The poetry of Allison Grayhurst

Walkways cover 2“Her poems read like the journal entries of a mystic – perhaps that what they are. They are abstract and vivid, like a dreamy manifestation of soul. This is the best way, in prose, one can describe the music which is … the poetry of Allison Grayhurst.” – Blaise Wigglesworth, “Oh! Magazine: Ryerson’s Arts and Culture Voice”.

Read at your peril. You will never look at this world in quite the same way again. Your eye will instinctively search the sky for eagles and scan the dark earth for the slightest movement of smallest ant, your heart will reach for tall mountains, bathe in the most intimate of passions and in the grain and grit of our earth. Such is Allison Grayhurst. Such is her poetry,” Eric M. Vogt, poet and author.

“Grayhurst is a great Canadian poet. All of Allison Grayhurst’s poetry is original, sometimes startling, and more often than not, powerful. Anyone who loves modern poetry that does not follow the common path will find Grayhurst complex, insightful, and as good a poet as anyone writing in the world today. Grayhurst’s poetry volumes are highly, highly recommended,” Tom Davis, poet, novelist and educator.

“Grayhurst’s poetry is a translucent, ethereal dream in which words push through the fog, always searching, struggling, and reaching for the powerful soul at its heart. Her work is vibrant and shockingly original,” Beach Holme Publishers.


“What a treasure Allison Grayhurst is. Her gift? To unfold for us life at this intensity of feeling and revelation. Who knew truth and beauty could be so intertwined and so passionate?,” Taylor Jane Green, BA, RIHR, CH, Registered Holistic Talk Therapist and author.

“Her (Allison Grayhurst’s) poetry appears visceral, not for the faint of heart, and moves forward with a dynamism, with a frenetic pulse. If you seek the truth, the physical blood and bones, then, by all means, open the world into which we were all born,” Anne Burke, poet, regional representative for Alberta on the League of Canadian Poets’ Council, and chair of the Feminist Caucus.


Allison Grayhurst is a full member of the League of Canadian Poets. Three of her poems have been nominated for Sundress Publications “Best of the Net” 2015, and she has more than 850 poems published in over 380 international literary magazines, journals and anthologies in Canada, United States, England, India, Ireland, China, Scotland, Wales, Austria, Romania, New Zealand, Bangladesh, Colombia and Australia.                                                                                                                              

Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers, a Porcepic Book, in Vancouver in 1995. Since then she has published twelve other books of poetry and seven collections with Edge Unlimited Publishing. Prior to the publication of Somewhere Falling she had a poetry book published, Common Dream, and four chapbooks published by The Plowman. Her poetry chapbook The River is Blind was published by Ottawa publisher above/ground press December 2012. In 2014 her chapbook Surrogate Dharma was published by Kind of a Hurricane Press, Barometric Pressures Author Series. In 2015, her book No Raft – No Ocean was published by Scars Publications. More recently, her book Make the Wind was published in 2016 by Scars Publications. As well, her book Trial and Witness – selected poems, was published in 2016 by Creative Talents Unleashed (CTU Publishing Group).

Some of places her work has appeared in include Parabola (Alone & Together print issue summer 2012); Elephant Journal; Literary Orphans; Blue Fifth Review; The American Aesthetic; Drunk Monkeys, Agave Magazine; JuxtaProse Literary Magazine, South Florida Arts Journal; Gris-Gris; New Binary Press Anthology; The Brooklyn Voice; Straylight Literary Magazine; The Milo Review; Foliate Oak Literary Magazine; The Antigonish Review; Dalhousie Review; The New Quarterly; Wascana Review; Poetry Nottingham International; The Cape Rock; Ayris; Journal of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry; The Toronto Quarterly; Fogged Clarity, Boston Poetry Magazine; Decanto; White Wall Review.  


Fire and more. front coverOver 850 of Allison Grayhurst’s published poems are available to read on this website. Most of these poems are accompanied by Allison Grayhurst’s audio reading of the poem. Links to each poem by title:

Almost all of Allison Grayhurst’s books are available for a free reading on Issuu and/or a PDF file link to download from the page on the main menu:



Amazon Author

UK Amazon Author Page:

The League of Canadian Poets:


Goodreads Author:


Creative Talents Unleashed (CTU Publishing Group) Author Page:


(Please scroll down to see new posts and sculpture images on the side bar. All sculptures were made by Allison Grayhurst.)


On The Overpass


On The Overpass


I will wait on the icy throne

as midnight steals my shadow.

All of this is thread

and ceremonial bell, pure pain, an inspiration

that will never come again.

I will wait on the bed, staring into crystal fragments

cured of the hot weather, but still poisoned by

time and how it never stops in spite

of commitment or intensity, in spite of how it makes you

wait and not perish from simple feeling, and how

the house breaks down and happiness is arbitrary, flowers

for a while and then




Copyright © 2010 by Allison Grayhurst



Published in “The Stray Branch Fall/Winter 2016” October 2016

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No Transgressions


No Transgressions

(starve the ego of its rights)



The light that leaves,

that feeds the light that

leaves, speaks of scars

and childhood’s sanctity,

has grown weary in its search

for a source to continue brightly,

has slept out the potent night

and screams indecently for intimate

disclosure. The dance that strips

the tissue from the sinews, signals for the game

to end but does not end its rhythm or

burning – explosive flourishing – no facts

but a faucet drip drip curse to

hold down a half-a-dozen personalities

perched on your throne. The light, the light –

Who will win? The dance, the dance,

rattle and leak your soul into a theatrical

achievement – stand high in an age of distraction

and violence, stand rooted in the light,

matter most when you are dancing, even if

a malignant army invades

and prevails.


Copyright © Allison Grayhurst 2016



Frist published in “GloMag” October 2016

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The Stone-Frame by Author Allison Grayhurst

Creative Talents Unleashed

The stone-frame sings

my threshold, sings my

heart’s futility. It is

so hard a cage it makes

my knuckles crack, it breaks

my bones from too much leaping.

The stone-frame wishes to be my womb, but

could never be a comforting hovel,

or resting ground away from

world-wind and flame.

The stone-frame maims my voice

from protesting, strikes a match

to my endurance and holds me in

its damp, dusty dorm.

The stone-frame lets me dream of miles

away from its door, but never lets more

than my imagination go wandering.

The stone-frame is my perception trapped

in faithless monotony, is my coward smile

that fears the chaos outside

its grey, unchanging walls.

© Allison Grayhurst

BookCoverImage Allison Grayhurst

Excerpt from the book “Trial And Witness – Selected Poems”

Allison Grayhurst

About the Author

 Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Three of her poems have been nominated for Sundress Publications…

View original post 181 more words






Buckling up, keeping pace

never knowing when the heat will rise,

and overtake your sanity with its little alien

leaf worms burrowing into shallow crevices,

making crevices into canyons, unmanageable and ripe

for more irreversible destruction.

Normal as the sun and its radiation,

glory be the farce, biology, a pre-disposition

for madness, suicide


at 4 am – gunshot to the head

all for a ruined reputation or for love

lost during an Indian monsoon season.

A child playing early morning, opening doors,

a door, four-years old finding his father,

dead on the floor – blood pooled, drying,

vacuumed out blue steady eyes.


It was right for that boy to become a man who

turned to God and charity and

not to status, right that he knelt every night for his

five children, never knowing he would make it through

the violent revolutions, make it through losing

money, home, country and dog.


He made it through,

but not long after that. Not long after

the boat ride across the Indian, the Atlantic oceans,

leaving Eastern philosophies for a cold rainy winter pavement,

he died, giver of coal, on a doorstep,

finally home, in a country where he no longer belonged or

could find a way to honour the majesty, the tenderness

of what he built before.


Fingertips tingling too long

and lasting to not be a disease,

What does the chaos filter into, focus on,

transition to? The sky is green

against an even greener tree.

You count to the minutes through each day –

this thing, that thing, to do, get through,

not for yourself, but because you are committed,

because you love and know the consequences.


Dandelions under chaos,

fold the covers –

go back into the




Copyright © 2016 Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Stay Weird and Keep Writing Publishing” October 2016
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My Lord is Majesty (let me)


My Lord is Majesty (let me)



Blood in urine, the path-flight of

a plane across a low horizon. Lifting,

spinning, a dream-drop like floating.


The answer “no” is all I am capable of. Kiss

me, let me be my fragmented self,

burrow like a termite into tree bark,

seeking living wood, or be a beetle

resting on dewy grass long

before the heat of noon, or like a weed

straight, tall, uninhibited by the cutter’s twine.


Let me be the shape of clunky cluster clouds,

a berry ripe, rich and easy to eat. Let me steal into

the veins of a garden rock, follow a squirrel’s pawprints

up across electric wires. Let me speak before I know anything,

before dread comes to cave my thoughts into a knot-hard ball,

sealing me with silencing futility, sucking out

the heart-beat of magnificent, like a fish flapping

in the oxygen ether,

hooked to a string, hooked to a stick, held

in a small child’s hands. Let me have faith again


in spite of this crushing calamity, trust again

in the companionship of God, protector

of what keeps me sane, merge with

God on every road, every forest path

missed, where the shadows are overbearing,

and the humidity!


Bear me up, Jesus of my master throne,

I see the light overcome.

I feel the toil and tear of survival’s whip,

feel this death come as a swarm of wasps –

the sound of many waspy legs nearing.


Bear me up, be for me like the purity of a washout,

deafening the tone of insect language, turning

these horror groans of my stretcher-strapped plans

into a strange body peace –

though stung, encased, consumed, bear me up

wet-cloth soothe me, embrace me through this heart-ache,

bear me up, give me the strength to surrender

into this death, into this exhale of absolute release.



Copyright © 2016 Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Stay Weird and Keep Writing Publishing” October 2016
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Chiseling away the template mould


Chiseling away the template mould



Like cotton spread,

thinning, rifting,

my mind was sold to tiny pills, angular

remedies that did not bother with results.


Saggy eyes, thoughts in slow motion,

funneling anxiety into walking dreams –

circulation corrupted, fingertips,

the tips of thumbs, dead and decaying.


I lie down across the end of this wave,

I lie down across a weakening buoyancy, see

two dead angels on the water, immaculately

spread, those keepers of simplicity,

seraphims guised as seagulls, see

connection perfected, the veil

between dimensions dissolving.


Later, another comes to hover, circle as I lie down,

mourning. My shoulders are blown, my arms are breached,

my back tightens and will not ease off. It is snowing

and it is spring. Angels continue to arrive, solid in their

grieving grace, circling the blank space that is bare space

around my head, edging inwards, into corners

I can finally talk about. Now


I can submerge my torso, my extremities,

see under water, grow callouses where they are needed,

hurt as I transform, hurt as I surrender

forcing myself through

levels of tight resistance, hurt to not freeze, still

talking to the angels who crest the water, but I am under

the water, becoming a seed that consumes itself,

breaks its shell, sprouts, breaks

the tethering hold.



Copyright © 2016 Allison Grayhurst

First published in “Stay Weird and Keep Writing Publishing” October 2016
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It is a blood clot

unknotted, holey socks

thrown out, birds used to

a blue sky unleashed, grounded,

underfoot. A mealworm left

on the kitchen floor. Sibling animals,

connected beyond species recognition, beyond

cultures and ways and voices communicating.

Sugar cane on the tongue,

sucked on as a child –

remembrance of a heritage

destined to remain as stories embellished when told.


Great moon of the planet I escaped from,

I almost made it to you, that far, almost sat in your

crater-circles, gawking at the constellations.

I made it just past the stratosphere. But you know my body then

was the best it has ever been – gravity had been overcome,

no hollow bones or connections I could barely bear

to stomach. As it is, here, in this form, that body has died,

the soldier in me has died, along

with the guilt-ridden mushy heart

and the resulting fury. The light is perfection

on my back and flowers are here,

some wilted, some emerging.



Copyright © 2016 Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Stay Weird and Keep Writing Publishing” October 2016
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