Selling parts secretly owned

but never named. Scraping off

the daily dread to find a hope.

Hoping her suffering soul

will be reconciled in a flash,

unscathed when the new one begins,

budding, blooming into the opening,

the center of the ring,

enveloped in tenderness eternal.

Then the peace she gained by her natural

good heart will expand and blot out her

anxieties, her struggles for control.

She will be unharmed, in a state

where joy overwhelms with a constant

ecstasy sustainable and God is beside her

within her and all around her, swirling, caressing,

like God has always been, only now with a certainty

that even the most faithful servants

(inside time

inside gravity)

have never known.

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Copyright © 2024 by Allison Grayhurst

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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Read whole poem:

https://allisongrayhurst.com/my-mothers-sky/

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Dream-self

destiny-self

never align

As soon as the shackles have cracked,

a new cage has formed,

taking away the morning light,

a chance to see the phenomena

of untainted being.

I have fallen into usefulness

like a bottomless sewer pit, falling, nothing

broke, just the drain of gravity in my bones

as I fall, lacking

the gift of appreciation and the possibility

of a safe landing.

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Copyright © 2024 by Allison Grayhurst

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.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

Read whole poem:

https://allisongrayhurst.com/my-mothers-sky/

.

Chips of clear and broken glass.

Will I make this destiny-duty

intact or burn out on a hospital bed,

drained to the point of no return?

The stones are joy. I keep my smile

pressed on, my impatience under breath

and my dignity on a wire – pulled and tugged

by her unnecessary necessities.

When I am tired

the guilt pores in like

castor oil, down the wrong pipe

into the windpipe as I struggle

to regain our once synchronized flow,

but it will not return or rewind, as her love

only shows in momentary flickers now

before she dives again into these catacombs

collapsing.

She is owned by the morphine

pumping into her bloodstream

at regular intervals, pumping its purpose

to nullify her pain, while twisting mental foreign

tracks through her brain that torture her

with their relentless sticky grid

and serpents’ faces rising, telling her

she is owned, robbed of her

treasured independence, confined to home,

watching her once happy socializing light darken,

and you love her, you know her. You know

for a while

the monster will chomp at the moon,

will take the glow from her view,

soil every brilliant horizon,

will capture her honoured seat,

even conquer her spiritual home,

for a while

death’s rotting belly

will do what it must do,

bloat and swell

foul, naturally cruel.

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Copyright © 2024 by Allison Grayhurst

.

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

Read whole poem:

https://allisongrayhurst.com/my-mothers-sky/

.