.

But the Waves of Savage Light Kindle Me

.

.

  I do not trust

your ruse-dance, your guillotine

            cutting mind.

I listen through the backdoor,

with both eyes

            locked on the table.

Lies shut beneath

your playacting smile.

            Sweet

encouragement with

a twist, like towels can

            twist,

and limbs and laughter.

Metre by metre your muse is

            measured,

scaled-down

to a keyhole

            muted howl.

The streets are bleached monotone

by your analytical trumpet

            pour.

The buildings outside

turn bloodless blue,

             sold

to your calculated vision.

.

.

Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

Published in “New Mystics” May 2018

http://newmystics.com/lit/AllisonGrayhurst.html

Click to access AllisonGrayhurst-Poems4.pdf

.

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

.

.

On Mortal Ground

.

.

Nothing, take nothing

only my starving hopes.

Save my brow from the devil’s comb,

the false religious cry.

I am low on the ground

watching ants and spiders play.

I have been hit

by a barnacle onslaught storm.

My fingers are strands of straw,

beating back in time with the breeze.

I am alive, guarded by grief

and rib and brain.

My house is an egg,

a shooting simple firework.

Nothing, take nothing

the children are my shelter,

and their gifts of inspiration –

my wound, my blade.

.

.

Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

Published in “New Mystics” May 2018

http://newmystics.com/lit/AllisonGrayhurst.html

Click to access AllisonGrayhurst-Poems4.pdf

.

Published in “Lucidity Poetry Journal” August 2018

.

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

.

.

Wide In His Chains

.

.

Under the cliff of

             winter clouds

his hands

             were born,

drunk on abstractions and

             a feeling muse.

Battleships soared through his

             ransacked-mind.

Impossible loneliness attacked like

            a vulture,

painting his jealous seasons

            morphine blue.

His was a tender style, loving equally

            the hideous and the brave.

He was punished for his ruthless poetry, exiled

            for his ecstasy-grip

Those hands were tendrils, latching on

            to what others feared.

His music drove on through

            bombshell screams

toward a prophetic morning,

            desired.

.

Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

Published in “New Mystics” May 2018

http://newmystics.com/lit/AllisonGrayhurst.html

Click to access AllisonGrayhurst-Poems4.pdf

.

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

.