Pieces to Gather

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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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Seed of Living

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Seed of Living

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Mostly possibilities

return a million times

over: the chance

in every life cycle

to escape

patterned destinations.

 

I could tear my breath

in half attempting

a different rhythm.

I could be burning, bloated

on mistakes and bad beginnings.

 

Nightmares flail across the void,

sinking through

unimaginable universes.

Then tomorrow, the television,

the zodiac spin, anger at circumstances.

It is the condition that makes sway

dandelion leaves, breaks

the stem of the sunflower.

 

As dusk denies every pent-up demand.

As morning cleanses every hard-held need obsolete.

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© 1992 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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Face to Face

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Face to Face

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            We rise to deliver

our final wounds.

 

            I hang from an inward thread,

frayed by storm. You

sit in your chair, plastered

with brittle privacy.

            Neither of us moves to warm the air.

The floor between turns to quicksand

with a thick layer of hovering mosquitoes above.

Anger with a voice too tight to speak

takes the form of ant-like apparitions, covering

our four-corned walls.

 

            It will be done. We will be bone

and nothing else when this is through.

It will not matter,

the scent of our first or final kiss

            for the proud demon-martyrs

embracing our ribs,

taking seat on our laps

have all but swallowed us whole,

conquered.    

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© 1992 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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Even Though

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Even Though

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Even attempting to climb the perilous cliff,

I am not afraid of falling.

The sensual rhythms of this lonely morning

devour me, reconciled

to my private chamber, suspended.

 

Far under the cliff, the gulls

are united with the ocean, as that

deep blue speckled-white

beckons me to its bed.

 

Wolves and warriors are rooted to the hunt.

I am rooted to this risk, edge-clinging,

fated to ultimately rest

in the body of a miracle.

 

There are miles below and miles above,

awakening sounds of insects burrowing,

of swallows nest-emerging –

a holy vapour all around that fills

the void with necessity.

 

© 1992 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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Out of Dreams

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Out of Dreams

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            Like clay brick eroded

by rain, thoughts sear

my better part, calling me

to the altar, to kneel and

discipline these fantastical wanderings.

            Like an egg yolk pierced, I spill

my substance flat across the frying pan.

            I live in the time just before dawn.

I curse the crocodile but praise

its authority. The clock strikes seven

and I have lost my sparrow for good.

I have waited for the change, wished myself more

than this life, making a remedy from imagination.

            I will walk the straight line as an experiment, walk

to feel like a buttercup flower tied to the forest floor –

satisfied with its display of tiny splendor, at peace

with its place amongst the aged trees.

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© 1992 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “Outlaw Poetry” October 2018

https://outlawpoetry.com/2018/out-of-dreams-by-allison-grayhurst/

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You Shaped My Song, Then Left

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You Shaped My Song, Then Left

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Voyaging down beside the worms

through the abscess of earth to hold

a gem stone sinking.

 

My roots have been seized

by their rival the wind,

unable to alter the atmosphere.

 

My love leans between

opposing worlds, wanting

to erect hope where hope

can no longer sustain.

 

This place of uncommon intensity,

a place a little closer to the window

where my thoughts can rest on only

the setting sun and you.

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© 1992 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “Raven Cage, Issue 26” September 2018

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Hdv93t42aRcr5RMMyKCysJ3Fi08KwDgX/view

RavenCageZineIssue26

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Once and Forever

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Once and Forever

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            Love pulls the ghost into being,

 

the burnt-heart into the shade

 

and comforts and forgives and bears

 

all wounds with blinding devotion

 

to transform.

 

            Love is the ledge

 

where the starling sits, praising

 

the twilight’s fall.

 

            Love is the enemy unmasked

 

of its endless destruction, the topless

 

flowers that sound no blame into

 

the wind.

           

            Love has no ruin, but hails and

 

hails to every heart,

 

delivering.

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© 1992 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “Raven Cage, Issue 26” September 2018

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Hdv93t42aRcr5RMMyKCysJ3Fi08KwDgX/view

RavenCageZineIssue26

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