Thursday, October 1, 2020



Sister Lost

A sister lost
to a mad-weave calamity,
hanging off the platform,
an ego-dream of dumb self-importance
- the war on truth that
masks its face as though it were truth,
but is only a gate to an easy explanation,
a system of hellish accusations and propped
up pillars of false justice, combating fake forms
urging anger forefront, poisoning
by such a sure promise of victory.

I send you sleeping sister. You say
I am sleeping and you twist your conspiracy theories
into a cloak of great magnitude, condescend,
so confident of your place of holy honour.
You jumped over the mark, missed it
and plunged into an upside-down dream of realty.

Once, a sister, a comrade, an unbreakable bond, broken.
I cannot see you. You cannot see the evil
you have wrapped in fool’s gold,
claiming righteousness
as you measure your worth
by this aggressive attack on truth, denying
the wind, a child’s cry, a mother’s redemption.

Sister, I loved you, I still do,
but you have crossed the line.
It is terrifying to watch.
It is a shock to finally see
who you have become.
You took the plunge
long before I accepted your choice.

By your choice, your inner conflict
became an accelerant bile-fire,
you became a plurality, parts, parts
condemned to feed off
intellectual Jell-O,
find entertainment, immaculate purpose
in unbalanced passions and impulses,
claiming a cure by creating a disease.


I bore the yoke,
surging against the assault,
counted the thin space that buffered me
from disaster.

At the beginning there was obedience
but also the certainty of great heights.
After years of being unable to stretch,
there are no more prophecies or ranks to aim for
or glory for a future horizon.

The unknown is dense and impassable
as a steel sealed curtain.

Maybe here I can learn what Jesus always knew –
that prayers are speeches of the greatest importance
but listening holds more sway,
that obedience to God
is the only currency-exchange, must be
the authority of each steps taken,
is the root determination of peace
or anguish.

The first time I held out my hand,
I expected tangible abundance,
fruit, seeds, candy.
Now I hold out my hand
and hope only
to keep it open.

The air is light, causing no pressure, no trembling.
It is easy in its emptiness,
lacking anticipation, lacking
a future, past comparison.


Shining Hector
Man-killer Hector
Hector, prince of the walled city,
lover of loyalty, prized invincible,
devoted, never set adrift by lust or changing distractions.

Hater of war Hector
Warrior Hector, protector
of a worthy ideal, a harvest of fulfilment,
wealth for all, raining down from your native desert sky.
Husband on a private balcony, holding time still
for declarations of love as the flooding enemy-army neared,
gathering its hero-giants and enraged half-gods,
sealed in indestructible armour.

Hector, son of Queen Hecuba and King Priam, brother
to reckless sweat-hearted Paris.
Father of an infant babe, Hector,
who feared death like every other, ran and was chased,
then finally stood alone, willingly, facing his murderer,
knowing the result like knowing the lunatic gods, how
they etch out each mortal’s destiny
on the inkpad of their erratic whims.

Never marked or bruised, your corpse above ground
for eleven days, still fresh as when your soul first departed.
Your father begged to bury you, winning this small mercy,
you were buried, sacred rites restored.

You were mourned for your perfect beauty,
(their defender lost, their defeat inevitable).
You were loved for your strength,
the kind derived from clear-cut purity,
a rare internal moral code.

Glorified, the tale of Hector,
outliving millenniums,
outlasting countless other heroes.

Hector of the soft dark hair, golden helmet, shining.

Hell Seen

Unseen, the darkness is a tsunami gateway,
engulfing every fragment of will,
builds unexpected, a shock of water filling
the lungs, chaos infesting every corner of the mind,
rational thought on fire, cindering, seared by
loveless insanity.

This is the inheritance that must be thrown overboard,
tossed like a corpse that is plagued with a contagion.
No room for sentimental mercy which is not mercy,
only a longing for comfort that in the end
compromises protective barriers that must be upheld.
All ties must be cut and loyalty to God,
the only link left.

I visited hell, shadows grabbing my every corner of flesh,
loneliness like an amputated limb,
released and thrashing, abandoned
from its fertile blood source.
I was afraid, every cell drenched in horror.
I had no voice, no substance.
I was shown hell, experienced hell
a flood, a plummeting   down  down

Even in that evil landscape,
my loved ones saved me,
prayers said outloud saved me,
and the haunting loosened its hold.

Now seen, I see
there is only God or hell -
God or
anguish, anxiety, blunt force destruction,
pounding torment, a rotting waste.
God and
life embraced,
a rapturous and difficult glory.

Mercy without Miracles and
Miracles without Mercy

A day 2,500 years ago
and life was the same, struggling
to understand God and fate
and how the stars may hold
prediction but lack all means
of mercy. For mercy
was an evening without power, was weak
as was seen
the majesty of forgiveness.

It was before Jesus came as sibling, as friend,
revealing the depths of God’s grace, the redemption
in surrender and late evening devotion, breathing
with the direction of the wind, open to hardships
as to miracles, orchestrated by a loving hand.

First God was many in our minds,
segregated, dissected, tangled with human
hypocrisies, pride and jealousies.
Then God was one in our minds,
higher, mightier than death, closer still,



let us hold God in our arms, be held like
a tiny flower head is held by a child’s hand,
cupped, yellow buttercup, glowing,
treasured by God, each of us,
a necessary and loved creation.

Back then, even great minds glimpsed
such profound greenery,
but could not complete the joy.

Jesus is
humanity’s completion with God,
connection, void of complications,
like an infant’s first smile or that infant,
growing, learning,
holding out her arms,
saying your name.


ALLISON GRAYHURST is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Five times nominated for “Best of the Net”, 2015/2017/2018, she has over 1260 poems published in over 500 international journals. She has 21 published books of poetry, six collections and six chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay;

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