On Mortal Ground


On Mortal Ground



Nothing, take nothing

only my starving hopes.

Save my brow from the devil’s comb,

the false religious cry.


I am low on the ground

watching ants and spiders play.

I have been hit

by a barnacle onslaught storm.

My fingers are strands of straw,

beating back in time with the breeze.

I am alive, guarded by grief

and rib and brain.

My house is an egg,

a shooting simple firework.


Nothing, take nothing

the children are my shelter,

and their gifts of inspiration –

my wound, my blade.




Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst





Published in “New Mystics” May 2018





You can listen to the poem by clicking below:



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