Four Poems by Allison Grayhurst

These four poems by Allison Grayhurst confront and expose the struggle of an individual up against a chaotic, often violent and senseless world. Through the depths of that struggle a way forward, if not redemption, is found…

by: Allison Grayhurst


The voice breaks down
into tiny fragments, each
filled with a unique harmony,
some clash in reckless bawls,
others fill with a steady fever.

The voice collects itself, gains frenzy
like a stallion no one could tame or mount.
The voice claims death, as even in death
it will not be defeated or subdued,
but will grow like waves in a storm, crash
and come back, rising, swallowing the shore
as it wakes.

The voice is a raging giant wanting fleshy dream,
rejecting limitations, leadership
from a reasoning baritone.

The voice outweighs imprisonment,
carnivorous oppression and the sighs
of consuming cancer.

The voice is tall
for its years.
The fabric it wears
is from the entrails of fate,
from the sinews of predictive design.
It has no cause and effect,
as it shouts out its riddle, its savage roar.

Itself, lips
high off the ground.
Answer twice and then
no more.
Retreat, understand
all the world is a grave
and still, sprouting.
This journey, this climb
collecting the many shades
of intertwining foliage.
Half-moon is enough moon
to see. Dump yard turns
into a mouse’s home, a place
to raise her offspring, find food,
with many secure hiding holes.
Flesh is a revelation,
is the end result of pure spirit
Tomorrow we will know why
today we feel lacking
when we find our watering-hole,
a reservoir garden, glorious labour,

The fragility of failure,
sunset over the ruined city
and life never the flowering garden
it could be.
All is captured by death,
after leaving heaven and
when returning - decay and fear and hope
of eternity in spite of the silence.
A wilderness of anxiety overtaking
the summit, suffocating the interior
with its acid juices, following the chain link
until the grave.
Waste and enormous hunger,
rejecting reality to keep sane.
This is no way to continue,
no life of rapid transitions or stepping out
of the mire onto solid land.
Here, the temperature is predictable,
the yawning pit of disaster is always expanding,
nearing and nearing.
So take this last bit of courage
stand on the edge and let yourself go,
know what it is to be truly radical,
risking the fall, committed
to the end result.

on the last step, from
the last step.
No openings, breath holes.
Rigid boards, brick work
for miles, and infestation
in the corners, under

Call me a dreammaster,
someone to remind me
who owns me and how much
I am actually worth.

The landscape begins,
first in ice-cream tones
of frosted blue and whites,
then into a rich mustard yellow
and animated dark purple.
Seeing this on the cold walls, under
false lights and a dreary atmosphere,
consuming, watching duties
done, lacking eloquence or
personal concern.

Guide me into your soundproof room,
tempt me with insanity, then
let my accusations be muffled
until they are inaudible.

A clean bill of health,
health in every salutation.
Days spent spawning music and shrines
to whatever passes as holy.
Days showered with talkative sparrows,
no spots left to rot or grow a putrid stench,
just small spillages, here, there,
easily wiped, not worthy of
being recalled or inducing
a lengthy tortured conversation.

Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Five times nominated for “Best of the Net,” she has over 1300 poems published in over 500 international journals. She has 25 published books of poetry and 6 chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay.

0 replies on “Four Poems by Allison Grayhurst”