Allison Grayhurst

My Flower

A strange cup of blending flavours,
expelling creatures from the side of the house.
A gift is given, a gift is received
as God makes good the sickness of the spirit
by giving equal strength to bare the need.
The money comes in its perfect place,
goes and brings my faith to the floor, then again
arrives to give relief to our hungry household.
My temperament is flanked by despair, rage
wonder and belief and so it will always be as the years
walk over me and I walk over them.
I hold these cards. I hold them without decision
or seeing another way to stand. I must come to peace
with my colours, lift my umbrella and love the rain.
It is my stance
that will-power or therapy cannot change.
In waves the darkness spins around. With only light and light alone
the miracles of God abound. I call to you. I am
owned by you. Your mercy is my mercy. At your core I
find my womb and my stretching ground. Help me to be still
and therefore to be free. Let my love for you overtake
and these disappointments that plague, help me to see they will never leave
but your love will heal and the healer
will not condemn.

(Previously published in Winamop, September 2015)

Small Thing

Small chaos
surrounded by the plain,
brings flavour to the ordinary,
brings dance to the immobilized
and pattern to the monotone.
Small thing glistening
like a heart inexperienced in hope
but wanting the privilege.
Small pain attached to the nerves
slicing away all good pleasure,
making solace impenetrable.
Small thimble that holds the glory
and spills over onto the soft ground.
Small night that doesn’t have an imprint
but has ability for irreversible change.
Small window I look through
seeing what is small
and wanting nothing big.

(Previously published in Winamop, September 2015)