Grey and other poems

by Pamela Riley



Grey will be my end –
pale like putty
or a child’s desk,
those thin whiskered things
bristling my chin
and the flagstones
in the garden,
slick as new birth.

It will undo me –
river birch shedding
and those teeth
that chew words
across the table,
or smoke –
husky and longing for
some new companion.

I will wear it
as a ring
or at my throat
or perhaps drape
my arms with it
swelling my belly
like a lifeless bloom.




I never sang for my father –
a brawny man of fish
and deer
and thick pelts
of cigar smoke
and whiskey.

My anthem was different
a voice of green moss
and violet underbellies
of claret
and pale balsa

I never sang for my father –
no tune stinging
between my fingers,
or notes
like clattering teeth
only the long divide

of music
moving strangely.



Your horned god –
on pipes,
on thick wooly legs
breathing in the reed slim air.
You hear him play
the seduction of forest –
of fields
that grow slick
and fertile,
of grass too green
to let the sun enter.
He strokes the tender spot
where you are fallow,
from the world’s
sudden moves
and watches as you
underneath the moist
of April’s blooming.




Pam Riley is a native New Yorker, who still misses the Big Apple. She now resides in Hampton Roads, Virginia. She likes to spend her free time going to the beach, theatre, museums and traveling. Pam is mother to a wonderful son and two neurotic cats. She has been writing for years and enjoys working in both poetry and prose. The little quirks and imperfections of life are her inspiration.
photo by Kristi Harms

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