Balanced Repertoire

Petals and fizzling small craters, inches

from the side of the road.

I dive

into the net and let

the struggle ensue.

I lived in corners

with the dead-mature, in flaps

like wishy-washy by-standers. But here, entering

the small soft mounds of pleasurable

taboos and smiling up in the treetops, I am sitting

on the weakest branch just to get the best overview.

My tongue

is painted many colours.

I lost you in the nuclear glow. It happened

gradually, like a cliff descending,

finally,

meeting ground.

I used to float -

a silhouette of fine cuts

and obvious edges. But I lost you and

it is good to lose extensions,

flavours of redundant delight.

Enthralled by sensual geometry,

by mountain ridges reflected in heartbeats,

wrinkles, rough spots, perfect

intricacy

equilibrium

subconscious sway, and you.

You never loved me, never knew

I was a neophyte, taker of whatever

I could get, keeper of

an ethereal garden. I

will accept my joy

regardless of lack, discover joy

in what droops to provide me canopy, also

in what arches upward, proclaiming its praise.

Allison Grayhurst

allisongrayhurst@rogers.com

Fidelity

Further in

into intimacy, surrendering

the rosary beads, the Buddha beads, the Krishna beads - necklaces

of superstitious worth, a means to be compensated

with miracles for work done - disciplined activity

performed with the anticipation of divine participation –

enduring boredom with karmic pride. But nothing works

that way or does it let go into voluminousness

just because of accumulation. Why can’t I be

the things I see? Why do I resist collapse, clasp

onto linear principles, desperate to be justified.

Intimacy is everything ever sought – to have God inside

filling, overtaking every other sensation. Movement

like locked loins or other body parts in

synchronized ministrations, joining another’s pulse,

extending the body’s confines. I will not want for more

but this surrender - the stillness of receptivity coalescing

with the arching activity of advancing without expectations of results,

to be delivered into the rhythm of tangible grace, giving into

a relentless rich flow that knows taste and substance

but no set speed. I know

staying this way is not easy,

not when the bedsheets are moth bitten and money

is stolen at the corner store. I know teeth need fixing and foundations

are fragmenting, but how can that matter when the whole

is at stake?  When whatever is taken, explored and received

is there to guide further in. When God is asking

for this union to be achieved, offering peace but

no ego reprieve - no other lovers, no compromise.

 Allison Grayhurst

allisongrayhurst@rogers.com

Other Side

Killed in the cloud

                                    that ripples softly.

            Believing we would be triumphant

made it so, and being dead we

                        learned a new way to rise and praise.

The music lies down in the seas,

                                    so I hear the dolphins hum

            and see octopi sway.

                                                Madness is part of our heritage

                        but also our navigating star.

Whisper of the wonder we walk

                        through each day, beside one another

            and our little girl.

Away from the dull chaos of the common bar

                                                this is a new plateau, a horse

in our backyard.

Up and dancing, the ground and air

                                    join together to say -

                                                                        we were never alone.

Allison Grayhurst                                                                                                          allisongrayhurst@rogers.com

Saltwater Sprint

A returning dream ruffled in my shell,

opening intermittent passages of discovering.

Crossbreezes and singular infinity,

by death and dying you buy me whole.

The slug’s flesh merges miraculously with

the curve of a leaf - white pink on green, more potent

than a drop-cliff, than rebellion.

Stroking the skin of a tree, I end up here,

in the morning, with the nesting squirrels

collecting torn newspapers, swaying with the telephone wires.

Brilliance plays like chords on the brink of chaos,

almost fracturing sanity. Suspended firm like a branch

over traffic, I hear riffs like cars arrive then leave.

Sleep, little lilac near the fence, I have learned

determination can solve most problems.

Tomorrow I will make the final break, orbit

beyond the periphery of natural selection.

God, scoop me up in your cone, don’t

let me doubt your goodness. If you are here,

I am living, I can let slip what I am capable of,

create origami with infants and animals.

I can climb the steps of any probability

just to feel you press up against my rigidity,

purify with kneading pressure

a hard illumination.

Allison Grayhurst                                                                                                          allisongrayhurst@rogers.com

 

 Heaven must be active (not innate)

Life is raw

as a just-made wound. It is raw

so it is open to acts of mercy

and the beginning of true humility.

God is not proud but always available,

is always faultless in the body of love.

Life is raw

with no way to be protected from

cruel chance, no way but to ride the raft

down the falls and see what gets broken, then see

what gets preserved.

Allison Grayhurst

allisongrayhurst@rogers.com

She Fixed Me

with morphine sweeter than the desert.  Rainfall

[and the snake] silently assumed I would sleep

through morning, but it didn’t work out that way.

It was ridiculously hot inside.

Perhaps the partial psychological stress of sleeping in

unbreathing skin revolted the night. . .

I dreamed of concentration camps --

human ovens with matchstick hunger –

transforming into something . . .

Too thin to be human, their eyes bulged

and accused:  Everything burns; the flame

is but a crucible.  (It was the same phrase

I’d heard in my nightmare about the skeleton

going up in shrouded flame.)

[Hand]Standing To Be (Delivered?)

for Ben Johnson

The urge to master stone broke the chaos

of my mind’s statu[r]e.  I searched for any crack

that might be construed as a hold,

but the surface was too smooth (or I was),

and we slipped against each other

‘s grip at every angle.

I turned quickly to scatter

the remnants of my triumphant idea to the wind,

but the tale was tricky and hinged itself

on a blind[ing] blue maw-mouthed monster:

an anchor.  I accepted

this diminuated challenge as a renewed house

of launch:

                        Strike one:  Crash!

                        Swing two – an “ish” miss.

I regrouped for the third ballast.  I would not fall out!

A focus force locked.  My muscles’ memory st[r]uck . . .

A flash moment’s capture of matriculated success

heralded my feet a moment longer to the wind.

A change of plans that settled the upset,

as upside-down, the stone’s persistent ring continued

its haunting back in my view.

Running Water through Sound Waves

My mind begins to separate like sand. 

The water becomes hands, shapes my imagination

into textbook molds.  My thoughts grow towers,

dig moats, raise gates against the outside. 

Even wind cannot trespass my new fortitude.

For 11 hours I am queen of this depravation chamber.

Once  moon replaces sun, magic loses tangibility,

and an eruption of thunderous crushing comes

to topple metaphorical front

door.  I turn to statue, immobilized against this

onslaught.  I can only watch as my comforting dream

dissolves, devoured by midnight’s tide.

I Am Eve

First woman in your world,

part of your bones.  Removed,

I blossomed, a flower in the jungle

of your mind.  You wanted me

to be second, subservient.  I had

other plans, skipped dinner, brought you

dessert.  Instinctively, I knew apple

was your favorite, but

the bite came when you recognized

its understated hints of venom.  Too late.

A.J. Huffman

My stalk sticks up from below my bellybutton/ I

   am a stalker, a corn stalker/ call me the kernel, my

      talking is major/ I'm General Mills/ if they knew of

 

my shenanigans, they'd give me corporal punishment/ they

  don't know because I keep it private, even if I have to

      buck up/ I'm stuck up as I fuck up, as I stalk her playing

 

        the field/ she calls the police on me, but Sgt Faulker is

     also a stalker & a non-stop talker/ he talks about the one

  he stalks/ they put him on a wire, the wire of desire because he

 

    can't stop stalking, but he sees another beauty & starts balking as

      he switches the object of his stalking & is in another corn field/ he

         approaches her from behind, ever so kind, but she says he's

 

            not her type/ his stalk wilts to the hilt in a forest of

                hair, all because she doesn't care, & now he's

                    old & tired/ as a stalker, he's retired!

 

            He puts his PECKER in a BOX &

                                 leaves it for the FOX &

                           goes TO SLEEP .  .  .

 

                           !

 

Fritz Hamilton

That Laugh

It was stupid of Walt

not to show it to Joan

before they got married

but he was too shy.

He had no idea 

what to expect

but he never expected 

her to laugh.

Not a laugh exactly, 

more of a cackle

children might hear 

from a witch on a broom

Saturday morning 

in a cartoon.

Joan's laugh rang out

the first night 

of their honeymoon.

Walt never got over it.

The marriage was over 

even if it continued

for six kids in ten years.

Like many men, Walt 

had no problem

copulating from afar

unencumbered by love.

It was dark in the bedroom.

Joan could have been

any woman.

Had he shown it to her

before they got married

and heard that laugh,

he would have left town,

embarrassed, you bet,

but there would have been

no wedding, no kids, 

no divorce, no years 

in a hotel room mailing 

alimony and support.  

After the divorce

things didn't improve.

Walt heard the laugh

in his dreams, in cabs, 

on elevators, in diners,

everywhere he went. 

He heard it after the kids

earned degrees, 

got married, did

well on their own,

escaping the pyre

of their childhood. 

At Joan's funeral

Walt told the kids why 

the marriage had failed.

He said he shouldn't 

have shown her 

the poem the night 

they were married.

She laughed because

she thought it was funny.

She knew nothing 

about poetry,

nothing of his

efforts to write it.

This was his first poem,

the first of more than 500

published after the laugh.

Who'd believe a laugh 

could end a marriage

before it began?

Over the years Walt asked 

critics and editors 

for their opinions 

about the poem.

None found it funny.

The consensus was

the piece was tragic

in theme and imagery.

The experts were right

in more ways than one.

 

Donal Mahoney

TWO FIRST BLACK PRESIDENTS AND A FUNERAL

We elected him as a mirror,
And because he wasn't George W. Bush,
Racially mixed, he seemed to reflect US well,
Kids and wife; finally, a First Lady with a tooch!

A human Rorschach,
We projected onto him what we wanted to see,
Which has led to massive disappointment,
Because he just isn't all that we thought him to be.

Chin and nose up in the air, aloof, cocky, and distant at home,
"Willing to work together" words for the sake of the mic,
So it came as a shock when Obama went abroad,
And proceeded to act like a tike.

In the spirit of Mandela, shook Raul Castro's hand,
But can't be bothered schmoozing "The Hill,"
At Madiba's memorial, busy flirting and joking with Helle,
In plain sight of his wife - despite her giving him a look that could kill!

Old enough to know behavior appropriate for the setting,
Why the selfie? Not as if photogs would not be recording he was there,
It took a seat change to settle him into the solemnity of the service,
Momma Michelle not so gently scolding His Arrogancy with her stare.

Amidst the host of dignified dignitaries from around the globe,
The leader of the free world acting like a child, immature,
Mid life crisis? Take a lesson from Pope Francis, Time's Man of this Year,
Stay focused on "that vision thing" to build a legacy that will endure.

Or pursue "common ground," like those newfound grownups,
Paul Ryan and the Speaker of the House,
They're taking your name in vain on Obamacare; "stay the course" on other issues,
Man that megaphone, instead of momentarily pausing to squeak like a mouse.

It's easy to project superhuman qualities,
Shrug off the first signs of cognitive dissonance with a wink,
Two first black Presidents and a funeral,
Have given US a lot to ponder, leading up to 2016, much about to think.

Karen Ann DeLuca

8 P.M. IN THE CITY

When a quarter moon can’t illuminate,

neon does just fine.

Hairstyles bob in the bouncing light.

Arms are branches suitably gold leaved.

Good old saliva. Good old smoke.

One spits down. One floats up.

City air, can’t get enough of its

grease-dipped oxygen.

City gardens, love those butterflies on fire.

And nothing like burned-out tenements.

Who do we bomb next?

Kids on welfare are watching the skies.

And what fish the brown river cannot kill

are immune until tomorrow lunchtime..

Meanwhile tens of thousands of rough gourmets

are devouring the menus’ temptations.

In clubs, hormones are boiling on the dark suit stove.

The people of perfume, of money, of sushi bars

and Robert Ludlum, stream through theater doors

to catch a falling song.

And I love car-parks like I love bad breath,

six story ones all the better.

No one will find an exit until one a.m. at least.

Better hang in the glittering hotel lobby

and imagine you’ve enough left over for a room.

What a sublime consciousness

is steel and brick and concrete and glass.

Even William Blake can feel a poem coming on.

On highways, on narrow roads,

a million cars are gulping down the world’s gasoline.

That’s what you get when you just can’t get enough.

HER SON IS IN IRAQ

Three months gone, and the nightly

news has never been louder.

Is it too much to ask of war to be silent.

Combatants, insurgents...

who makes a place for them at the table?

And a reporter in the battle zone

talks calmly into a microphone.

He doesn’t kiss his wife long distances,

merely speaks for the corpses at hand.

Three months gone by, it’s six now,

and everyone in uniform knows her son, every

helicopter flies him somewhere,

every rifle round has her screaming “Duck!”

A child of four killed by a roadside bomb.

Well at least he’ll never grow up to be dead.

And there’s the reporter again,

walking slowly through the rubble

that’s some suicide bomber’s handiwork

while, in the background, the locals

are left to wonder who he’s talking to,

why his back’s to them.

CHURCH BELLS MAY RING

How loud the cry of church bells on this night,

high as spire spearing cloud

and echoing through the valley.

No tune exactly, merely a ding

and a dang and another ding and dang,

counting out the hour, shrill and solemn.

The father wakens from his sleep.

Church’s ding is countered by his “damn.”

The mother still knits in the parlor.

She awaits the telling dong

but if won’t come, not for cross,

not for prayer, not for the plaster Virgin Mary

staring down at her.

The kids don’t care. They’re buried under sheets,

headphones blocking out all sound.

One man’s ding will always be a child’s air guitar solo.

How loud the cry of the people on this night.

A father’s “damn.”

A mother’s disappointment.

And kids, a world away.

Ding. Dang.

 

John Grey

My soul is eviscerated & hanging to the slaughterhouse wall, but

you don't care, my darling/ you don't care at all/ the pieces of

Humpty Dumpty cover the floor/ I gather the shattered shell, but

my efforts to glue them together come to naught/ the shell just crumbles in

my fingers into dust/ the more I try to fix him, the more futility rules/ soon

I am beset by hobgobbolins, ghosts & ghouls & surrounded by a

chorus of mad fools/ they see what I try to do/ they mock me & laff, until

the beauty of yr image shows, & their derision becomes their jealousy, but

I'm handcuffed by futility/ the best I do is observe yr beauty & am amazed.

O darling, take me off the wall/ take me from the shattered pieces/ I shall

not wallow in them longer/ U make me better than this/ U make me

climb into the sun/ I wrap up the fire & light & bring them as a gift/ I

also bring myself for U to hold/ U make me better than I am because I

need U because I love U/ if there's something U don't have, I'll

give it to U/ if it's worthy of yr love, my darling, it's yrs,

yes, my splendour, yrs . . .

 

Fritz Hamilton 

Voices in the Dark

 

 

He runs along a city street lit up at night.  Traffic avoids him even though he matches its speed.  His feet zoom but his legs seem joined with only one knee.  Some unknown force, Satanic, like shifting gravity, pushes him away from where he wants to go.  He tries to stay in control but his speed increases.  Panic sickens him.  He wants to crash into a building, anything, just to wake up. (Scene change) Wind-whipped but, somehow, in bed, true, now he begs the woman who sleeps next to him to save him but she can’t.  Stop me, he cries.  Stop me, his voice raw, pathetic.  He wakes, feeling full of age, his life so quiet, the trickle of it now, and realizes he has dreamt this type of dream many times before.  Because of his obsessive reading he wonders what causes his nocturnal distress.  What, of all the trauma of his life is responsible?  Is it his deep resentment of stupidity, starting with his loveless parents’?  Was it his ill-treatment at their hands, or being abandoned by them while he was still an innocent?  Or was it the violence, both received and dished out, in the way violence is passed on?  Or guilt for his own desertions?  Could it be about how, in his efforts to always avoid unseen potential trouble he actually avoids life itself?  Maybe, he reasons, it is the huge amount of alcohol he puts away, often on his own.  He thinks, wryly, it could be the novels (all that death lurking in wait) the essays, even those special poems that line the highway of his life like milestones.  He suspects it might be the poetry.  On this dark night he wants love to come around, to climb the stairs and make its boldness known to the spread-out waiting town and all the waiting people there, the wary, fumbling, guilty, and confused, and those who want their shifting guises excused.  When arrow-showers of rain spatter his windows he wonders if the sound shakes their weaving hearts, makes them think of whispered surprises and all the others they might have met.  He wants every restless thing that haunts them, niggardly, hidden, bruised, unfair, the dread of being alone, to be conquered by love, because he longs to make another start. 

 

Ian C Smith