Sanctum

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        Cedar wood, dark spaces under wood

where beetles mate then hide their own. There,

you smile, your forehead groomed

of false expression. I study you like my one-chance solution,

or steps to take to shield me from this penetrating boredom

that slips unwanted under my heavy housecoat.

        Narwhales shaped like epigrams, like the undecipherable

complexities in the creases of your folded hands.

        You are taut as a sail in a strong wind, capable of

unmatched speed, stretched, though not even

close to ripping.

If you were a tree, 100 years and on, pulling sunlight

from its throne, shimmering green, a stronger brilliance

than a vault brimming with polished gold,

still you could not be better than what you are –

        sitting close to the corner, on the couch,

unwashed hair and an irritated mouth,

reluctantly waking into the noon-light, drinking coffee,

salted, sometimes sorrowful, mostly spring-time budding –

a supplier of oxygen, maker of songs received

as storm-sturdy harbours, worlds to land on,

dig or nest or claim a hole, many branches,

many escape routes, many life-saving homes.

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.Copyright  © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “Cartagena Journal Issue 3”

http://cartagenajournal.com/2014/08/10/summer2014-grayhurst/

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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Before you

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wide with surrender

with no backdrop or formula,

with the accomplishment of releasing

plans by the wayside into the swamp

that used to be an instrument playing,

a cliff of clay forming a tireless gale

of heavy sensual dreams.

      I belong to you and to the strength of your empty hands,

the endings you leave me with, harvesting

ephemeral food – a soul full

of coastal curves that break the waters and is broken

by them, pressing and caressing the chain of tidal

obliteration as an umbilical cord connecting

to the vast sweet space that is you.

      Never meant to anchor roots or climb a sturdy cliff,

you stop my struggle to illuminate a typical liberation,

gaining the wherewithal to stay pale,

upright and destined in my cage.

For it is not a hellish home, but submerged

in the damp abandon of your shaking,

it is subject to your prying appendages poking,

tearing away speech and understanding.

      I am yours, withdrawn from words into a connection

washed with elements of prayer but unlike prayer

more like lemonade to the day labourer or grass

to the grazing mare – away from bit, halter and reigns –

your sun sinking its evening heat into my back and shoulders,

erasing division, drawing an intimacy

that frees my blood’s natural flow, squeezes out

the clotted clump of summoning-up

of years scarred by grief and hidden,

rebellious longing.

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.Copyright  © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “Change Seven Magazine, Issue 1.2 Summer 2015” June 2015

http://changesevenmag.com/read/current-issue/issue-1-2/

http://changesevenmag.com/two-poems-by-allison-grayhurst/

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Click to access 20151023No_Raft_No_Ocean_by_Allison_Grayhurst.pdf

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http://scars.tv/cgi-bin/framesmain.pl?writers

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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Complete, but

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            to no avail. Sitting as a new house sits

on its lot, needing occupants.

Sewer sludge, soiled napkins, anthills

too late underfoot. Held up by restlessness in the many gardens

of Mount Sisyphus, heave-hoe to the point

of rudimentary madness. Windows I look through, birch trees

I stop at to collect nuances, rest like the sparrow in hopeful

camouflage, wearing myself down with unrealizable dreams.

            If I had claimed myself a calling

as a chaplain – ritualized pacing in university halls, my arm

around youth, accompanying my affection

with a spiritual smile, then I would have

the certainty of some kind of career, not be a carved body

on fire, totem of tripwires and earthquakes.

            If I was a young starling neck deep in uncut grass,

pecking at exposed roots, I would be

sky, downspout, bush, tip of a cross on a steeple,

cured of isolation, taking flight and landing when I choose and

I would choose a fenced-in backyard

where a boy’s imagination owns the splintered bench, weeds

and a dug-up secret hole. I would watch that boy plot his course

and leap, knowing no separation,

I would spread, sing

and fold.

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Copyright  © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

http://barometricpressures.blogspot.ca/2014/10/surrogate-dharma-allision-grayhurst.html?spref=fb

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B-DuKJaq66ClMlFIWWU5cTY2RTQ/view

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First published in “Pyrokinection” February 2014 and “Storm Cycle 2014” August 2015

http://www.pyrokinection.com/2014/02/a-poem-by-allison-grayhurst.html

Storm Cycle 2014 Anthology — ebook file (2)

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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