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Antarctica Journal

Tag: grey

Poem – His Great Day (By John Grey)

June 21, 2025 Antarctica Journal
Text design featuring the words 'Soul Fountain Poetry' in a stylized font.

HIS GREAT DAY Turns out I was the great man after all. Otherwise, why the suits. Why the priest taking time out of his busy day to eulogize me. And look at those tears. To think I lived all of these unwept years figuring maybe some people were born without ducts. And they’re hugging each other. For me, the warring […]

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  • Poetry

Poem – WINTER IN A FACTORY TOWN (By John Grey)

June 1, 2025 Antarctica Journal
Text design featuring the words 'Soul Fountain Poetry' in a stylized font.

WINTER IN A FACTORY TOWN   It’s the winter before winter. And the winter after winter. Everything’s stripped bare. The winds bluster like politicians. Only with cold air, not hot.   Month after month, eyes can only stare, lips are too frozen to speak. The birds have flown south and are staying there. Just like senior management, except the top […]

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  • Poetry

Poem – Eve of The Revolution (By John Grey)

April 25, 2025 Antarctica Journal

  City’s so dark along the edge and cutthroat down the middle. There’s a police presence. They’re looking for identity cards. But I’m an artist. Can I show them my vermilion instead?   It’s raining a tarnished silver. Sirens make a show of keeping people safe. A drunk’s being kicked and beaten by cops. All I can do is watch […]

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  • Poetry

Poem – A WEEK IN MAINE (By John Grey)

April 7, 2025 Antarctica Journal

A WEEK IN MAINE The morning of my retreat is dark with clouds loaded and low. Noisy gulls see me off. So do the first raindrops. I’m heading home but I don’t feel as if I’m going anywhere, just away from some place. I’m driving on tiptoe, tell myself, no looking back, let that woman go about blonde and blue-eyed, […]

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  • Poetry

Poem – The Retired Artist (By John Grey)

March 29, 2025 Antarctica Journal
Text design featuring the words 'Soul Fountain Poetry' in a stylized font.

THE RETIRED ARTIST   Such a relief to shut down my temples. I’m just a roof, some columns, an auditorium deep but empty. And, if you’re keeping score,   I forgo the easel, the baton, and all that writing across time. If they want me, they can drag me out of what I’ve already accomplished.   I plan to be […]

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  • Poetry

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