Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. She has over 550 poems published in more than 275 international journals and anthologies. Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers in 1995. Since then she has published eleven 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 in December 2012. More recently, her chapbook Surrogate Dharma was published by Kind of a Hurricane Press, Barometric Pressures Author Series in October 2014. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay.
sweat drips into the mouth like sunshine
and the dry clay cliffs
crumble, fracturing the fox’s foot.
The lake’s moaning waves repeat with swollen voices.
Children hang shapes on windows, understanding
the transcendence of imagination.
Long ago there was a shadow that turned into form.
Under some bones a prodigy was born – growing
grass in a stone, making bread from a smile.
She watched the circles and placed her body there,
inside the motion, though her mind traveled
without geometry. Just believe it, she said,
and all the world became a lovely dream.
Notes stream over their bodies
like spilt wine,
dizzy with forgetfulness
and engulfed by devotion’s
desiring arms, they quench
their love in these realms
of trembling communion.
They do not lean their heads
on ground of finite meaning but
transported to a common passion
they stare at the wonderful eyes of
the moon and roll like the sea’s emotion,
bodies gripped by one hawk intent, hearts
undiluted by distraction, joined forever
in dance or defeat.
A Good Perspective
The bed broke, then the ceiling.
Like wings spread across a grave,
I felt both the mystical and the grief
strung out on the binding powers of synchronicity,
hunting my childhood pictures, setting flame
to all that brought me security.
I have no use for revenge. I shape my anger into pity
and my pain is rolled flat across my body –
softer, smother, thinner,
merging with my skin, almost
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