and lack of care for the ways of us mere humans.
The river holds secrets that barge into my soul and calm my dispossessed head.
I fall to my knees and feel en-humbled.

Christopher Johnson is a writer based in the Chicago area. He’s done a lot of different stuff in his life. He’s been a merchant seaman, a high school English teacher, a corporate communications writer, a textbook editor, an educational consultant, and a free-lance writer. He’s published short stories, articles, and essays in The Progressive, Snowy Egret, Earth Island Journal, Chicago Wilderness, American Forests, Chicago Life, Across the Margin, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Blue Lake Review, The Literary Yard, Scarlet Leaf Review, Spillwords Press, Fiction on the Web, Sweet Tree Review, and other journals and magazines. In 2006, the University of New Hampshire Press published his first book, This Grand and Magnificent Place: The Wilderness Heritage of the White Mountains. His second book, which he co-authored with a prominent New Hampshire forester named David Govatski, was Forests for the People: The Story of America’s Eastern National Forests, published by Island Press in 2013.

You can find more of Christopher’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Awakened From Beginning to End

As an infant with booties and cowl,
I strove to overcome the barriers
making me unable to stand on my own.

I searched for an antidote
to a crippling childhood,
a pitiful position for one
harboring such intense fantasies.

A young adult’s silent silhouette,
the impact of being lost
within a catacomb of sheets in any given hotel.

The reluctant glee of parenthood,
trying to carefully carry so much more than I should.

Today is the farthest in time I’ve ever come.
I feel that any minute, fatigue will set in,
and produce that moment when agelessness fails me.

It’s in the Bones

We are predisposed while in the womb
to act a certain way.
From our first toddling steps,
through the measured time of our lives,
ancestral memories, long prepared,
by the earliest civilizations,
sensibilities first given forward,
then curving back again and again,
are willing to inform us
of some brand of zealotry.

We collectively embrace a trend
toward devotion to the arts.
We’re still shining cardinal features,
ready to be summoned.
Accepting widespread patterns
for the shaping of our cultures,
in the hopes that all this will become
a prelude to a single tradition.

The Echo in my Old Necklace

A necklace chain adorned with links of gold streaks,
interspersed with beads representing the wax and wane of memory,
interwoven threads of recorded thought
belonging to earlier days.

A necklace pumped full of memories,
this particular jewelry’s unceasing watch,
whispering echoes into halls of the mind
directly dictated to my heart.
Those visions I do not wish to share.
And the ones I hoped would keep me aware.

What falls back is the truth,
that we’re no longer friends,
a wealth of past hurts.
I remember the real version of last time on the road home.
Rejection was my only antidote to delusion.

Startling thoughts about what might as well have been just yesterday,
starting to silence over time.
Someday perhaps no thoughts of those days will remain.
I wonder when I’ll know
that they will not return.

Linda Imbler’s poetry collections include nine published paperbacks: Big Questions, Little Sleep First Edition, Big Questions, Little Sleep Second Edition; Lost and Found; Red Is The Sunrise; Bus Lights; Travel Sight; Spica’s Frequency; Doubt and Truth; A Mad Dance; and Twelvemonth.. Soma Publishing has published her four e-book collections, The Sea’s Secret Song; Pairings, a hybrid of short fiction and poetry; That Fifth Element; and Per Quindecim. Examples of Linda’s poetry and a listing of publications can be found at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com

You can find more of Linda’s work here on Ink Pantry.

So you’re becoming someone
else you once had feared,
knowing fate, and its forgotten
future, again, as if a past
stranger, a self-akin.

But kin to what fractured
fear finds your present?
Father to the future
remains the past,
which can be set free

like a self from its similarities.

Alex Missall studied creative writing at the University of Cincinnati. His poetry collections A Harvest of Days and Morning Grift are forthcoming from Finishing Line Press (2026). He resides in Ohio, where he enjoys the trails with his Husky, Betts. You can find him on X @MissallAlex or at alexmissall.com. 

Sunday Dinner At New Nan’s Farm

I hunker down on the wobbly chair, away from flak and chat
about manure. I’m worrying over Sis manoeuvring sprouts

around a plate that smells… like those daffodils, the ones wilting
in New Nan’s vase. Green is the camouflage…ammo on our plates.

After the crime of food waste in a world of starving refugees
I pick a scab and hide the fallout in toilet tissue to flush with…manure?

I retreat outside with Sis while New Dad makes peace with chat.
Sis skids through the slick cowpats of No-Nan land. I thumbs-up

to the camouflage splatter…a darker green than the sprout grenades!
The cows are beer-bellied like…and stare like…they know…about a roast.

New Dad has had enough and tanks the van down lanes and around
bends as if there are no potholes or landmines or tractors hauling manure.

New Mum air freshens my trench. My jeans surrender on the washing line.
I Blu-Tack the report: crayon a cow and cowpats. I add a Sis. Why not?

Bin Life In Our Kitchen

I’m red and tall and impressively made
of stainless steel, superior as well
because all my stink inside is so much
much more than the recycling lesser stuff.
My pride gases up and spills over the rim.
Carers must dig their deepest pit. I fill. I win.

I smell all that quality stuff and admit to being
plastic, grey, just okay in height, but then
Carers manufactured me not to brim
or spill. Besides, and this is fact, my stink inside
will be reborn again to more stuff. Just like me.
This makes me immortal and sane and totally superior.

I’m smaller, much smaller than those two and green.
Not prim, I whiff plenty. Carers empty me a lot.
My stink inside goes all icky and yucky
and mucks up to a stuff for growing outside.
Carers declare I am the most superior.
This brims me stinking pride. I’m big enough.

Bottled

I need to haste. I know, the knowing mouth
replies, a bottled fact that loudly mocks
my bloodshot eyes. Always at awkward times
she shares the car and shares her lucid mind.
Turn left. Turn right. Turn tight. And never drift.
She persists to gear and steer the driving script,
insists on dating fate, her lipstick on
the mirror crayons fast and faster and more faster.
I clutch to be more slow and slowly be gone,
that I’m a breaking plonker, not her lover.
She empties another kiss. I drink the dregs
and throttle up. She blanks the speeding clock,
my motor squeals, the skidding wheels will lock!
Revenge? Revenge! Revenge? For being dry?
I close my inner eye. This is too real.
The bottle bottles up and grips the wheel.

Phil Wood was born in Wales. He has worked in statistics, education, shipping, and a biscuit factory. He enjoys painting and learning German. His writing can be found in various places, most recently in: Byways (Arachne Press Anthology), The Fig Tree, The Shot Glass Journal, London Grip, The Lake, Kelp, The Ink Pantry.

You can find more of Phil’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Inspiration

The seed of inspiration germinates
Beneath the weight of darkness
Bearing down upon the shrivelled complexion
Of the cracked surface
Striving slowly towards the light
Proving such strength and determination
From those slight tender tendrils
That easily snap once exposed to the exterior
Before finally breaking through-
A wisdom tooth of truth
Sprouting into a stem of an idea
Nurtured into something that will blossom
Then displayed with affection
Left open to the elements
To be shared and enjoyed by others
Inclined to peer over the fence.

The Jazz Age

How those twenties roared
With Rabelaisian rebellion
Partying out the prohibition
With the dapper and the flapper
F Scott and Zelda F
Sauve and sophisticated
Defining the language
Through loquacious speakeasy’s
Fluid with illicit liquor
Drinking to excess
Smoking to intimacy
With dancefloors jumping
To the timeless modernism
Of the Duke and the King
And Pop’s doing his thing
Beneath the Art Deco architecture
A grandiloquent delinquency
Through a decade of decadence
Before the hangover of the Great Depression set in.

Woodlouse

Louse,
I save you from the Sisyphean sink
And you play dead!
I stop your confining orbit,
Place you on another path
So that you can find you own way,
And you lie still,
Waiting for me to disappear into the darkness
When you can move on
Before I discover you’re gone.

Anthony tends to fidget with his thoughts in the hope of laying them to rest. He has managed to lay them in a number of establishments, including Shot Glass Journal, Jerry Jazz Musician, CommuterLit, and Dear Booze.

You can find more of Anthony’s work here on Ink Pantry.

A Poem of the Night

A poem
is a thought
of flowers
near frost,
dangling stiff,
bitten by
the vampire teeth
of late fall,
hanging desolate
near dusk
from a pot
on a patio porch
a yellow light
bulb beaming
conspicuously outward
over-chilled yellow
green glazed grass.
Snow now, the Aster
deep purple,
falls last.

A Migrant’s Empty Cup

This quiet Sonoran Desert.
The sun is going down,
touching my burnt cow
leather skin for the last time,
with death-piercing final touching.
There is no water in this migrant’s cup.
Ideate the power, the image of my soul.
The only mystery that remains.
Decamp me from this lasting hell.
Hear that Turkey Vulture cry,
carrion flesh mine—
My intelligence was once vital
now lapses into last fantasies of red
blood-covered in guilt scenarios.
My stolen Niki sneakers from Salvation Army,
Chicago, multi-colours—
traveled multi-states.
So many meaningless miles.
Ashamed, I bloat, decompose
bones to stone.
Memories: Venezuela, Chicago,
New Mexico, California, and Arizona.

Night- time Glitter

I have seen through the nighttime glitter
of wild women, the ways of their words,
the deception of their actions, the slang
of foolishness, toned down monetary voices.
Chop suey, 24-hour restaurants finish the nights.

Those late-night bars, cosmetic faces,
early morning kitty calls.
Touching the males on the high thigh
plain places as a starter plan,
chopped through the thicket
hairy brush, of privacy
reflected on my journey briefly
and thrust straight forward,
mask of fools, no jewelry
simple smile, subterfuge face of a clown.
A night journeyman working in the trade.

Lady Melissa,
all those who fell flat before you
praising your prayers, my joys.
They follow fool’s gold, the folly.
The lack of worth in the secret cave.
I have grown fond of the closed-in
tunnels where darkness resides,
moisture drips, and cave walls drop in.
Our minds, those minds, their minds, are catalysts.

I’m no longer the private collector of midnight trash.
No trophy, man of lady undies, tucked jacket pockets
on my way out.

I no longer see closed mine shafts, dreams of clouds,
those deceptive prospectors, gray beards,
gray hair, ageing, lonely, and poor.
Drop into an undeclared cave of poetic
wonder only to find iron pyrite.
Come join me, ex-lovers.
The rivers of my mind leave the gold panning behind.
Torch my guts open again with Valentine’s Day.
Confectioner’s sugar celebrates the night.

Hunter of Deep, Calinda

You, Calinda, of wood and metal, are an oyster pearl of the Greek sea.
You are a drunken disco dancer of beauty with charms around your neck.
You are a solo storyteller on the platform of ocean waves.
Your stained imprint leaves crossword puzzles
on the performance of strangers.
You only show your dynamic hula-hoop movements—
shapes, curves, when fishing boats pass by.
Calinda, you took your sensuous sex nature, barbed,
cemented in the skin of sailors’ testicles.
Then comes the morning purge.
Your salted tongue wedged in the wounds of every victim.
Then you wonder why, wonder why again.
In half silence, you cry.

Michael Lee Johnson is a poet of high acclaim, with his work published in 46 countries or republics. He is also a song lyricist with several published poetry books. His talent has been recognized with 7 Pushcart Prize nominations and 7 Best of the Net nominations. He has over 653 published poems. His 336-plus YouTube poetry videos are a testament to his skill and dedication.

He is a proud Illinois State Poetry Society member, http://www.illinoispoets.org/, and an Academy of American Poets member, https://poets.org/. 

His poems have been translated into several foreign languages. Awards/Contests: International Award of Excellence “Citta’ Del Galateo-Antonio De Ferrariis” XI Edition 2024 Milan, Italy-Poetry. Poem, Michael Lee Johnson, “If I Were Young Again.”   Remember to consider Michael Lee Johnson for Best of the Net or Pushcart nomination 

You can find more of Michael’s work here on Ink Pantry.

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Rus Khomutoff is a neo surrealist language poet from Brooklyn.

You can find more of Rus’ work here on Ink Pantry.

WHEN THE POET LOVES

When the poet loves
the moon becomes pregnant
with the autumn pollen
the stars laugh with Pitagora’s theorem
the sun receives rays of love
tsunami become the poet’s words
Lora is immersed in the block of salt.
When the poet sings
adorns the world
with the smell of love
he gives the mountains
Beethoven’s symphony
the rivers are enjoying
Mrika’s* work
the sea of poet’s feelings
and Lora falls asleep
on the wedding stone
a living metaphor
in infinite verses

(*Mrika is the first opera in the Albanian language)

METAMORPHOSIS
(Lora of New York)

Lora asked me to imitate Odysseus,
not to listen
sirens of the deep,
nor the poet’s erotic verses
in the rocky waves of the sea.

In New York he studied Pythagoras,
the language of mimicry read the unspoken word
wrote it in saltiness,
where life is a dream
and the dream becomes life.

The epic words underwent a metamorphosis,
the seagulls danced
over our heads,
deep sea conception
shivers run through,
air in New York
I missed the thrill of life.

LORA FROM PRISHTINA

The Goddess descends into memories
Lora took into her arms
the blessed silence
an eye she gave to love
a song to the sun
to evil she gave the smile
her lips enchanted me
embracing the dream of the poet…

Again with Lora of Prishtina
we often meet on the boulevard
looking at the shadows of the rocks
beauty walks courageous
in love as the meteor of words
rain with arrows in sight
her lips put ash on my tongue
where the unspoken word slopes
the missing halt
during the white sleep
Lora of Prishtina –
gives a song to the sun.

Lan Qyqalla, Republic of Kosova, graduated from the Faculty of Philology, specializing in Albanian Language and Literature, at the University of Prishtina in the Republic of Kosovo. He is currently a professor of Albanian language at a secondary school. His literary and critical writings have appeared in numerous newspapers, magazines, radio and television platforms, and digital media. His work has been translated and published in multiple languages, including English, Romanian, French, Turkish, Arabic, Italian, Greek, Swedish, Hindi, Spanish, Korean…..

He has published more than 19 literary works to date—including poetry, short stories, and plays—in Albanian, French, Romanian, English, Turkish, Swedish, Spanish, Polish, and German. He has received several national and international literary awards and has been featured in numerous global anthologies of poetry and fiction.

DAY 28: SPOONS, SWANS AND SMALL SACRIFICES

Kadek holds a photograph of his children.
“My son laughs like this,” he says,
pointing at two small faces in sunlight.
He smiles; I nod. Frances leans in.
The camera clicks.

Breakfast over. Kadek removes our plates.
Napkin swans perch beside our forks.
He reminds us which dishes are gluten-free.
We fumble, slosh some coffee, laugh.
Kadek laughs too, softly, like our clumsiness
is part of the ritual.

Lunch arrives: fresh fish and chips.
Kadek sets it on our plates.
“Day of Silence in Bali,” he says.
He can’t go home, must stay here and work.
I watch him.

Afternoon: Frances and I attempt watercolour.
The sea keeps moving faster than we can paint.
Kadek lounges on his bunk,
switching languages with a visiting crew member.
He whispers a story about palm trees.
I listen. The story fades.

Evening. We play backgammon.
Godzilla stomps across the board,
displacing a stray napkin.
We laugh. Kadek grins.
Frances nudges me. “I know it’s his job,
but he seems to enjoy this.”

He folds another napkin swan,
rubs my stomach for luck, shakes my hand,
formal but kind, as if I were his grandfather.
The sun gone, coffee cooling.
A napkin swan tilts in the fading light.
Frances laughs at something.
Kadek watches. I sip the last of my drink.
I knock the spoon onto the carpet.
Kadek scoops it up instantly. No words. No judgment.

The napkin swan leans into the fading light.

DAY 40: WHEN THE FURNITURE STARTS WALKING

The wind tips loungers
into prayer shapes.
My towel flings itself from the chair,
then sulks in the corner,
sensing what’s coming.

Corridor prints tilt and blink
like witnesses.
In my cabin, dresses sway
from ceiling hooks,
bracing for impact.

The pool water sloshes,
a captive pacing a cell,
trying to pass for calm.

At breakfast, a woman sits opposite
in an orange lifejacket,
face pale above the foam collar.
My fork grinds at eggs
on a dull white plate.
I pretend to chew.
What would we taste
if we admitted fear?

Someone laughs too loud behind me.

No one mentions
the sea hasn’t finished with us yet.

The ship’s band tunes up
like the storm never happened.
Their instruments strain
to stitch the day back together
with melody alone.

Upstairs, the map shows a single speck
adrift in indifferent blue,
between the storm we survived
and whatever waits ahead.

The crew move as if nothing happened,
their nerves untested.

I take notes on how to stay calm
when the furniture starts walking
and my own body goes with it.

DAY 56: DRAGONS, SPARKS AND HOTEL GLOSS

Four days from Woolloomooloo,
the watercolour gang hunched over palettes,
summoning light across the harbour.

I keep thinking of that finger wharf,
standing like a star
on its red carpet,
timber gleaming with new purpose
insisting on attention.

You could smell the grant money,
heritage pounds built into its beams,
rusted gears displayed like relics,
determined to be admired.

Frances paints beside me,
sure as morning tide.
Her brushstrokes are declarations,
mine stammer out excuses.

I tell myself I’m exploring,
mostly thinking about
what the wharf looked like
and how not to mess it up.

At school I painted dragons,
blood and fire smeared on paper,
while the teacher welded sparks
next door, deaf behind his visor.

Now I’m painting wet-on-wet,
sun bleeding into water,
colours colliding, spilling.
The rebooted wharf sighs,
posing in its hotel gloss.

Ten minutes and I’m done.
It looks okay, not great.
The wharf rolls its eyes
like a teacher convinced
I’m not trying hard enough.

DAY 66: INTERRUPTION

Another thing I like about this ship
is the Promenade Deck, my stage
for a windswept epic,
gazing out like some untroubled romantic hero.

The ocean is disappointing
flat, repetitive, fading at the edges.
The wind won’t let me hold the moment,
it keeps barging in, yanking my shirt
like a hawker demanding attention.
I laugh
at how seriously he takes himself.

I stagger down the deck
like a paper bag
all drift and crumple
cornered by wind
muttering nonsense
about God and the tides.

Just when I’m ready to give up
and go back inside
the wind eases
doesn’t apologise.

I stop walking
let the silence catch up.
The sea flattens its waves
the wind hesitates.

The air softens
like someone almost saying
they don’t believe in love any more
but still want to keep holding hands.

DAY 76: GREEN CATHEDRAL

The air is thick
like sweat on a tenor sax.
The language won’t be English
but something between bebop and birdsong,
a rhythm Miles might have hummed
if he’d been raised by rainforests.

Our guide, in linen shirt and dark glasses,
snaps her fingers; the forest responds:
branches sway in five-four time,
roots laying down basslines
beneath our uncertain feet.
We follow her deeper,
into a green cathedral
where vines scribble chord changes
no one has written down.

Her voice drifts between verses,
low contralto bending the air:
Bohemian Rhapsody,
not the Queen version,
but the one Coltrane meant to play
and lost before morning.
It sounds like pollen,
memory soaked in brass,
and for a moment
the canopy sways in tune.

Then the sky cracks:
not thunder, but a hi-hat flung sideways.
Rain falls with intention,
each drop a note without permission,
each rivulet a solo breaking off the beat.
We’re not drenched. We’re tuned
to a key we never knew we carried,
our bones humming the harmony.

We are what’s played:
reed, string, snare, silence.
The breath before the downbeat,
the mistake that becomes the miracle.
Even silence holds us
like the last phrase of a ballad,
unresolved and better for it.

DAY 90: WHAT THE FLYING FISH FORGOT TO TELL US

On deck, coffee gone lukewarm.
I can’t tell if that’s comfort or regret,

half-warm, the temperature
of indecision.

Then bright bodies break the surface,
not fleeing the water,
just escaping it,

silver commas
the sea forgot to erase.

Bodies hurled against gravity,
each a flicker of resistance.

For a second the deck breathes with them.
So do I.

Then the sea closes.

I hold my cup,
its chill settling into my hands,

everything solid
undone by motion,
by what briefly chooses air.

Rodney Wood is retired,  lives in Farnborough. After a world cruise he wrote a poem a day for each of the 102 nights. He’s been published in various magazines and co-hosts an open mic in Woking. He blog at https://rodneywood.co.uk/ 

CROSSING

Fearful of cars going both ways
on Storrow Drive
with chill wind blowing my hair around,
my lost nerves are already in an accident scene
where I’m the one laid out on the road
while the pale-faced driver of an SUV
screams out – “It wasn’t my fault!”
“Sorry guy,” I try to say.
My body burns with desire
and my brain survives on impulse.
My way forward is often the path
of an oncoming vehicle.
I pride myself on paying the ultimate price,

CHIRP CHIRP

The male crickets are rubbing
their legs together
to make a chirping sound.
Females are attracted by this.
It’s also a warning to other males.
Stay away.

As the sun sets,
the air is dense
with the noise
of macho posturing.

Later the clubs open.
Humans take it inside.

SEPTEMBER MAN

The September sky
is tilted toward you.

It longs for you to reach out
and embrace its low hung wonders

Grey clouds, flecks of blue,
he’s almost a man.

He is a man.
And older than you.

But his eyes,
when they break through,
are on your tangent,
your feminine refraction.
They tease with humility and love.

You grab his shoulders,
pull yourself up.

Forget the humble sky.
The elevation is enormous.

IF FOOD BE THE FOOD OF LOVE

There is a solution to everything.
Is not marriage an amiable resolution?

We get plenty on the table and we eat it.
Okay so that’s a fatuous example.

But we’re showered with love aren’t we?
At least, love tweaked to allow

for the personalities involved.
And our bellies are full.

Our closets are stuffed with clothes for all occasions.
And the gunfire is not for us.

Floodwaters look elsewhere.
So do the repo man. And the investigative reporter.

We live this protected life.
Everything we need is close at hand.

And we’re well-fed. Did I already say that?
Bills get paid. Bed linen is changed.

And we have more than enough commodities.
More than more than enough food.

The bad things that happen to other people
don’t get a look-in at our house.

Not that we’re permanently happy.
But if we’re not, there’s always something in the fridge.

DESERT VISION

Through the fires of sun,
a form, half-human, half-haze,
emerges from the vanishing point of vision,
but can’t quite come together for your squinting eyes.

For all it gives the appearance of approach,
every step forward is countermanded
by the obstinacy of great distance.

You’re sure it really does want to be with you,
but, in searing heat, time freezes, distance unravels,
shapes never quite come true.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, River And South and The Alembic. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Rush, White Wall Review and Flights.

You can find more of John’s work here on Ink Pantry.