Poet of the Month
Every month Moon Tide Press features a different poet to celebrate and bring readership to deserving, diverse voices.
If you are interested in being featured as a Poet of the Month, or want to nominate a poet, please contact editor@moontidepress.com.
Greg Lehman
June 2025
Greg Lehman earned an MFA in creative writing from Lindenwood University and a BA in journalism from California State University at Fullerton. He has published and edited as a poet, professional writer and journalist, has completed two poetry collections, two speculative novels, a novella-length speculative poem, and no shortage of poems and short stories. His poetry has most recently been published at “Like the Wind Magazine” and "Dark Winter Lit." He is sponsored by Chaski Endurance Collective, and enjoys training and racing competitively on a variety of terrains and distance, from 1-milers on track to 100ks on trail, as well as obstacle-course races. He works in the financial industry, lives in Los Angeles, California, and you are welcome to follow him on Strava, his website loudowl.org, on Instagram under the handles @bestcoastgreg and @gregwriting, TikTok @gregwritesnworksout, and his Substack “@gregwriting Substack.”
GRIFFITH PARK
Dusk soaks in the greens like only this side of the park can be in the hour that starts to
wear night, I finish my miles in time slipping into the seams that are the birds and their
chirps going soft and infrequent, every leaf shifting with its own whisper in the breeze
between branches and the sky I look up to behind them, the fade sopping up what is
leaving, slowly, under shadows growing cool renewal in the ease of the evening’s chill
on this sweat, settling, like breath in repose, what I breathe with, here, where I get to be.
THE TIDE
We can
change, but
only too slowly, us,
ample hosts treading water
in oceans that think post-truth
is new, that ego, outbreaks, flourishes
of exponential predation aren’t a rhythm,
dependable as a metronome, can
but cannot be expected,
learned from, can
and can’t be
about why
we hate
to share
anything,
so, I
seize what puts me
on my knees
every night,
work too hard, run, write,
workout, read what
undoes me,
renders me
into waves
around an island
called rest,
I crest,
curl
in,
crumble,
maintain
as foam at the edge
of what fractals love, love
to give like a beach in a home
at a rush,
one,
two,
here,
a flood,
three,
and there, I’m swimming
up
to the ceiling,
pressing my cheek
between rafters
sucking in
the last bit of air left
for me
to find out
what I will
or won’t drown in,
or
change for.