Allison Grayhurst
Naked Side
I’ve seen the destruction
of visions, the penetration
of a good cause, seen souls
anesthetized by sadness.
The only constant is endurance,
is the thing that jumps out from
the void then reverses back
into its indifferent swallow.
One change, then the moment
slips into a new glimpse of understanding.
One small desire fulfilled and all pain
is humbled.
Mother Chimp
Gentle Flo of the
great apes,
does not sing
nor look for
comfort from the sky.
Mother of patience and playful
as moonlight upon a wave. Face
like a roadmap of a sad
primeval journey. Sad
like the first thoughts
of wasted love. Sad
like the night jungle in all its
apparent peace.
Cry for the terrible loss
in the midday rains. Cry for the African
trees, rotting from the weight of
a human-made world.
Shaggy arms embrace
to receive your large-heart’s manna.
The lonely climate
surrounds you
with child, near a river that carries
the many deaths of those before
your wild and doubtless
existence.
Feral
I bend in mourning
bending to the loss of someone
so familiar –
your nurture-needing eyes
and a temperament of molten lava
whose tone was innocent and unrefined.
I see you now in the doorway,
flat and tensing but never moving,
then at ease with me as a soft sigh
overcomes you.
Born in a tight spot –
resigned to a tight spot – isolated
from all but me.
So strange, hard and pure,
unlike any feline I’ve ever known.
I will miss you, loving you
as one who didn’t belong.
Giving Roses And Bread
I turned.
I will not turn again
from her sad space & ruin.
No wand, no crocodile
tongue will shut
me out.
The hour is blood, is
boiling, is locked
in her iron skull. Her back is straight
for the first time in months, and
her fingers tap the table one by one.
I saw her climb
the ladder & crash.
I saw the marrow leak from her bones.
I turned.
I will not turn again.
My smile will be her shelter,
and with my chains & circle,
I will build for her a garden
where the crows will dance
to drown her madness,
helpless
then gone.
Your Body Beyond
Around your smooth
shadow-lined figure
my hands cup & dig under
as though your skin
was water. As though
each hair on your chest,
a sea-flower perfectly
placed & measured.
Tides of muscles on your legs
and back
sway
with rhythmic beauty.
When you put your fingers on my hot belly,
my ghost lies down, blindfolded by light.
For hours covered by your
thirsty tongue, as a mid-day radiance
seeps through the drawn curtains.
No words to pardon our passion,
to cause a bitter tear.
I love you like this, forehead pressed
to shoulder, abandoned.
Prophets
They hold the ghost feather.
They cry by cause of extreme imaginations.
Paranoia on pillows,
the stench of shoes and month-old towels
under fingernails.
Liberty in sleeping pills& mirrors
that have no shine.
This they have, spirits stabbed
with hunger, doubt & arrogance
raging equally by their bedsides.
Encyclopedias divulged in dead languages
& hoards of filthy critics teasing with
axe and indifference
their true-goal flower.
They crack their heads on insecurity.
They do not believe in this world.
From balconies, from strait-jackets,
from honeymoon apartments, they expose
the human guilt, delicate visions
that seduce the blind with wonder.
The Loyal Unknown
I would like to hide
from the mountains, sleep
as a thief
in the assaulted night.
How do I compare my
enemies? They all smell
of slain desires,
itching like mealworms
in a bird’s thin crop.
Among the widowed faces
there is
a gateway
into the unfathomable, happy
past: Wolves eyes, I see
confronting with unaware darkness.
The hypocrites play
their tune so beautifully stagnant, making me stumble
into oblivion.
One day when I was walking
on Arizona ground in a dry summer,
I caught a glimpse of
icy love: It came
convulsing
from the sun
to avenge my perfect day. It was an apparition,
reconciling
the whole world
to the paradoxical
cross.
Sometimes smiles
are as irretrievable
as murder.
Someone is watching me
from corridors.
Today, it is chaos.
Tomorrow – a child
will be born.
Light Rich With Innocence
(For Justin)
Picking stones from the shore
to give your impressive, delicate
hands.
You repeat your
simple words, each time as a new
discovery, dramatic with joy.
On the rocking chair in your
uncle’s arms, your eyes glow strange
like flowers do to a heart burdened by grief.
You pick the small rocks, one by one,
pile them up – a rainbow tower that only
your pure imagination can see.
You hand them to me as gifts
from good fairies, smile
a smile that stretches higher than mountains.
You carry your jewels in a glass
showing them with proud delight.
They are to you, tiny miracles.
You kiss each one.
You bless and you
behold.
Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Three times nominated for Sundress Publications “Best of the Net” 2015, she has over 1100 poems published in over 430 international journals. She has sixteen published books of poetry, seven collections and nine chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She is a vegan. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com