Tag Archives: Allison Grayhurst

He is

by Allison Grayhurst

                Filled with a something
that lifts his heavy chin.
                Filled with the silence of woods,
with a perpetual moon in a perpetual
night, with the bones of small creatures
and other luckless prey.
                Born of strong sorrow, stronger than pride
or a mouth open for song, he is
my lover rocking in the shade, he is
a forward marching on yellow autumn grass,
he is flying over stones and fog, over
the sigh of doom, falling into a gracious depth.
He is looking where the light never goes, into the eyes
of a subliminal cry.
He is a quick moving cat moving across a
barn’s black roof. He is my umbrella,
my need and my deliverance.

In Doubt

by Allison Grayhurst

Under the guise
of do or die
the heart’s mystery is born.
And then accepted
as an afterthought
when pain and struggle are foregone.
Because faith came like it did
from the tape recorder and other
underrated things, I could never speak
in whole of the dreams that drove me to love
nor appease the breath of death on
my clothes.
I could never will the tomato to ripen
or quench my thirst with social talk.
The nail is in the wood and still I wonder
why I am, on my own
on the world’s platform
– a gift
                to no one.

What Can?

by Allison Grayhurst

Because I cannot
what I can not,
the labyrinth outside
is overwhelming. But what will come
down the slanted shingles
and tree trunks is a tomorrow
I strain to name in spite
of my heart’s foreboding.
Like a first laughter
awakened in a baby’s mouth or the child
who is finally old enough to be allowed freedom
to control and cope,
the way out is in,
to give nothing to fear
or the waste on the side of the road.
Because I cannot
what I can not,
I see a pinprick void and
a pile-up of perfect little vehicles.
But I can be brave,
I can pray
for things
my days can not.


by Allison Grayhurst

Once fireflies
devoured my hair
and my rosebush awoke
to the parable of the diseased snail.
Then one afternoon, when sleep
was my steady horse, my curtains
were lifted by the waters of God and I sang
in the light, my name altered forevermore.
I remember weeping the dirt from my pores, then gaining
the peace no guilt could void.
I remember how I tore off the leather jacket that I wore
to protect me from true expression.
There was a church across the road I would watch
as its bricks grew gravely and old. I would
pray for baby birds and animals at 3 AM, learning
to be free with this new-found love.
The seasons climbed, and from a beautiful joining,
a child was born.
From that child, an era of music and warm windows.
Once the hunger ceased and the inviting horror
dried up like a fallen leaf –
life became for me and my love like a paper airplane held
in the hands of that wondrous child.

No Direction

by Allison Grayhurst

I smelled the afterglow

of these tricky toys

that bent the branches low

and drove the dreams from my eyes.

I saw you sitting, curled up in pain

and singing low of things that had no name.

I know the answer’s blank as a January sky

and the lights that flicker

from door to door are not for me to understand.

I felt a paleness in my hands –

my fingers were worms, struggling out from

the hardened earth. Being alone is like a window

looking out. And guilt is good as the first step

then stops you from taking anymore. I am a rider on

a rocking horse. I caressed the edge too many times.

The curtain is open but nothing new walks by: Love,

love, it has to keep on . . .

Of The Same Cloth

by Allison Grayhurst

            A perfect balance

of mystery and understanding

we contain in our

fiery hour.

Like a gull

against the sky, we merge under

the thick thighs of God.

You enter me like water

enters earth and I am within

you like a fish inside a wave.

Wave of your exotic beauty,

always capturing me, new to me, a taste

of perfect fulfilment. You bare the teeth

of a stranger, a hand of delicate,

tireless motion and I sink in the snows

of your spell, chilled by your intensity, by

the beautiful form of a man beside me.

You give to me the gallery of your secrets

as I give to you the skin of my defence.

We are the lucky one:

marigolds and cathedral stones

line our weathered pockets.

A Newly-Patterned Fingerprint

by Allison Grayhurst

It’s the end

of my kind,

the last of my line

unfolding. And then

all of it will be different –

both the edge and the enlightenment

both the things precise

and the things undefined.

All of it that was smouldering

will be set ablaze,

and beauty and grace will be overflowing

like a drip-drop dream pure as reality.

It is the end – the place of no more new beginnings,

a place where the perfect light cannot fade

or grow too bright, and where ironic timing transforms

into an integrated, balanced life.


Freedom to Admit

by Allison Grayhurst

Almost dead

but not afraid

nor believing

that death will come.

Down, past centuries

with a flaw like glass

embedded in my heel

or like each day coming, going

without release in that day.

Farther from the umbrella

farther from the impossible

shadowy valley from where the rich chestnuts grow

and comfort finds its way close to the

trembling chest.

Almost dead and never quite



Little boy born

by Allison Grayhurst

Little boy born

before sunset

your head a perfect dream,

your hair so soft and gold –

I make my amends at your stroller side

for pain before endured.

I kiss away the darkness that came without solace

and press your small body near.

Little boy of mine

good fortune comes

hard won and not without trial.

Love is everlasting, but never free

of the hardships that make a person appreciate


in the full of its glory.

Little child I adore

the smell of your skin

and the movement of your eyes.

I will do my best by you

and God willing, my best

I will not be denied.