Drift

.

Drift

.

.

Held still

like apple butter held

smooth on the tongue, catching

grief in a cage, on the surface

of a name – would it be

kissing or pinning a broken coat-zipper

together – once the fog has left is there

anything left to hold out for? Hold still for,

like a hooked fish releasing the struggle?

Being alive in the dream-state ambiguity,

meaning full then meaning naught and

how old are you?

 

Your horse, Dee, steady

in the sunlight, glinting a wild connectivity,

intelligence gleaming across a chestnut coat,

bowed head, permission to pet granted and then

sleeping in a stall, talking outload when everyone else

had gone home. It was not a dream,

not until she was gone and then it was a dream

lost, and maybe never there.

 

People love their trees

the ones they think they own. But I never loved a tree like

I loved the willow tree in my Montreal backyard. I never

loved anyone who hadn’t died at least a hundred years

before I was born until

 

there was you, rounding up the stones from every table,

sitting alone only to stand up again before the seat

warmed, and ‘perfect’ made sense but nothing ever expected.

 

Dee and the willow tree. I left my body and flew

into the sun.

 

Why can’t I leave my body and fly into the sun,–

meals taken care of,

sex and you, a beautiful summer star.

.

.

Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

First published in “CultureCult Magazine, Volume 2, Number 1, Issue 7”  March 2017

http://culturecult.in/latestissue/

https://www.amazon.com/CultureCult-Magazine-Issue-Jagannath-Chakravarti/dp/1544911793/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1490542941&sr=8-2&keywords=culturecult

CultureCult Magazine – Issue #7

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

 

Steel and Spice

.

Steel and Spice

 .

 .

Inch across

the bell-cups of lilies

in the dead oblivion

of decades of reality’s denial.

 

Inch into the sweetness

of a lilac’s centre,

nourished on imagination everytime

over the bite of bitter soup.

 

Gather the crows in your morning sky,

ask them to envelop you and then ask

their forgiveness.

 

Hiding your panic

in the promises of miracles, licking the acid

off of your skin to make for a good story,

for the belief in an undamageable surface.

Mistaking silk for bread, counting on

God’s kindness to come on the brink

of desperate need.

 

Will you now

be a slave to the feast of worms or

strip-mine until what little gold you find

feels like abundance?

 

Maybe you are safe, living in this

burning garden, protected with a poet’s peace

and by a faith that bypasses gravity’s consequences, but

has consequences and demands of its own – ones

you must live by and dedicate yourself to keep

 

turn a blind-eye to practicality,

and press all fear into a resounding prayer,

existing on the substance of

divine gifts, gifts that are final,

that have no price to pay except that you

leave yourself leaning, tied and planted only

to this holy dreamscape liberation.

.

.

Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

First published in “GloMag” March 2017

http://online.fliphtml5.com/gkih/vhtz/

 

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

 

Custodian

.

Custodian

.

Shelter or summit –

a wood they call it, in

a stream, lined up with crossroads and fields of

four directions. Adolescent

they call it,

a dormitory of unforgivable energy,

magnificence embedded into organ-memory,

wondering what could be equal to this

collapse, would something be equal and claim

a path to recovery.

Foul play

they call it, marginalized, a display

of tragedy, like a crippled horse, on the grass,

in the afternoon.

Unjust, you call it, a senseless chemistry

that begins brightly and ends in ash.

 

Belong with me. Belong here in this intimacy

in this fraction of time, square footage of a place that is ours,

that we imagined and manifested and will not be corrupted.

Forget what they call it, their exhibitions of

ego-soothing massage.

 

This is our strategy – to touch the canvas

with our intentions pure and concentrated

as they first were – disappointment, devastations

degraded to one sleepless night, then returned

for a greater glory.

.

 

Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

First published in “Sick Lit Magazine” March 2017

sick-lit-1 sick-lit-2 sick-lit-3 sick-lit-4 sick-lit-5

Custodian – by Allison Grayhurst

.

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

I will make my way across the water

.

I will make my way across the water

 .

I will push my way

through the threshold,

bend over the edge then

let myself go – gravity,

mudslides and rock edges

will dictate my descent, but

I will look up and witness

the starlings amongst the sparrows,

the dislodged grass sprouts that take

the fall with me, above me

in gentle wave-like motions

with the wind.

 

These limbs will crash,

be cut from their flesh, and I will break

only to be reborn, a sapling, myself

graced with lifetimes of memories, stretching

my stem gradually into the light.

 

In time, animals will flourish under

my shaded canopy, and lovers

will carve their initials into my skin,

promising one another their exclusive eternity.

 

I will make my way across the water,

over the threshold and fall

to embrace the ground I came from.

 

Spread low, spread high – a century

or more guardian, a tree-fort reaper in a forest

far across the hill and still

beyond.

.

.

Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

First published in “Random Poem Tree” February 2017

random-poetry-tree-feb-1 random-poetry-tree-feb-2 random-poetry-tree-feb-3 random-poetry-tree-feb-4

https://randompoemtree.wordpress.com/2017/02/26/i-will-make-my-way-across-the-water-by-allison-grayhurst/

 

.

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

.

.

.

 

Collector

.

Collector

.

Pale sleep,

naked under eyelids

and summer beating out the

last of its heat, remembering

the skin of stones I collected,

hidden in boxes under mounds of

typed-on paper.

 

I will take them out,

read them like a diary and soak

myself with their flavours. Then

maybe I will remember my inauguration

into oxygen, a direction I can run in,

leaving crutches in the alleyway.

 

I can gather armour, carry armour, be rooted

to victory and the purity of murder.

 

The bitten moon, lingering, muscles forgetting

how they travel, how love is contemplated

and grows in sand, in cracked concrete corners

even when the wolves are nearing. Trust. It is

gathering. I will gather these colourful stones –

some tumbled sheen, others, raw

and ready for flight.

 

.

Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

First published in “The Blue Mountain Review, Issue 6” February 2017

the-blue-mountain-review-1 the-blue-mountain-review-2 the-blue-mountain-review-5

 

 

.

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

 

Used blanket

.

Used blanket

 .

 .

Single rage returning

entrapment pedestal,

busted at the seams.

Empty frame, roofless

walls, poking out of some

hole in the pavement.

Underground gardens flourishing

speaking of dandelions and

tidbits of mercy left

at the wayside to collect

like a tossed-away overcoat –

 

I wear that overcoat every day,

every evening curled inside of it,

smelling the nuances of the places it has been,

places of music and unrequited love –

beige now and stained dark grey.

 

I long to regain the taste of its first wear,

when I was the exodus maker,

keeper of the icicle, explorer of a missionary salute,

bowing down only to clean it, sure of

my perfected individuality, saying something

monumental with its sway.

 

Those were days rich with equal

fear and hope, underneath the canopy trees, looking up,

past cloud ridges and bird flights.

 

I look at the TV or at nothing, smelling

the stains washed in mild detergent,

with the hope that some scent of back then still lingers,

covering my shoulders, hiding my hands.

 

Everything that was me, in me, outside of me

is already gone and I am not even 50, still able

to walk, hold a book, a conversation, unable

to return to a place of confidence

wrapped in this faded cloth, overcoat completion.

 

.

Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

First published in “The Blue Mountain Review, Issue 6” February 2017

the-blue-mountain-review-1 the-blue-mountain-review-2 the-blue-mountain-review-3 the-blue-mountain-review-4

 

.

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

.

 

 

.

Die Together

.

Die Together

 .

I close the distance.

I know this love like I know

bird voices, the safety-net of death.

Reach, go deep into the skin,

in aggressive desire, categorizing each intonation,

a sculptor’s scheme. I will make you a mountain,

a colossal height, forming.

I will undertake a breathing soliloquy, a measured

chemistry for you.

Moon making, matching forces, destructive impact,

then hot surrender – neon blast infusion.

Flesh and favoritism

blooming tight in the right spot, tight in the pulsing glory –

no sin, no signed paper,

no plywood to haul or candy.

Lava moulding, speak only of this experience, only

close the distance and reap.

.

Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

First published in “GloMag” February 2017

glomag-feb-3glomag-feb-4

https://www.cyberwit.net/publications/957

https://www.amazon.com/GloMag-February-Edited-Glory-Sasikala/dp/9385945785/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1486513331&sr=8-1&keywords=glomag

.

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

.