I see women
finding home on the wicca altar.
They are good women, warm women,
smelling of frankincense and rosewood.
They are woman who tend to the sick, commune
with the souls of animals. I love these women,
their methods, so much like mine. But I am not like
these women, wedded as I am
to the pure Christ of Jesus, sibling to my highest octave.
The one that flushes through me, bringing waves of clarity
to every depth, every torment, every
aspiration. I hold hands with my Jesus. I lean against
him when the hot winds arrive. I press my heart into his
and I feel the peace and certainty of life beside death,
of the greatest love beside the greatest responsibility.
Copyright © 2010 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “New Mystics” August 2017
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“Allison Grayhurst intertwines a potent spirituality throughout her work so that each poem is not simply a statement or observation, but a revelation that demands the reader’s personal involvement. Grayhurst’s poetic genius is profound and evident. Her voice is uniquely authentic, undeniable in its dignified vulnerability as it is in its significance,” Kyp Harness, singer/songwriter, author.
“Allison Grayhurst’s poems are like cathedrals witnessing and articulating in unflinching graphic detail the gritty angst and grief of life, while taking it to rare clarity, calm and comfort. Grayhurst’s work is haunting, majestic and cleansing, often leaving one breathless in the wake of its intelligence, hope, faith and love amidst the muck of life. Many of Allison Grayhurst’s poems are simply masterpieces. Grayhurst’s poetry is a lighthouse of intelligent honour… indeed, intelligence rips through her work like white water,” Taylor Jane Green, Registered Spiritual Psychotherapist and author.