Biography of Greg Dennison
A native of Southern California, Greg Dennison's poetry typically revolves around many common themes: personal angst, love, California, beauty, nature, sex, relationships, alcohol, & much more.He is a published poet and, aside from poetry, his interests include exercising, Brazilian jiu-jitsu in which he is an active jiu-jitsu fighter, reading, photography, dj-ing, and pretty much any excuse to be outdoors.He has always believed that there is so much beauty in life that sometimes, even the simplest every-day things that we take for granted, are rich in beauty and principals that we can learn from.
Greg Dennison Poems
Inside my heart is a ghetto, it's windows are broken. It's streets are deserted. You will run your fingers along brick, as you walk beside the boulevard. You brave soul.
Poem To A Glass Of Bourbon
My glass sits beneath the bar's dim light. A brim of substance beneath my fingers. As the light gleams from one edge of the brim to the other, a sea rests between. As brown as the skin of my girl across town.
Your shores extend into the dawn, and for a brief moment we are one. In silence, my thoughts are fleeting like Diana's arrow piercing the evening sky as stars burst, drifting upon the cracked tiles of seafoam green buildings. And, from rooftop to green hills the heart calls out like the trill of a distant flute.
The apartment is so quiet now. In the early darkened hours I listen to the cars swish by. The future lies scattered like the bottles on my coffee table, and much like my friend passed out on my couch, I too lay passed out on life's couch. I thought I had a firm hold on life, as I strolled beneath trees, along avenues at sunset.
Inside my heart is a ghetto, it's windows are broken.
It's streets are deserted.
You will run your fingers along brick, as you walk beside the boulevard.
You brave soul.
You, who walks in the dusk. Beneath empty branches, memories stripped away, against a straining Autumn sky.
You, who pulls her sweater close to fight off the Autumn chill.
Who pulls her sweater close to remember.
You brave soul.
My heart is a ghetto, a bottle broken on the concrete: smashed into a million bits, only to