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.
