The door is

 

The door is

 .

The door is the light,

is the beat that hums through

my body. I cannot find its source

or grasp its inspiration.

I can only vaguely feel that it is not dead,

that it is thin and thinning.

The light is the door I cannot mend

or reach for under that canopy when the storm has hit

full force, and the hammer

drives down.

The light is the door

that has no lovers. It is a psalm,

a one-way ticket to wage a life on.

.

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Copyright © 2010 by Allison Grayhurst

3017

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “Kalkion”, 2012

http://www.kalkion.com/poetry/2068/door

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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Preparing

Preparing

.

I go to the crosswalk

and leave my bread crumbs on the other side.

I am waiting for motivation, for a clarity of purpose

that I once owned like a beautiful stone

I sunk under the St. Lawrence rapids. When I was a child,

I watched those rapids without fear,

stood close to the edge and never wondered

about the slippery underfoot,

never worried about the shadflies arriving like a plague of river insects

or about my loneliness that turned into a ghost companion

comforting me in those grey Quebec afternoons.

But here, in this riverless realm,

I cannot place my hands down. I cannot stretch wide enough

to feel whole. I go to the corner store and hear answers that only I

and the birds

can hear.

.

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Copyright © 2011 by Allison Grayhurst

For Every Rain Cover 5

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First published in “Gloom Cupboard”, 2013

Gloom CupboardGloom Cupboard 2

http://gloomcupboard.com/2011/11/17/poetry-139/

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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Voice

 

Voice

.

When you talk it is not

a shimmering sensation or

a delicate fluttering of

nature’s delicate best. Days

are not here like you are –

an open sewer grate, a crushed

locust. They are smudged and flat

as a textureless dream.

Helmets worn. Grievers

with their now-permanent-grief etched

under their fleshy eyes, checkbones and chins.

I buy buttered pastries, leave them

by their doors. I hear your voice.

You are trying to reach me with an old painter’s words

of resignation and reluctant wisdom – words

I cannot make use of.

 

The dead evergreen in my front yard will not revive.

Like me, and these things I clung to, it must be replaced

with something of less substance, of more obvious beauty,

like a red rose bush, birdbath or sundial. Or,

I could leave it there, brown and dry – a monument

to what was once lush, gorgeously plump, once withstanding

winters, the heat of global-warming summers, green,

wondrous against my window.

 

I could walk faster than this, chat with the neighbours.

But I won’t. Because nothing is here but you, only,

and my feet can’t find the motivation to pick up pace.

 

You talk. My aura is a smog-filled season

where your sun’s rays barely seep through. Days

with stones in my stomach, rubbing against one another,

pressing their hard weight into places.

I have no drug to ease my longing. Will it be long? Years?

Will I make it through to the Fall?

Do you have more to say? Say it then, differently.

I can’t go on repeating,

where nothing shifts but these stones,

sharp-surfaced, blocking my intestinal tract, pressing

with each step, demanding acknowledgment, denied

release, a minimal hope

for redemption.

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Copyright  © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst

BookCoverPreview

No Raft - No Ocean

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First published in “Wax Poetry and Art Magazine, Volume 3, Number 5”, June 2014

Wax poetry 1Wax poetry 2wax poetry 3wax poetry 4

wax poetry voice 1 wax poetry voice 2 wax poetry voice 3

http://waxpoetryart.com/issues/0305/allisongrayhurst.html

http://waxpoetryart.com/issues/0305/allisongrayhurst_voice.html

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voice 1 voice 2

Click to access 20151023No_Raft_No_Ocean_by_Allison_Grayhurst.pdf

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Scars writingScars voice Scars voice 2 Scars Voice 3

http://scars.tv/cgi-bin/framesmain.pl?writers

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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