Speak Ye Poets

The rose demands
the light on her neck reveals her skin
and the rose demands
Her hands are the gold
to hold her hands in your hands is wealth
but
the rose demands
Save me
save my people
from the tyrant
the rose commands
speak ye poets
let your voice be the wind
in a dark forest
be the single acorn
dropping to the ground
and growing there
until there is a new forest
your heart is not in your
left hand
not in your right
your heart is beside the lungs which
speak, scream, write
for peace
for sanity
for
love
Speak!

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Oh dreamers
poets
artists
musicians
magicians of art
your pain is beauty itself
rolled off of you fingers
and into our hearts
our temporal hearts
When the rocks came alive
they made things
like children playing
except the art entered and
beauty said
share me
rescue me, art
tell me it all mattered

Water Poems on a Hot Day

The hot summer sun
makes cake of my skin
and the sweat lets me know
I’m alive

the water
is better then

it is needed then

and noticed

Can a poem be the water on a hot day

can the water flow down
this page
in
this poem

this time or the next
until there is no next

no new
meanderings

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

My Will Poem

Our history is strewn with
brothers killing brothers
over kingdoms
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

Her Gift | Poem by Allison Grayhurst

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.

Her Gift by Allison Grayhurst
Allison Grayhurst is a full member of the League of Canadian Poets. Three of her poems have been nominated for Sundress Publications “Best of the Net” 2015, and she has more than 1000 poems published in over 410 international literary magazines, journals and anthologies in Canada, United States, England, India, Ireland, China, Scotland, Wales, Austria, Romania, New Zealand, Bangladesh, Colombia and Australia. …..