Maya

Whose nose ring is
The trademark of Millennial  girls
Sits across from me
And we discuss poetry
And one side of her head
Is shaved like
Lizabeth Salamander
From "The Girl With The Dragon
Tattoo" movie,
Hidden under a baseball
Cap, which she wears
Backwards.

Boyish butt hidden under
Baggy jeans
I try to gauge her smile
And see which way she
Swings.

Tells me one day we'll have
To read poetry to each
Other,
Then discuss it and see
What it means.
I glimpse at her breasts
Underneath her t shirt
And she smiled.
I look inside  her and find
Flowers, growing underneath
All that steel.

Amerasian

She sits on a park bench
And watches a man throw
Bread crumbs on the ground
And her body is the same
Color as the sun
And her eyes are taking
In the world as it awakens
I look at her and i'm grateful
Two worlds came together

She is what makes America great
I watch her as she walking
away, lovely as the sun

Coffeehouse Poem # 296

A woman waits online
As i get a cafe au lait
She's wearing a "Mumford
Phys ed t-shirt," the one
Eddie Murphy made
Famous in " Beverly Hills
Cop"
I point it out to her
And she tells me, she
Wore it, knowing
Only the cool kids
Would get the reference
She comes closer
Her curves, more womanly
Than when she was an
80's teen, but she's still
Easy on the
Eyes
If i had a Delorean, i'd
Ask her to travel back
With me to the 80's
So we can do the neutron
Dance

One  Christmas

my mom's friend, elise

came over and she brought everyone  gifts

and no one thought about daddy

not being around anymore

my brothers and i,  played and rode

our bicycles,  with her kids

and we forgot blacks and whites

weren't supposed to get along

and mama and elise cooked christmas dinner

the way only single moms  could

and visions of empty rooms and closets

where daddy once was, dissappeared

and the world will one day

live up to dr. king's dream

and left and right will only

become directions

and me and friends will celebrate

the holidays

like i did when i was a kid

naive and happy, and there will be

peace on earth

Christmas, cambridge, ohio, 1998

it was blue eyes, red hair and a scottish accent

that reeled me in and lured me

from maine

i played surrogate dad to 3 sons

alex, loved using my laptop and my library card

joshua, caught the football passes i threw

michael was three  and  just michael

we were as rare as the snowflakes

that fell in cambridge, ohio

i temped in a plastics factory

wore flannel shirts, jeans and boots

and channelled my inner springsteen

our only christmas together, maureen's sons

strung popcorn into jewels

and wrapped it around a tree

maureen and i spent some night

in a two step at local bars

tryin to figure out what love was

every time i came into a bar

the dj's offered to play r and b

as a way of making me feel at home

but i liked all music

maureen and the kids

put a black angel at the top

of the tree

they wanted to let me know they accepted me

A spy in the house of love...

I am a spy in the house of love

A 70s wah-wah guitar riff

Signals my arrival

I want you like an

Old school dodge charger

 I want to feel your kisses

Honey sweet

You're as pure as Pam Grier

Lay down on the couch

Like youre in a  Players magazine

Spread

Im a spy in the house of love

Im so bad, my elvis sideburns

Are registered lethal

Weapons

I use my platform shoes

To call you

Tell you to get here!

Pose for me in Daisy Dukes

Flex the LCD digital watch i gave you

We were Bling, before it was

Called that

Walk around in fuck me pumps

Then love me like a Charlie's Angel

Im a spy in the house of love

A Disco soldier of fortune

Ride with me baby

I'm a bad motha...( shut yo mouf ! )

We'll make Technicolor dreams

Even Martin Luther King wouldnt

Imagine

Im a spy in the house of love

Be the Anais Nin to my Henry Miller

The Adrian to my Rocky

Be a Bond Girl in my dreams

                                                                Melania

Doesnt care about the world

She  hates the sight

Of it, from her birdcage

She gave a homeless man

 Money, he turned it into

Origami

Cake would have served

Him  better

She lives her life through

Another man's dream

And another woman's

Words

She tried to make money

Her slave

 But instead,  she became its servant

But she's just pissed because

Her better half's  holding and kissing

Someone else in stormy

Weather

                                                            Laptop charger

Unfortunately, i dont have a

Laptop charger for an

Apple computer, otherwise

I would let the lady a couple

 Of tables down use it

I dont want to put a nationality

To her face

I could care less about that

I dont care if she is one

 Of  the ones that people use as

As a scapegoat for the worlds ails

I dont care if she is one of

The ones  people

 Say keep america from

Being great

Im only sorry i cant help

Her out

Im not going to put a name

 To her skin color ,even

 Tho its like the coffee in my

 Cup

 A little more tan, and it would

 Be as lovely as a coconut

 She probably wont die the way

 Eric Garner or Alton Sterling

 Did

She'll just sit at her macbook and type

And hope it lasts as long as it needs to

I just hope she gets her work done

Like i hope she'll be able to walk

The streets or travel

And not have to worry if america

Still belongs to her

Erren Kelly

Somebody Said Smoking was Allowed

how goes it dear friend

heard you were friendly with

heroin outlaws bar coded

near gun pt. ave

where westward obituaries set fire

to your pocket

like lighting after two nickels

& a quarter

but that was before nothing i had done

was forgiven

when i was waiting on anyone

except her

funny thing, though

sally blew her brains on butch

& the film reel snapped quickly

fading into light hearted fun

put the dime near the laundry

list & see it explode!

listen, when i saw what she had done my

bones filled oceans

she played with my soul

like a bench warrant that sits

near the radiator

Jonathan Hine’s work has appeared most recently in Hobo Camp Review, In Between Hangovers, Synchronized Chaos, Pyrokinection, Midnight Lane Boutique and Anti-Heroin Chic.

Because it is a Stone

Because it is a stone

the fire hits it, moves around,

changing shape like a wave.

Because grief is not a word

that counts footsteps or encapsulates

the butcher’s madness, just builds like

a deep stagnant pool of a pond – one drop,

one drop, rising.

Because all the vegetables have not been picked through,

and more people hold compassion than they do hate,

the tree can grow, the fountain can flow up and make

a statement of solidarity, a sound

peaceful to those who are near.

Because the robin keeps coming back

to sit on my lawn, stares at me and waits

for my greeting before moving on.

Because hope is red eyes stinging,

but sight unimpaired,

and the darkening shadows darkening

the day-to-day landscape drift -

sometimes far away.

Because there is early morning, peppermint tea,

and love abides in everything living,

I can walk another step, another day,

bury the corpse of a treasured friend,

and place something beautiful

(a stone, a whisper) beside the grave.

Breaking

Bitter patience, counting moonlight beams

on fledging grass stems.

Endure for the law that presses heavy and cold

against your chest.

Endure because there is no leaving

only traveling on.

Weapons put away, dressing

strictly for good form.

The planets rock back and forth,

bump against each other, but like us, are bonded,

unalterably glued to their personal constellations.

Irrational hope is the shadow I have,

the silent zone of my cortex that defeats reality, yet below

the storm gathers and changes course for no one.

What used to be roots are now tossed away, ripped

on the ridges of sidewalks like bubble gum wrappers.

Storm that has no subliminal meaning, is only storm,

gun shots in the wind. Patience.

Wait for the unwanted guest to go. Wait for your life

to mature finally into what you wish it would be.

Homecoming

Time and the matrix point

of nerves that sound off like

a dinner bell, riveting through

the body, vibrating the bones and all

that stands between.

You speak of shifting plateaus,

but the paint hasn’t even left the brush,

the walls are cracked, veined and under

the watchful eyes of those who walk the halls.

The rules you treasure are intricate masterpieces

of divine tapestry but they are not the mud-sling

upheaval, unpredictable holy heartache,

muscle aches that mark us as we grow old, and touch

each other in the day-to-day of waking up,

sharing the bathroom, the kitchen, animals

who belong with us, depend on us, and sickness.

Here is my watering can. It is sufficient. It too has wisdom.

One eye only that blends and interprets all perceptions.

Here is my tale, my acts of shade, shelter and sun.

The seraphim drive home dreams in vows on fire,

born from nebulas and the hands

of the bricklayer and secretary.

Yours is one way, powerful, yes, but so are the trees,

a toddler’s temper tantrum, the Lord’s Prayer more so –

clasped hands, no separation, helpless, wordless,

at the beginning, saved.

Promised Land

Past the burnt-down barn,

past the tracks of a narrow road

far into wilderness chaos, the clearing is found,

shelves are emptied, floors are once again seen.

The house is open like lips learning

how to talk instead of scream. There is peace

in the sound waves, animals are

five-times-miracle-recovering

from the verge of death, upright, energy restored.

It was a long walk to the podium to finally have your say,

but the effort has paid off, the love given was not wasted

or disfigured permanently, was not solidified into

a lost-forever horror show as we thought it would.

Gold has returned to our pockets, water faucets are running,

laughter is common, coming from under doors.

Love is like it once was when we had our Rooms of Joy –

when we had each other, explorers of unending light.

Around the tree I dance my praise.

Gratitude I never expected,

years of trying to pet the violent horse’s mane,

touch its forehead with a kiss –

now she is still, soft and free.

We made it past the dumpyards and the

foreign countries full of war and pillage.

We stayed the course, singing when we could, letting go 

of hope in steady increments of necessity,

unravelling the last thread of our faith

until hell overtook. And in those relentless flames

we still believed and asked for mercy.

Mercy has come.

My home is happy once again. My children have returned,

married and bearing the seeds of deep maturity and there,

there, sprouting back after years of dormancy,

those glorious, sacred child-like smiles.

Wayside

I have fallen by the wayside,

scrapped divinity for a taste

of the overflow.

Everytime speaking, I was

silenced like a nailed board

sealed above my head.

Summer

came in ruthless heat pulses

depleting the oxygen, terrorizing

nesting sparrows.

The lap pool was chemically soiled.

All manner of fungi bloomed,

as dark bonds visibly materialized.

Geometric interlocking

dimensional coveralls - covering all -

left side of my body decaying, chomped at

by an unswerving force, asking for my devotion,

demanding unquestioned servitude

regardless of devotion.

Blindly I fell into the river’s fold,

no strength left in my upper arms

so I drifted to the wayside, into

muddy misquote egg-beds

and the hiding nooks of snakes

left there to breathe in fish-corpse fumes,

play footsie

with the washed ashore water-logged frogs,

dreaming amphibian dreams.

Fingerprint

Call it in,

into the palm,

into the spoon,

the upsidedown shell.

Hold its liquid grace

and walk slowly over hunchback hills,

tall weeds and cracked pavement.

Do not spill a drop.

Shield it from the sun

so it will not evaporate.

Shield it from the stars

so it does not recognize its kin

and claim its home back amongst them.

Shield it from the children

who naturally harness such vitality.

And also, from the animals,

they will gather it in their mouths

and feed it to their early-summer offspring,

knowing its worth.

Instead, call it in

because this small measure is only yours,

as long as you call it in and let all other things go,

go to serve your house and others.

As long as you know, possession here is paramount,

protection is integrity, is the way

to keep the sponge saturated, your jaw firm

in prayer.

Call it in,

into the brown jar on your sacred shelf,

anoint it secret, pay the wages

to ensure its safety. Sip from it,

sometimes a little, sometimes more than a little,

like rejoicing, like uncoiling, caught

pure, naked, in a space fully lit with

no off-switch or walls.

Allison Grayhurst

Long bio: Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Four of her poems were nominated for “Best of the Net” in 2015/2018, and one eight-part story-poem was nominated for “Best of the Net” in 2017. She has over 1200 poems published in more than 475 international journals and anthologies. In 2018, her book Sight at Zero, was listed #34 on CBC’s “Your Ultimate Canadian Poetry List”.

Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers, a Porcepic Book, in Vancouver in 1995. Since then she has published sixteen other books of poetry and six collections with Edge Unlimited Publishing. Prior to the publication of Somewhere Falling she had a poetry book published, Common Dream, and four chapbooks published by The Plowman. Her poetry chapbook The River is Blind was published by Ottawa publisher above/ground press December 2012. In 2014 her chapbook Surrogate Dharma was published by Kind of a Hurricane Press, Barometric Pressures Author Series. In 2015, her book No Raft – No Ocean was published by Scars Publications. More recently, her book Make the Wind was published in 2016 by Scars Publications. As well, her book Trial and Witness – selected poems, was published in 2016 by Creative Talents Unleashed (CTU Publishing Group). She is a vegan. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com

 

Short bio: Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Five times nominated for “Best of the Net”, 2015/2017/2018, she has over 1200 poems published in over 475 international journals and anthologies. She has 21 published books of poetry, six collections and six chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She is a vegan. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com 

 

            Collaborating with Allison Grayhurst on the lyrics, Vancouver-based singer/songwriter/musician Diane Barbarash has transformed eight of Allison Grayhurst’s poems into songs, creating a full album. “River – Songs from the poetry of Allison Grayhurst” released October 2017.

 

            Some of the places her work has appeared in include Parabola (Alone & Together print issue summer 2012); SUFI Journal (Featured Poet in Issue #95, Sacred Space); Elephant Journal; Literary Orphans; Blue Fifth Review; The American Aesthetic; The Brooklyn Voice; Five2One; Agave Magazine; JuxtaProse Literary Magazine, Drunk Monkeys; Now Then Manchester; South Florida Arts Journal; Gris-Gris; The Muse – An International Journal of Poetry, Storm Cellar, morphrog (sister publication of Frogmore Papers); New Binary Press Anthology; Straylight Literary Magazine (print); Chicago Record Magazine, The Milo Review; Foliate Oak Literary Magazine; The Antigonish Review; Dalhousie Review; The New Quarterly; Wascana Review; Poetry Nottingham International; The Cape Rock; Ayris; Journal of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry; The Toronto Quarterly; Existere; Fogged Clarity, Boston Poetry Magazine; Decanto; White Wall Review.