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We Rode

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We rode our wounded dream

to a place drawn out like Prairie

ground. A washcloth was all we needed,

a sacred rock or stepping stone.

Lingering there with useless hands,

many times ready for the culling field,

holding elephant bones under

condemning light.

We swept the dead-end from our horizon.

We lived looking within, seeking out some mercy

behind our bondage.

This land knew our pacing,

our ineffectual pilgrimage.

It was fire and still burns like war or

a fallen constellation.

We spun our wishes in mid-air,

tilled the lifeless soil

mourning the hot metal

that poured between good fortune

and the bloodstains of destiny.

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© 1992 by Allison Grayhurst 

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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Published in “Synchronized Chaos” November 2018

Synchronized Chaos November 2018: The Things We Carry

Poetry from Allison Grayhurst

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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Pieces to Gather

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            A drowned fish, silver, snared

with an expression of permanent ache.

Eyes, fish stunned, fish glass

glaring from a window in the market

in the dubious afternoon.

            The shattered green

of ocean from a storm-struck sky,

lightening-flesh tipping, ripping the lid

and letting in the rains.

            Mountains of harsh winters, opaque

like the wings on a featherless angel.

Mountains, male in their faith and in their marriage

to moonlight.

            Chains, slate grey and criminal

as clouds over rainbows, as necessary

as a first childhood dream

laughed at, forgotten.

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© 1992 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “Medusa’s Kitchen” October 2018

http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2018/10/even-though.html

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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