Poetry of Tom Greggs
  • Poems 1
    • Fair For Any Bird
    • Untitled II
    • Old Photo / Black Luger
    • Stirrer of Seas
    • On The Stair
    • Red Delicious
    • The Occasional Poem
    • Emerging
    • Proper Use of the Scythe
    • Anemone
    • Hole in the Wall
    • Muddy Waters
    • Gauguin in Ketchikan
    • Red Tailed Hawk
    • Poet, Adjusted
    • April
  • Poems 2
    • Jack Straws
    • A Titanic
    • Unclothing
    • Counting Cop Cars
    • Cargo Cult
    • Island Bird
    • River Stones
    • Boy in Victory
    • The Difference Between Burying and Planting
    • Vietnam Memorial In Rain
    • How Relationships End
    • Clearing of the Land
    • Periwinkle
    • Surge Channel
    • An Artist Gives Birth
    • White Church in a Deep Field
  • Short Poems
    • Beach Cabin
    • Untitled
    • Short Poem 1
    • Drive Time Jazz
    • Road to Walla Walla
    • These Things
    • Short Poem 2
    • Short Poem 3
    • The Undulate
    • Short Poem 4
    • Living Twice
    • You-Me
  • Sock Drawer
    • Washaway Beach
    • A Splendid Christmas Corpse
    • Who Laid the Bone
    • Everybody's Packin'
    • She's the Next Best Thing
  • Contact Me
                                                         Jack Straws


                                             Chaos is a kind of structure, and fear--
                                             fear is the glue which binds the whole


                                            Consider a life composed of sticks
                                            piles of which are shaped


                                            as traps, weirs, cones,
                                            domes, scattered or ordered


                                            some are high-piled risers
                                            others folded, badly fastened


                                            Time will tease them apart
                                            stick by stick, this then another


                                            leaving a hole, a space
                                            where light fills in


                                            the sum reduced by one
                                            then more light within


                                            blue, soft, opening up 
                                            freeing to the fewest forms


                                            To the essence of a man 
                                            amazed that he can stand


                                            with so much removed and yet
                                            the little left him serves


                                            to give the game its risk
                                            to fill the game with life



​
Proudly powered by Weebly