Slingshot

Itself, lips

high off the ground.

Answer twice and then

no more.

Retreat, understand

all the world is a grave

and still, sprouting.

This journey, this climb

collecting the many shades

of intertwining foliage.

Half-moon is enough moon

to see. Dump yard turns

into a mouse’s home, a place

to raise her offspring, find food,

with many secure hiding holes.

Flesh is a revelation,

is the end result of pure spirit

sparkling.

Tomorrow we will know why

today we feel lacking

when we find our watering-hole,

a reservoir garden, glorious labour,

cascading.

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Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “Across The Margin” July 2022

https://acrossthemargin.com/four-poems-by-allison-grayhurst/

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

Triage

       The fragility of failure,

sunset over the ruined city

and life never the flowering garden

it could be.

       All is captured by death,

after leaving heaven and

when returning – decay and fear and hope

of eternity in spite of the silence.

       A wilderness of anxiety overtaking

the summit, suffocating the interior

with its acid juices, following the chain link

until the grave.

       Waste and enormous hunger,

rejecting reality to keep sane.

This is no way to continue,

no life of rapid transitions or stepping out

of the mire onto solid land.

       Here, the temperature is predictable,

the yawning pit of disaster is always expanding,

nearing and nearing.

       So take this last bit of courage

stand on the edge and let yourself go,

know what it is to be truly radical,

risking the fall, committed

to the end result.

Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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Published in “The Wise Owl – Pine Edition” October 2022

https://www.thewiseowl.art/triage-1

https://www.thewiseowl.art/podcasts

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Published in “Across The Margin” July 2022

https://acrossthemargin.com/four-poems-by-allison-grayhurst/

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.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

Initiation

Punctured

on the last step, from

the last step.

No openings, breath holes.

Rigid boards, brick work

for miles, and infestation

in the corners, under

floorboards.

Call me a dreammaster,

someone to remind me

who owns me and how much

I am actually worth.

The landscape begins,

first in ice-cream tones

of frosted blue and whites,

then into a rich mustard yellow

and animated dark purple.

Seeing this on the cold walls, under

false lights and a dreary atmosphere,

consuming, watching duties

done, lacking eloquence or

personal concern.

Guide me into your soundproof room,

tempt me with insanity, then

let my accusations be muffled

until they are inaudible.

A clean bill of health,

health in every salutation.

Days spent spawning music and shrines

to whatever passes as holy.

Days showered with talkative sparrows,

no spots left to rot or grow a putrid stench,

just small spillages, here, there,

easily wiped, not worthy of

being recalled or inducing

a lengthy tortured conversation.

Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

First published in “Across The Margin” July 2022

https://acrossthemargin.com/four-poems-by-allison-grayhurst/

.

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below: