John Grey: Three Poems


You caught me in a lie.
I called you “my rose”
though you know full well
that you are not a woody perennial
of the genus Rosa
but a middle-aged woman,
young-looking for her age,
who dresses well
and has a decent-paying job
in the city.

But I can’t help myself.
Metaphors drip from my tongue
even the simplistic ones.
You’re not an erect shrub.
You don’t have thorns.
So as to avoid seeing
you as you really are,
I seed a garden between us.
Those roses sprout, grow and blossom
and I mistake them for you.

You’re no shrinking violet either.
Or a bright grinning sunflower.
Or faithful bluebell,
Or any of a thousand and one
reproductive structures
found in blossoming plants.… Click to Continue “John Grey: Three Poems”