If I was responsible
I would sell my discipline for higher wages.
As it is, I blame the supermarket shoppers
and the crowds of Buddha-dreamers crossing the Himalayans
pursuing visions of acceptance.
Survival is a closed evolution – stealth and teeth,
a method where love has no allegiance.
I don’t want anymore, not spacecraft theories, not mornings
of self-defeating mythology or philosophical discussions.
I don’t want degrees of ecstasy or appointments.
I refuse to grow into a ghost or budge my integrity for
a bowl of temporary fulfilment. And here, I am wrong,
don’t belong with the wine-seller stockers and
the coral reef hiders.
I have a garden where I walk through the tall weeds,
eliminate insects with methodical steps like squashing
the patterns of horoscopes, a place where I crush
newspaper absurdities, sidestep the reactionary circle-act,
redefining my personal salvation.
.Copyright © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Sentinel Literary Quarterly” February 2016
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.