EMILY AS WE SCARE THE BIRDS
We are the un-
knowability of the wind.
Our song terrorizes
the possibility of simple
love in simple trees
with simple nests.
This is why
our children can’t fly.
They’re lovely,
Tag: poetry (Page 9 of 21)
Pursuing Chaos
ink from my pen
flows through my veins
just beneath the skin
snaking its way
towards the source
of its maddening chaos
it stains the bones
of my rib cage
seeping into the marrow
it searches
ever yearning
People always say that size matters.
But these days, it’s hard to know what’s true.
So I studied the subject for myself—to see
if the reports I’d heard were just fake news.
Science says Frenchmen have the largest members.
Monsieur Bedel indeed insisted
his was best and that I kiss it! kiss it!
A frog with frantic aim, he lashed about:
a series of this and that—quick in, quicker out.
As if to whip a fly from my cervix,
he jerked his darting la queue faster than a blink.
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.
Dark 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.
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.
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.
Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Three times nominated for Sundress Publications “Best of the Net”, she has over 1125 poems published in over 450 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
Watermark
Like Smoke
November curled itself around my
Spine like cigarette smoke,
Seeping into me.
December froze in her grey web.
I want to wake from the dark,
Sleep naked in moon-cooled dirt,
Deep in the night where graves
Spread like black pollen.
I am where the wind
Snuffs out candles,
Can touch a curtain like a ghost,
Like a bell.
Like the dead I escort
Sap to want.
Dear Larry,
The crank of your wrist,
the flex-action of your tendons
pries the brakes from my Chevrolet Prizm,
rains rust on your face
and when you punch the tire
to knock it loose
I won’t take it personally.
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