Under mosaic whisperings
and cesspool attempts at betterment, spiritual
or otherwise, neuroses rise raw to the lips
to sip on again like the new day’s dew.
Hoisting up fences or spring saplings, laying
out books to see their titles and choose
between that or combustion. Enchantments shed
to make way for awareness that glimpses nirvana –
particles of burnt-out folly, at times, pervading.
Bytes are streaming beaming supernova synchronistic
melting downs, past thresholds that cannot be returned from
or spoken about. Density surrounds
like the deep moist grey cold innards of a cloud.
Fish on a stick, in a stream, going around –
whirlpool blackholes to vanish in and touch upon an echo.
Giving in to the storm, giving over to the voice repeating,
compressing joy and urgency into a single crescendo.
Three days left to saw down the dead tree
and sweep the bird droppings from the driveway.
In three days the winds will pick up, and
looking out schoolbus windows, children
will be arriving at the campground,
close to letting loose, like lavender flowers
anticipating their first sunrise bloom.
.Copyright © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Ginosko Literary Journal Issue 16” May 2015
You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
“Allison’s poetic prose is insightful, enwrapping, illuminating and brutally truthful. It probes the nature of the human spirit, relationships, spirituality and God. It is sung as the clearest song is sung within a cathedral by choir. It is whispered as faintly as a heartbroken goodbye. It is alive with the life of a thousand birds in flight within the first glint of morning sun. It is as solemn as the sad-sung ballad of a noble death. 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.
Reblogged this on The Militant Negro™.