Entering the organic spa-spot
The torture I held as you tiptoed across
my organ cells and hair follicles.
I held even more by holding insanity’s
delicate wafer on your conveyor belt.
I love this end the most, smelling charcoal and
the rotted-tooth breath of what once was.
I loved saying goodbye to your rigid palm-reading,
your depleting predictability and the adult-slot
I’ve had to slot my mind into
to manage you as well
as I did. And I did. I received gift baskets,
praise and even a place
on the roster. I know it was for something but even so,
it was nothing I can use in my journey among the
aspen shavings, the inter-sloping muse
that highjacks my better self
and gives it free play.
Even so, good to know, I am capable. So much better though,
to say goodbye, bow out and join ranks with the sages.
So much weight to shed, the load of metal-brick responsibilities,
keeping tabs, counting scores. So much that wants to be forgotten,
go unnoticed and lose the symbiotic skills of your success.
Mercy is mine, understand that. I am not settled, but embarking.
I am saying goodbye and it is easeful, a release that arrives as completion.
Copyright © 2015 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “The Peregrine Muse” December 2015
You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
“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.
“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.