Cold wave, mother blue

as the dead and empty sky,

orphan sun sitting when

pity has passed, love

has left too for alliances with

the party goers, party-givers

and the run-of-the-mill wealthy mongrels

of deception and worldly favour.


Eyes to the pavement with

the strength and perseverance to find and pluck

the secret egg hidden among the stones,

pluck away shame, guilt and unhealthy obligations,

boil them in the boiler room, send

them into the crematorium

never to again inflict a living hold.


Once plucked what is left hurts like a severed attachment –

lost from warmth and the glowing light

of benevolence.

Devastating, this violation of nature,

this thrust-alone on the high ridge.

Flowers here in pretty colours

are confined to gardens, to gravity

like the rest of us. I walk away from flowers

into a desert where high winds and sand

scratch my face, then

the corneas of my eyes.


Can love be revolutionary here, a miracle here

of abundance, soft affection? Can it be priceless,

a happy licking tongue, settling

for nothing that isn’t endlessly overflowing,

a waterfall, a child embracing

in fearless abandon?



© 2018 by Allison Grayhurst




Published in “Outlaw Poetry” March 2018






You can listen to the poem by clicking below:



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