Allison Grayhurst, Toronto, Ontario, Canada
TO LEARN THE SCARLET VISION
Where does it go,
the shelter and the death?
What does it feed, that old
loathing sterility that laughs at all
creations, masters them into a craft
and calls itself superior?
How do we cherish without pride,
be extreme like a Russian prophet,
unguarded in the heat and ice of an
evolving spirituality?
How do we love like Jesus, mourn
like Jesus, be brave
against the inevitable and hope
through the sullen days to be
better, more than shadow
or collected habits?
How do we let go of what eventually
will be taken away?
Kittykat
—Photo by Stacey Jaclyn Morgan, Fair Oaks, CA
LOVE UNKNOWN
I sit inside a tent
needing what I cannot drink.
I grieve the lost passion of my prayers
and the solid breath of death's
all-consuming maw.
Tracing the fantastic light
of giant love that crushes chaos
with each monstrous embrace,
I taste him. I cannot help
feeling his fears like
a hated obstacle, his forehead like
an impassable field, full of his mind's
worst whispers:
I sit within this tent, in a trance-like gloom.
I grieve his love that cannot bend . . .
yet tender still
is his smile.
Winter Iceberg
—Photo by Stacey Jacklyn Morgan
I HOPE YOUR DREAMS ANEW
You drink from the jugular
with uptight gestures and hold
in your eyes scorn and condescension.
On your political altar your feeble gods
sit, dreaming of fame from your tongue.
Once rich with a fire catching,
you did with delight the things
of sharing.
You made with your hands a prelude
to magic.
But what mercy was crushed by
your self-assured ways? What tolerance was
stifled by your righteous crown?
I cannot be, I cannot envy
the yellow death surrounding,
nor hate the stain of your pride.
But be that blue whisper that echoes
through each moan and laughter
of immortal needs.
But be that stone that makes
an arrogant person fall,
withdraw into a deeper understanding,
be it there for you, somewhere, overwhelming . . .
Hemerocallis
—Photo by Stacey Jacklyn Morgan
THIS WOUND, THIS REMINDER
Here what once was heavy is now like a
hollow seed resting on the inside
everlasting.
Here what has been dead but does not die
gains not growth nor speed and has long ago
ceased
to bleed but remains a part of
for now and for all futures to
carry
and to help set the truest faith
breathing and free.
Iris
—Photo by Stacey Jacklyn Morgan
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
CHRISTENED
—Allison Grayhurst
Because of you, my blood is nourished.
Just beside one another
in laughter or decay, passing looks
that bid for nothing.
Because of you I am able to blink
where others are blinded:
I bury heartbreak in our kissing.
_______________________
Our thanks to Stacey Jaclyn Morgan for her intriguing photos today, and to Allison Grayhurst for sending her fine poems to us all the way from Toronto! Allison was featured on Medusa’s Kitchen on March 11, 2015. For more about her, her poetry and her sculpture, see her wonderful website (and hear her read her poems) at www.allisongrayhurst.com/
—Medusa
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