Sacred Chickens
Menu
SACRED CHICKENS
More Than Commitment We see the bend and the gulls in full motion outside our door. We feel the moon in our mouths and foolish dreams drip down our inner thighs. It’s time to relinquish our boat on the ferry docks, relinquish our dearest pet at the graveyard. It’s time to know the yellow lands of late summer - let the air into our home and let the lock on this sanctuary be broken - to open more than possibilities, more than a Sunday-hope. We see the bend and we say goodbye, out of the funnel and into the luminous sky. Secret We share an altered epiphany each night we merge below water, never speaking but touching satin against soul, tumbling in our home-spun ecstasy like the pounding of pure birth. We rise and fall speechless, buried in the radiance of our realm where we journey, our skins seeped in sensuality, still discovering after nineteen years, building a depth unencountered - the two of us, bending, refitting the mantra of male and female confinement, drugged by the surprise, by the thickened lips of our controlled urgency, blind to all but each other, the muse of our naked dancing, breathing, visceral releasing, and at the end, laughing as though we were seeing our first ever snow fall. Son of no one There never was a moment for you when freedom could have ripped your destiny in two - where choice not chance could have uncornered your existence. Because you took every risk - collapsing in the shadows, coveting the Egyptian Buddha. Your breath is like a child’s, breaking on a slab of rock held close to your face. I would fan the sun for you if it would make a difference, if your shoes would stay tied and your rage would stay at bay. I would pluck the curse from your veins, if there was something to pluck, if it wasn’t acceptance and only acceptance that would change the curse, not remove it, but alter its outcome. I love your eyes, beneath your dark ridge brows. I hear you singing in the middle of the night. I can taste the salt on your lips. You want to be cold, but you can’t be. You were made this way, to enter the world at your own pace. You are elemental, wider than your history. You are not alone. And that is something. Kneel Beside Love If ever you kneel beside love strip yourself in the midnight cold and your heart expands moist like ice on heat feels the flood the zealous delight uprooting misery in moments too marvelous for words . . . Gardeners, lovers you decide the wish beside each other faces are made real inadequacies vanish leaving no trace of murder or time What you feel walking in this pulsing spring daring such joy no illness could alter What you feel briefly as you join skin and souls . . . creating refuge even death cannot violate. Wingbeats I could tell you never close your eyes it is us and us only who carry the iron and dismiss ourselves from the cross Where is home? Can you answer me in this month of sensuous summer? When we love is it enough to entice the dead from their settled sleep? I once heard the sound of pain in an old man’s voice It was real the magic of song milk from a mother’s swollen breast the authentic desire for union Every vineyard has its legend Every someone wanders protected and important in this long age of insanity Nearly all dancers have hesitated, felt their passions, suspicious unnatural impulses depleting their strength But so – heaven is not a womb nor a winter’s twilight intense but brief I once saw a golden eagle repeat its wingbeats alone in the breeze flapping as if to say: I know myself completely. Truth Givers They are in the hospitals They are under the eucalyptus trees They are in the anniversary cakes They are in the stone-hedged mansions gossiping on the latest idea to muse over with their delicate, pale hands. At the end of heaven’s domain they celebrate entrance into the market place where they arrive with their wings, proud and evasive. Too large to drown in the gloomy crowded faces, so they soar between the sheep herd trapped in that superior altitude. The wind fingers them with its wet tongue. Unharmed, they rock over the body of the weeping sky, searching for something beyond conclusions or ecstasy. The artists tilt, shipwrecked next to them: Locked on horizons of unresolved beauty. Some days their eyes close and the flute touches the pen with explosive unity, with ancient embrace. As far apart as the ghost and the angel, they edge inside the artist’s heart, just to feel the skinless souls of love makers. ![]() 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 1100 poems published in over 430 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
3 Comments
1/14/2023 01:07:39 pm
Great post much appreciate the time you took to write this.
Reply
Leave a Reply. |
![]() Click Photo above to buy ebook or paperback from Amazon.
Here's the link to Barnes and Noble Or order through your favorite independent bookstore! Categories
All
|