Collector

Collector

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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.

 

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Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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Say good, say goodbye

Say good, say goodbye

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Bright in the box in the cupboard

where the keepers of conscience and trivia

highjack the pacing depths

to replace it with an easily peeled-off

sheen. It is time to bloom,

to say goodbye to books and playballs of requisitions,

decoding philosophy and revelations in tune

with taking a stance.

 

Death, I am a robin’s feast with

dandelion breath

stalling at the toddler tree

worshiping what is yet to bud.

 

Death, you made me confused, me,

the revealer of the signs,

mountain-top screamer, fencer for

a fourth-dimensional world.

 

Flat rocks in a circle, gulls circling

one graveyard, spot

of significant mourning. Faint lines.

But God is solid, exact, without

need of interpretation. Death

 

is only a layer reached

and removed, when traveled

then traveled through.

 

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Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “Setu, Fifth Issue” October 2016
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You can listen to the poem by clicking below: