….

For a while –

deathcamps, blue balls

baskin’robbins. Play tomorrow

the lute-song of today and remember

the ground-swell

pounding paradise into my brain, collapsing

from overload, reloading fodder

and flighty friendships I’ve lost use for.

Nothing counts, count on nothing but playfighting

over the bank, over the brim – rim – keeper

of the fixer-upper, of the still fire, fire still

as yellowed corpses. Mid-fall.

Fake it! Love! kindness, tenderness – be

polite, because very little is

anything you want to take with you.

Care-giver, carer of the children,

the laundry, pets and bank account.

It is all you are – rainstorm.

You must take this stone and swallow,

make peace with your burden, make love

with the swarming emptiness, stuck

in a gravitational pull,

planets, solar systems spinning around you

but you are heavy, must be,

unfazed by the pressured wind – stains

on the ground. Inside of you, chopped-up bits of fate

and crimes conceived before you

were born. Fake it, wallpaper it. Go on, try, smile

.

.

Copyright © by Allison Grayhurst 2014

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

First published in “The Muse – An International Journal of Poetry” Volume 4, Number 1, June Issue 2014

http://themuse.webs.com/June%202014/muse%20june%2014.pdf

http://themuse.webs.com/latestissues.htm

.

Published in “Art Villa” December 2015

Read the whole poem here:

Walkways – the poem

You can listen to the poem below:

.

….

Once, gentle. Now, riled and nowhere but where

the stench of sewage is piled on the curb.

The gears of bitter disappointment snatching

you into a feral hold. Exotic tall weeds,

broken at the base.

Friendships are spoiled at the root, even love is

overshadowed by the decay.

Less obligation, less affection, less loyalty.

I must pretend we are healed, but the only healing

that happened was a cauterization of our severed bond.

There is anger but less hurt,

just the motions of getting through

undetected, and me by myself,

always alone –

separate happenings, entities, isolated

aspects merging, but never

whole. White car on the road.

Red car on the road. Silver then

blue. The only place absolute is

the place I left where faith was unnecessary

and all cells were one cell, not like here –

different functions – each dominated by its own survival.

No wonder love is weakened, can only achieve

a temporary claim on completion.

I accidently crush the insect with my heel. It is consumed

by another of its kind, carried off

into the hive of practicality –

a gesture void of remorse or sentimentality.

In the end, there is nothing but wires and fences

and frames of flesh, cartilage and senses. Tomorrow

there will be talk and tea and eyes

locked in intense recognition.

Good for the moment

Good until there comes

the something we want

more of, less of, had enough of….

.

.

Copyright © by Allison Grayhurst 2014

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

First published in “The Muse – An International Journal of Poetry” Volume 4, Number 1, June Issue 2014

http://themuse.webs.com/June%202014/muse%20june%2014.pdf

http://themuse.webs.com/latestissues.htm

.

Published in “Art Villa” December 2015

Read the whole poem here:

Walkways – the poem

You can listen to the poem below: