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Childhood cracked

 .

The doll fell

and was never picked up.

It fell by the curb

in a lucid slumber

of inarticulate words

like a dew drop

on ice.

Nothing was coveted,

the chant grew like the moon

as the month moved on.

What was cold inside was a needle

of sharp divide and the impact

of unbuffered death.

Into this autumn

the doll fell

and the meridian of grace

was at last

on the table.

.

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Copyright © 2008 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “Bewildering Stories”, 2011

http://www.bewilderingstories.com/issue448/childhood_cracked.html

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Won  Bewildering Stories’ “The 2011 Mariner Award for Short Poetry”

http://www.bewilderingstories.com/anthologies/AR11.html

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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Blend

 .

with the hope of

blending fully with the vision

before it left, exiting from

the groin into the vast area

encapsulating the body and its

erratic rhythms.

Move like before poverty

latched on like a hoard of barnacles

to your once-smooth side, like before

the path split and the apple tree died.

Do this, but do not expect to know

the clarity held in youth

or the favours of miracles. Do it

because faith is beautiful, is

the only action necessary.

Blend in new ways, with mature seeing

and few desires,

like a bug into the dirt

or a faraway lake into a faraway sky.

.

.

Copyright © 2008 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.First published in “East Jasmine Review, Volume 2, Issue 3”

http://eastjasminereview.com/issues/issues/volume-2-issue-3/

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

.

Parameters

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The gift of all this crumbles

with a single out-of-sync happening.

Geraniums are frosting over

and the high grass is yellowing.

Yesterday was a cat in symmetrical slumber,

pictures stood straight and warmth

was gathering like a sweet wind over the neighbourhood.

Does this mean it is my mind? like an insect living

one season, sees only that season, dies before winter,

content to have made it so long?

Does this mean the puddle

I jump in, wade in, determine in

is only a pail of water, nothing beside the ocean?

When the puddle is stirred from its stillness or

becomes a bath for snakes or dries up from too much sun –

it is still the puddle and will replenish again

as all puddles do in the rain, maybe

in the early evening just before the lion comes

to take a long, relaxed drink.

.

.

Copyright © 2008 by Allison Grayhurst

 amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

 First published in “Literary Orphans”, Issue 13, May 2014

Parameters by Allison Grayhurst

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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