I never remembered him taking off his boots The way he crept to the side of the bed Pressed his toes gently on the rubber heels Sliding them off the soles of his feet Flicking them from the tips of his toes Like plucking the heads of dandelions-- I never remembered that. When I was ten, I swung on a giant homemade tire swing, Tread worn smooth like leather. When the blaze for excitement lit me up I’d grab the coarse yellow rope Hoist mysel

Except for the toddlers waddling on the track field like a flock of ducklings and a row of strollers lined up along a wall, the cement block building looks like any other high school, but it has one big difference: it’s designed for teen moms and moms-to-be. I’m a creative writing mentor at an alternative high school for girls in East Los Angeles. It’s got a free daycare center, policies that allow students to nurse and visit their babies during the school day, and none of th

The sky is neutral, blue above, red at the edges – same for the earth, red and brown, occasional breaks for blue lakes and white snowcaps – people go about their business, in the skins they were born with – some are thinking, most just repeat what they’ve heard. John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Soundings East, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. Latest book, “Leaves On Pages” is available through Amazon.