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.
The shooter in Charleston will probably not be hearing voices. Some of the shooters, or so few of them, Charsleston, McVey, Manson fit the Paranoid Schizophrenic pattern of loss of reason, voices in the wall. The mental illness they may suffer is often undetectable. We are told that these incidences are done by lone “crazies” and that it’s not the guns fault. By blaming the “crazies” we demonize those individuals who did not deserve their fate, aren’t possessed by demons, thank you! Most of them suffer more than we could ever imagine, their illness easily apparent to everyone around them. Some get medications, meds you wouldn’t want to take. Meds that make them twitch and look strange to others. If they take those meds, it is with courage, absolute courage.
1. Painted a large painting during Gulf War 1, 36″ x 24″
2. Somewhere during Gulf War 2 it gets big hole in the middle of it.
2. So I cut pieces out of it and glued them onto a panel 16″ x 20″
3. One more Gulf War and we can get this painting down to 8″ x 11″
Make it go out of date.
The Best Thing In The World a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
The Bad Monk a poem by Charles Baudelaire
The Albatross a poem by Charles Baudelaire