I Need My Blood

I Need My Blood

 

 

       I need my blood.

I need the mornings

sightless of dark duties

and encumbering failures

that rise like a high wave

teaming with unseen predators.

       I need a house without deep mud

at its doorstep and a fire menacingly

burning in the furthest backyard tree.

       I need to wake up like I used to,

energized, a life to look forward to, bow to,

and say yes, I can do that, I am full.

       I need God’s blowing kiss, a dream

that is more than a dead seed or grand illusion,

to step here and there solid in authenticity,

shed the dread and the pounding trip and fall.

       I need my blood

not horror-cold professionalism,

being polite while vital body fibres

ricochet against each other, bawling inside,

ripped and rolling like a fish

on a hook, heartlessly pulled

from my home and element, amazed

by how long I am still breathing,

here, without oxygen

or the salty waters of my belonging.

       I need a bridge

to walk across,

a landscape of freedom and prosperity,

away from this decaying island I sit upon

where massive reptiles wrap

their spiked bodies around, many

creeping on the shore.

       I need my blood,

to keep my blood,

flowing, be a voice at full strength,

no longer a sigh or a held-back moan.

       I need this now

to carry on.

 

My branches are all but broken.

My spirit is hardening, tight, tighter

than a heavy stone.

 

 

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Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “Synchronized Chaos” May 2022

https://synchchaos.com/synchronized-chaos-second-may-issue/

https://synchchaos.com/poetry-from-allison-grayhurst-13/

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

 

Bridle

Bridle

 

 

Tear and rip and proclaim

a path you cannot follow

but can taste its every nuance.

Bend into its horizon as though it

were yours, there on glorious display.

 

When change does not come, and it sleeps

like a long clouded-over moon, and spirits

are bones sucked of their marrow –

the most vital of these eaten by mechanical doom –

metal teeth and the turning, turning

of grinding eventuality, wait

and watch the images come and go.

 

The windows are stained

and there is no way to clean them.

Through them I see growth.

I see days I long for that may not come

for another decade, where I will be free.

What is a day? But this thing done, this thing not done.

What is a life? Stealing wakefulness violently

from slumber, pressing into joy

despite the chains and another

book is read. All dreams are singular. Know

the in-breath counts. The out-breath is simply

exhalation.

 

 

Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

First published in “Synchronized Chaos” May 2022

https://synchchaos.com/synchronized-chaos-second-may-issue/

https://synchchaos.com/poetry-from-allison-grayhurst-13/

.

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below: