Ay workman make me a dream a poem by Stephen Crane
Letting it out
The vision is a smoke cloud
released from my pocket, wrapping
me with its smoky warmth, breaking chaos
at its backbone.
A thousand chains of fear and grief
swoop down from the once singing sky
to crash on my limbs and drown me
with their weight.
God as full as the sea, flushing through me,
flowing around me with the starfish and the stingrays,
with the minnow fish and the barnacles,
God outside me, inside of me, holding me
in this vision, breaking the vine.
Bio: is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Three times nominated for Sundress Publications “Best of the Net” 2015, she has over 1050 poems published in over 425 international journals. She has sixteen published books of poetry, seven collections and nine chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She is a vegan. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com
Art: “Requiem” by Jackson
At a Lunar Eclipse a poem by Thomas Hardy
A Servant to Servants a poem by Robert Frost
They lie down
children would below the blankets
on a cold, unheated night.
They fend for themselves, using the vocabulary
of prophets, the tears of the misplaced
and the belief in mercy.
They stand tall at an impasse,
draw pictures in the wind
and covet love as the only treasure.
They give light in a torrent of darkness and pressure.
They reach new plateaus of surrender
with each failed plan. And all the time
they are singing,
of the joy of being loved
Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Three times nominated for Sundress Publications “Best of the Net” 2015, she has over 1000 poems published in over 410 international journals. She has sixteen published books of poetry, seven collections and nine chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She is a vegan. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com
The hot summer sun
makes cake of my skin
and the sweat lets me know
is better then
it is needed then
Can a poem be the water on a hot day
can the water flow down
this time or the next
until there is no next
of the water in a poem until it lies there in a pool on the page, on this page
Reprinted from Flowing Water Poem
My Will Poem
Our history is strewn with
brothers killing brothers
great and small.
Kings and widowed queens
wished they were family still
when they became a will.
Once a person brave and strong
could swing a sword, but still
they became a will.
With judgement strong
they took a pen and
loved you more than them
or left you out in a whim,
when they became a will.
It’s better to die a penny shy
in a home for the poor
than to judge my family
on the way out the door,
for then the rose
left beside the stone
is for me, and me alone.
For my Aunt Ruth…..david michael jackson
and the people
come and go
speaking of great men.
Who bowed to whom
in whose room
….david michael jackson
Old men pounding tables
sending young men to war
young men march in cadence
singing what are we fighting for
Oh to give the ladies
a chance to end this rhyme
and for their sons and daughters
to lead us this time
david michael jackson
She opens up the cupboard door
and smiles the beautiful smile.
She moves across the hardwood floors,
focused as a hawk.
There is something in her I cannot touch,
that has lived long beyond her short ten months.
She claps her hands and passes the ball. She waves
goodbye and washes the stains from my heart.
She is calm as a resting lion cub,
sure of her place beneath the sun. She is
a good friend, marked by her own brand of humour
with a love so bright it strips anew
even the roots of my belonging.
Sonnet 22 – When our two souls stand up erect and strong a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Doom and She a poem by Thomas Hardy
A Drop Fell on the Apple Tree — a poem by Emily Dickinson
Pan with Us a poem by Robert Frost