Poems
by Allison Grayhurst

 

Maelstrom

 

In preference

instilling

the conditions

of terror

                Fly like a hen

across the field and back

to the barn

                Could there be another dream

worthy of oiling or is there just

inactivity everywhere causing

grid-lock, prolonging depression and time spent

under the rafters watching the game?

                I am somewhere identical to where I was before,

yet labouring under its own Academy - learning

the tricks, discerning the only essential tea

adequate to brew.

There is the other side to this

and I will get there

without therapy or disintegration.

I will get there, intact, not a garment

soiled or torn.

 

 

 

 

 

Inertia Foiled

 

I could speak ugly

like a suicide weapon

inflating misery into

a ballooned and final action,

irrevocable.

I could cry like I was begging -

one leg broken, both legs

unusable, cry in my rejection,

plead pity like a half-crushed

ant.

I could hide in my comfortable spot,

refusing to move or to attempt a peering-out,

beyond

my visible understanding.

I could stop and stop forever

but I can’t because

love is stirring, waking

ready to come down the stairs

and share a language, a trust

that overpowers my sluggish mind-flow,

tells me

I could just receive

and dedicate my purpose

alone

to this sensation.

 

 

 

 

 

In the Bloodline

 

In the bloodline

like walls of lead

storing blockages like

clots and unlivable dilemmas,

the past is a monster

telling you what and what you don’t

deserve, beating on your brain

like on a dusty rug that will never

rid itself of mites no matter how hard

it is hit, will never release

its stains, can only be thrown out, over

the rail, into the dumpster.

 

In the vital present, uncompromised by thought

and expectations, nothing is determined,

no fortune teller to foretell what doesn’t yet exist.

 

Gravity is a false witness,

a trickster in the fold, folding this into that

into complex patterns void of significance,

except as patterns to follow, analyze, get lost in

as a desperate hope for control.

 

But the galaxy is not gravity,

is affectionate, unpredictable, purer

than understanding.

Bloodlines are straight lines

that nature abhors.

 

Ignore common enemies,

blow out the candles, blow,

arousing the birthing pulse

of a strange and glorious logic.

 

 

 

 

 

What Do I Belong To?

 

I waited like a face

before a mirror

waiting for expression,

waiting for an answer to carry me through

until mealtime.

 

I washed the clothes, did all things

necessary to keep clean and fertile,

to rejuvenate and knead out the numbness

infiltrating one limb and another.

 

I asked like I was instructed to ask,

grazing at every opportunity, in spite

of the lack.

 

I moved against the shadows so they

wouldn’t consume, making every effort

not to harden, to curtail

this statis that will turn to sickness and

turn again to death.

 

I am waiting for a reaping

in this favourite place

I call my own, so I can build upon,

have a steady flow to satiate all thirst,

have breathing room to flesh-out dreams -

some prayed for, some unexpected.

 

 

 

 

 

Peel

 

Orange peel

peel away my

heartless woes,

condemn again

the general rule

and allow the lotus

to bloom.

 

Remarkable day

that snatches away

the mystique from the mystics,

horseback rides to the summit

then descends at high velocity,

never losing ground or footing.

 

Power in my mind, I trust what I believe,

finally not fooled by the artificial

or displays of unquestioning confidence.

Finally my hope is tied to my faith.

 

I squeeze the fruit and smile in amazement

as I taste its intoxicating droplets,

let them pool in my mouth,

sensually reviving, loosen the grip

then drink.

 

 

 

 

 

Cut the Reins

(Romulus over Numa)

 

Before equality

was a loophole-word

that meant each-to-their-own,

there were possibilities, retaliation,

convictions that gnawed crazed in the gut,

not tended to as complex calculations.

Blood was required for those who walked

bare-footed, in chains. Smiles were overlooked

because every movement forward could be attacked

and the attackers were ruthless,

were the upper-cast-surveyors, pursing their lips

for future indulgences and the grand cutting-down.

Before there was war then there was religion,

rituals to replace the war with locked-in-duty

and unchallengeable hierarchy.

The philosopher king was a king

of masterful manipulation.

With him, peace reigned

as long as the chairs started with

were the chairs stayed with,

each accepting their given seat no matter

its disconnection from dignity or its captivity.

 

 

Better the clarity of servitude than

to decorate the death of freedom

with a bribe, false expectation

and regulated civility.

Better the sibling-slayer, bared-tooth ruler

over the priest. Better the glutton

owning his transgressions

over the secret-eater, pretending

compassion with charity, and devotion

with upholding traditions,

basing wisdom on semantics, burying alive

the disobedient sex-alive misfits in a room

with a soft bed, a cup of water and an obedience to shame,

strong enough that they go quietly, underground,

accepted enough that the perpetrators feel justified,

fully at ease, appeased from guilt

by a sanctified brutality.

 

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