.

The Way of Separation

.

.

If today I cry for you

would you weep

with me, though

your paradise is found

and my life is strange to your eyes?

Blue shade in my

palm. Midnight in

my shoe. I give up

hope, give up the covers

to shield me from ruin.

If you could love me differently,

with a love not so dead to deeds,

so proud in its moral conviction,

would the moon appear different too,

and its bone-white light, could I bear it

whole?

            I learn to will my famine numb

            I learn our intimacy was hollow,

            nothing is sure but God

            I learn the way starfish see –

            slow, slow change, that none

            but the intent can observe.

                        (Mortal heart

                        that hears the

                        resonating thunder,

                        feels the owl’s burning

                        eyes. Modern heart

                        of secret logic, robed

                        in the gales of a coming

                        age.)

Do you remember the heat

of our stride, our anxious days

of youth, christened by our friendship?

You go into airy ideals.

I break with your walking.

You go into arms that praise your every gesture.

I look to the river.

You ask my forgiveness.

I am stronger now, enough

to bless (and I bless)

without taking.

Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

Published in “”Synchronized Chaos” June 2018

https://synchchaos.com/synchronized-chaos-june-2018/

http://synchchaos.com/poetry-from-allison-grayhurst-6/

.

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

.

.

You walk

.

.

the branches.

You put Sunday in your

pocket. Unlike you, I am not

destined for immeasurable acts.

I speak to the stones, to someone like you,

looking up your stairway, into your hallway

of a holy place.

You move to the rooftop,

eyeing the crowd with a distant tear.

I would hold my hands out to you but

your love is criminal, is metal slowly

burning through the streets, congesting

the autumn air.

Why do you devour me

into your sweet, immaculate hell?

You circle me and circle my door with your

smiles and waves

of irresponsible feigned devotion.

I am too soft for such deception.

I am no rock, no easy rider.

Your lies like your beauty

live in me, aimlessly

cutting.

Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

Published in “Synchronized Chaos” June 2018

https://synchchaos.com/synchronized-chaos-june-2018/

http://synchchaos.com/poetry-from-allison-grayhurst-6/

.

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

.

.

Nomad and Wife

.

.

            Her dying bones

which still have the strength

of moon and fight are held

up on his altar-hut.

            Watching over – a small

figure with the once milking

flow of feminine

curve and charm.

            He will not be undone

by the pain or

winter’s fast approach.

(He places a carved bird at her feet.)

            He has killed for her dignity

marred and she for the power of his

wide-set eyes. They touch

hand to weatherworn hand

and know the sensation

singular like the sun

is singular in its power

to bless or deprive.

            They do not smile, their union

is too rich for such

a soft space between.

(They remember their children)

            Watching as her life departs,

his anguish echoes the high plains

undefended, heard only

by the gods. And the trees

so placid, absorb each cry,

accepting.

Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

Published in “Synchronized Chaos” June 2018

https://synchchaos.com/synchronized-chaos-june-2018/

http://synchchaos.com/poetry-from-allison-grayhurst-6/

.

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

.