These haiku are over 35 years old
Source: Haiku #9
These haiku are over 35 years old
Source: Haiku #9
To you newish readers, here is another of my favorite poems, from a couple of years ago…Our Little Hut…dedicated to my Love
Source: Our Little Hut
Constance…Thank you for your patience with me as I am not writing new things right now…but do I ever, really?
Write new things…
Oh, I catch poems that have not yet been caged in words, and do so with some volume…but I dunno if they are new.
But I am focused on the election, and no, not the candidates…but the story this election is telling about the lurking horror inside so many in this nation, which is the seeds of destruction for so many souls.
In the meantime, enjoy some of the poems from the past as I post them. You can also check out my FB page…if you are not yet a friend, request me with a message that you read at Grace Notes. <3
Source: Grace Upon Grace
“I want adventure in the great, wide somewhere I want it more than I can tell And for once it might be grand To have someone understand I want so much more than they’ve got planned…” – “…
I am re-blogging this old poem, for it is one of my very favorites, and I think it is actually one of my most excellent poems as well. The metaphors are very full and agile…I wrote about one night in the winery, doing “Evening Punch”, that process where the crushed mass of grape clusters together with the seeds and stems called “must” is pierced over and over again with an implement called a “punch”…
OH!!! How these things just came alive to me!! I encourage you to think about things like:
dirt become flesh
flesh become spirit
silver (color of redemption)
As I have commented before, I think wine is the central metaphor that best explains the journey of Life, and the task we are all given. In that post, I said that a good bottle of wine is the disti…
Source: The Must
Contrast the difference a year makes… Reeling In Rome when the blow of being shunned by flesh and blood was fresh… And the next, the poem below, when I had been born from betwixt the legs of suffering, and becoming…
Source: Morning Meditations
Things feel like silk over thistles. My heart is home, snuggled down certain and in place and yet, underneath being home, pulses pain sighs sorrow sings sadness tamborine thistles timbrel thorns cl…
Source: Reeling in Rome
I wrote this to one of my deepest loves… The day after the hardest text I ever heard. Two years later, and it’s still unclear whether this rift will ever be healed, or just stand there gaping and bloody, gawking blindly at the horror of separation…
high strung doesn’t even come close to how high strung i really am… but i lay like the dead lifeless, empty inside, afraid, seeing your departure as the substance of my ugliness and you…
I am Pressing this poem from a couple years ago…it was just before The Great Reduction began…it is written to and for my friend Dani over at Blooming Spiders…and I think it captures something of what makes a friendship.
I love you Dani…always your sister,
Source: I Smelled Rosemary and Sage
Say yes with your pupils,
black and unadoring,
to to white lace promises;
the little half- truths
that kill tomorrows
that never morph
Twist my heart
one ventricle at a time,
out of empty chambers
ripe for the picking.
One last repost…it is the contrast here of the mountains and the valleys that creates the space in-between…a space that I love to write about.
Edges are not merely the furthest border of a given territory…Edges by definition are their own space, and time and place…transgender people inhabit edges in obvious given ways…but I write as I do, speak as I do so that you can tumble to the fact that all human beings live in “Edges”…
…it is what makes us human.
What are your edges? Your furthest reaches?
And what “Edge” is that place that is you?
Mama’s words to me are mine.
Source: Mama You Told Me
This is my naming poem. It is one of my very favorite works…I am happy with the allusions, metaphors, the techniques and inferences…the resonances in the poem and the implications of a transwoman being a “half-sister”…
Well, I just love it and I hope that you can find some resonance that echoes to your own life.
words. swallowed in medicine times but found to be only poison slow half-life killers just in time spat out in relief, in apprehension, in hope… i am jacob’s half-sister confessing her …
Source: Jacob’s Half-Sister
This is a re-post of a poem written last year…this goes out to my recent “Constances” who have come round after this poem was composed…I am so honored that you read here and I hope this poem rings a bell within.
Source: Love And Breath
To Trump Voter:
You are against divorce.
You say you hate porn.
You hate Hillary for reasons that you cannot link to anything
except the onslaught of attack from the 90s…
So therefore you are gunna vote for a man who:
Sends Gingrich and Giuliani to attack Hillary because HER husband
was unfaithful but SHE HERSELF WAS FAITHFUL…
He himself also attacks her on this basis…
Which means that between Gingrich, Giuliani and Trump they have 9 wives…
NINE!!! NINE WIVES!!! Which means that you are supporting a candidate
that is ANTITHETICAL to EVERYTHING you claim is core value.
You get angry and defensive when this is pointed out.
You say the media is lying to you about this, and that
Fox News is the only one that tells you the truth.
Even though the internet gives the ability to check out multiple sources for yourself
so you CAN find out who is telling the news straight…if you want to.
But you would rather sit…and pull Fox News’s lies around
you like a snuggly warm dirty diaper around your brain.
Yes…it is warm…but you now have the WORST case of mental diaper rash.
Do you know that Trump..your Presidential Nominee…
uses his DIRECT COMMUNICATION LINE (Twitter)
to TELL YOU to look at a sex tape of some woman
that he has already insulted, bullied and verbally abused…
AT THE SAME TIME WORLD LEADERS ARE EULOGIZING Shimon Peres…
let that sink in.
Trump is raving about sex tapes and everyone else is being world leaders…
SOOOO….when the sex tape search was conducted???
NO sex tape found with Hillary…
NO sex tape found with the person he accuses…
ONE SEX TAPE FOUND!!!
Do you know who is the star?
(It’s a hard Q, given what I just wrote…it will shock you,
cus NO ONE would or could imagine this person doing a sex tape…NOT)
Donald Trump. Your Nominee.
Leads off the tape pouring champagne on women…and it goes downhill from there.
I am outraged, upset, and deeply DEEPLY grieved that you sit…
and tell me that God wants Trump…tell me that the christian thing to do
is put Trump in place…give your support to the evangelical right who have
SOLD THEIR FREAKING SOULS TO THE DEVIL and climbed in bed with Trump…
It’s like watching Donald Trump and you his supporters
commit sex tape atrocities EVERY SINGLE DAY!
Yes, this whole election has been like A Clockwork Orange,
and being forced to watch such perversions…
the perversion of a formerly Grand Old Party,
and the degeneration of a whole expression of Christendom
into masturbatory self-worship at best
and adulterous profligate orgies of hatred and fear.
He disgusts me…deeply.
You disappoint me…sadly and intensely.
And after all of the above, I STILL find myself utterly unable
to purge myself of my intense and literal keening…and grief…
Fallen! Fallen! Oh! The Beauty of Israel is slain on the mountains!
You were once swifter than eagles! You were stronger than lions!
Tales of your renown circled the world in scarlet threads of redemption.
Your reputation was faith, hope, and love!
Fallen! Slain! Your lips once held rubies of love, pearls of wisdom…
and now your mouth is an open grave of worms and maggots.
You were robed in scarlet…you had ornaments of gold
but now you are wrapped in filthy rags and rotten blood
and ornamented with skulls and the teeth of your enemies…
Once your song smelled sweet of salvation
but now your very breath is death, and your speech is STENCH
and you stink of hypocrisy, adultery, idolatry, and your medal of honor
is nuffin but a divided heart.
WEEP AND HOWL!!!
REPENT!! REPENT YOU HYPOCRITES!
Let your sorrow no longer be for those you condemn to hell
but for yourselves, and PRAY that it be godly sorrow
which produces repentance!
I am distressed, I am in mourning and my sun has set.
I remember when your love was sweet, sweeter than song
and I flounder in this night of long knives and zombie moans
But I shall wait for dawn unflinching
I shall see the rise of the Morning Star
and the oppressed shall sing again
and the fatherless shall be gathered
for justice shall come, in rivers and waves
rolling in righteous streams
to cleanse…to heal…
I write with no expectation of a metanoia…
I write in Hope, that Great Holy Spirit is in this world…
to convict humans concerning deviations
and woo with Love.
May God have mercy on us all
and deliver us NOT from Donald Trump…
but from our divided avaristic hearts
that led us here to the precipice of self
on which we now teeter.
I am sharing the post here of my dear friend Jennifer Dickinson…she is of the same ilk as I am, bone of Mama’s bone, and a prophetess in training…which is always a fucking bloody MESS!!
I have written scores of “Mama Poems”…and this one I would be proud to have in that pantheon!
Source: Mama, Help Me
Mud-Spittled Eyes On A Rainy Fall Sunday Morning It’s the glory of eyes, being blessed to be opened with mud sweat and spit, blind eyes become other and seeing What others insist isn’t …
Source: Skeleton Woman Come
let’s talk about our bleeding hearts, what it mean to call those bloody parts by their names… yes, here we are telling stories about them, telling stories about women and wolves. there …
Source: Of Women and Wolves
During the election I am writing mostly on Facebook…and little poetry right now. So I am gunna press some older poems for some newer readers.
I encourage you to explore the blog, for there is LOTS of poetic content!!
time is the greatest distance between two distant places… me then. me now. Today I am grateful for that excruciating powerlessness I felt over and over again and again as a young child and I…
and it is in night…
like a babe in fresh blankets
snuggled and seeing,
quiet and jumping
in jammies with footies
singing of safety,
hot chocolate and nibbles,
then raindrops on rooftops
silver tin foil lightning
slashing thru thick dark air
that quivers and tears
then closes again
with thunderclap rolling
and rain steady hissing
down quiet and soothing
and shushing and rushing
and we settle, snuggle
and Autumn is come
to quiet our soul
the punching of one’s own face, one’s own eyes
the throwing of sawdust at everyone
the bashing of beams against dull skull bone
the grunting, squee of rooting pigs alone
the missing of the point that TRUTH is making
the wallowing in anything that soothes
retreat into the silly absurd argue
and justice once again goes barefoot begging
and dust is waiting to be shook off hard
and sandals poised for good news feet on mountains
but walkers sit instead and argue small things
minutiae in the unconnected moments
wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up wake up
charissa tears her face with fingernails
as justice wanders barefoot, wanders begging
diogynes gives up searching, gives up hope
and so the question remains here resounding
WHO WILL STAND AGAINST INJUSTICE NOW?
now now now now now now now now now NOW???
does anyone have knees that bend or straighten
and courage to set scripture off its leash?
To stand with widow, stranger and oppressed?
Or just in filthy rags preening and dressed??
You stand condemned and lay at ease in zion
A BEAUTIFUL work by a really fine writer!! Robert Okaji!
“Onions My knife never sings but hums instead when withdrawn from its block, a metallic whisper so modest only the wielder may hear it. Or perhaps the dog, who seems to enjoy the kitchen nearly as m…”
I have been posting a lot of thoughts on Facebook lately, seeking to use my social media account in a more active and aware way.
I have many thoughts about the avatar for our shadow selves known as Donald Trump.
We have met the enemy, and he is US.
If you want to read there, search Facebook for Charissa White and you can send me a friend request. If you are an unknown person to me, please message me as well and identify yourself as a reader here on Grace Notes…and we can go from there.
If you do NOT identify yourself? Likely I will ignore the request, simply because I get a lot of really creepy friend requests over there from military dudes, who post pics of themselves with their guns (surrogate penises) and their shirts off flexing…what about me says that this would be a good technique to make a connection with me???
In what world does it work to “attract a girl” by this means?
It repulses me and sickens me and I immediately block such as those.
Anyway…that is why I have not been writing much here.
Fear not…my blog will be here cus I am still and always jotting down poems and will post them as appropriate, and all my poetry goes here.
I want you all to know how grateful I am that you choose to read here…it is an honor.
‘Once I have endeared the deity, she will love me in her heart,
the offer I bring may wholly cover my sin,
bringing sesame oil may work on my behalf in awe may I’
I hear those glowy bones glowing,
those bones of mystery-menace bright
so dark inside their red cocoon
but white unto themselves alone
and full of lively light.
The blood of bones in oceans vast,
the breathing moon’s silent contrast,
earth sweats her dew cooling and sweet,
rising to meet all thirsty feet
and bones stirring at last…
To taste again of Love’s Birthright
and resurrection echoes loud
and everything restored, made new
from glowy bones Faithful and True
Bones blazing, Bones of Light
when fireflies all held their breath
and neither glimmered nor glammered
but just held…held…
when soft tealights strung in trees
waltzed together in the breeze
soft, faint, sun-kist and sad
dancing into the velvet night
of hanging silks and wattled wine
and I am yours
and you are mine
It took me there, it broke me there
on a sandy sliver midst some smooth black stones
so silent, sitting at the edge of this lake longing,
this tarn quiet, dark and clear
from deep inside my mouth
I felt my wet heart rise, surge burst…
I would’ve screamed forever
but cannot get sound past the breaking
past the past and into and over
I’m so full (there’s more)
I can’t take any (more)
I struggle to breathe
and then I relax
and I desperate while stars dance
burst, birth, explode, rip right from my heart
my lungs my breasts bright surging
I am me spread-eagled
beneath Her velvet verses,
my legs slick, straining against air surging
ebbing, words liquid raging flowing pushing
tearing thru me and me and me
quicksilver soul, a lake, a mirror
shattered by this Stone
unseemly and perfect,
Huge and Lacey
Light and Heavy
flung down from faraway
(who knows where?)
and into this lake
and a million murmuring moaning circles
pushing outward sliding downward
groaning upward thru this water
sainted, and that Air, each circle
almost pulls me beneath under
I am buried living-forward
I’m resurrected dying-backward
I am stained forever always after
with that pungent glory,
with Her Glory running down
my chin and from my lips so wet
and thus I shiver deep within
all the way from my down-low throb
to the very roots of my
ecstatic shining hair
She pulls Her hand out, slowly wraps
Her arm around me…I curl up
and drift off, musky fragrances anointing,
smearing my eternal cheeks
singing in my hol(e)y heart
singing in my whol(e)y heart
singing in my holy heart
the blood and tears
of that close horizon
as day fades out
and night creeps up
and what of empire…
or is it Empire
it sanctifies itself
in the blood
of many martyrs
in the tears
of all the saints
in the wailings
of the haints
what is the holiness of Empire?
It is rapacious lust it is
the Power in powerful
it is everquesting MUST
lovesongs into laments
and the only sacred left
bleeds and weeps
while gnashing teeth
rip tender skin
and the privileged feast
I remember your fall…silent, turning skin burning and flakes falling like snow. I remember the shaking…plumey ash (demon of dachau come home here) and more, falling forever. the ones wh…
The echoing of silence
implications of ashes
a song inside my tears
a signifying bond
the moan within my blood.
The writing of a moon
engraven on this water
and carried by the winds
into your heart…
Source: Forever In My Bones
It’s bigger than a blue canyon,
that place my orphic words live
and come down from,
a canyon with one end anchored in eternity
and one end tipping into whatever
“-ality” … “-ernity” we dwell in
right here in River City.
I reach up and pull down Words
like apples golden or ripe peaches soft
fragrant and newly fuzzy insistent
and throw them into that canyon blue
blewsy runny and streaked in greys
and oranges (like rock sunsets)
…but those words…
as small in your eyes as they
are big in my head and
what was once limitless
is now merely living
and that makes me lonely
and feeling like
I got too close to important truth
too close to your secret hiraeth heart
buried in your soul’s backyard
like some long loved lost bone…
so you just look at me funny
and shoo me away with
blinking eyes and wagging head
as if not grasping what I said,
as if not seeing my words or me.
But do you not see me
and see yourself
in the seeing of me?
You almost cried
while you were saying it!
There’s a ship inside my head
It sails upon the seas
that stretch out from my bed
to the far shore of me
sometimes it runs aground
because the tide is out
and blind men think me drowned
and beached deep in their drought
But tides, well they run true
they go, and then return
with glad tidings of you
that splash my bow, my stern
And my sails bloom once more
and dance upon the breeze
I slice thru waves, I soar
set free from my dis-easeTo sail, to skim beneath
the moon there in Her bliss
and I wrapped in Her wreath
and sainted by Her kiss…
there’s a ship inside my head
I sail the ancient seas
of greens, and blues, and red
I sail the seas of me
and you just let that anger
fall out of your sky so deep
meteors, comets, hurtling
heating, skizzing in
and crash landing
on your fiercely beating heart
so never giving up
so never giving in
so keeping keeping on
and now so on the mend
parade of people
flashes by, spinning
and in the midst but set apart
and singled out from time to time
and separated from the herd
and from the heard and from the hearing
distant from particular promise
feeling so far from God’s presence
or God’s forgiveness because something’s
blocking our view of God’s sweet mercy
it is WHITE
and the house wins again and preens
in false humility and slings
blame upon us Double Zeros
skewing vision til it seems
God has truly overlooked us and that’s not justice, it’s just us…
It’s that inconsistency between
things we thought we knew
and things we deeply feel,
Desire is our compass
bloody, steady, unblinking.
It points to our True North
and leads us home
against all odds
these ancients words waves
and these timeless thoughts
tides, and beacons…
my breath, my lament
(like blood and oxygen)
held tight in my chest
crushed by the familiar
finally rushes out
of an anguished soul
a suffocating heart
what was true for all
of All ‘neath the sun
was not true for me
me, here without air
cast careless away
(chummed over the side)
remnants of shame bubbling
out thru my clenched teeth
and sinking, drowning
praying for a whale
or even a school
of plankton-kissed breath
and against my will
my chest constricts, heaves,
bucks…glory oh glory
at last it’s true for me
and I am, finally
“Practice prudence by bringing wisdom
to our decisions and refraining from
taking unnecessary risks.
Practice justice by asking questions
about those who have less than we do,
looking for root causes of injustice
and ways we can respond.
Practice courage by considering
those places in lives where
we experience fear
Carry a sense of strength
to whatever life brings us
and a willingness to go
into unknown places
for the sake of growing closer
to God and to our
own deep desires.”
— Christine Valters Paintner, PhD Desert Mothers and Fathers: Early Christian Wisdom Sayings Annotated and Explained
Which of these practices (prudence, justice, courage, a sense of strength) do you most want to nurture in yourself?
I am Charissa Grace
and not your dumb head case
I’ll muss your hair, throw off your pace
and maybe even kiss your face
I overflow permitted banks
and needle apoplectic cranks
cus I unsettle everything
I am wild WILD WILD thus I sing
of mountains dancing, winds untamed
and my heart free in Mama’s Name
“Edge places fascinate us, because at heart we too are seeking the edges, the places of risk and unknowing. We long to embrace our own wildness. We feel alive when we live from our wild hearts, breaking out of the boxes of convention and expectation, and growing in trust of ourselves and the deep wisdom that emerges from our bodies and the world around us.”
— Christine Valters Paintner, PhD The Self-Study Online Class ~ Earth as Soul Care Matrix: The Wild Heart of Ministry
Where are the edge places in your life? Where are the places of risk and unknowingness where you experience both fear and joyful anticipation simultaneously? How might you set your wild heart free?
She paces Pharaoh’s estate,
marble steps, the bristling tops of trees.
She is restless in her routine.
Couples arrive. She scans their faces,
and the oil stains under the Pharaoh’s SUV.
Every day the headlines scream
plagues, locusts. Another naked child explodes
himself in the market, a frog croaks,
startles soldiers armed to the teeth.
Asiya sits at Pharaoh’s dinner table
with the neo-conservatives nightly.
Why do they hate us? A mystery.
Asiya twitches, passes the pâté.
That they slave to build us pyramids
is only free market forces at play.
The salmon is delicious. We
are entitled to the treasures
of the desert, and to dine in peace.
Asiya fidgets with her blue earring,
lapis lazuli. What is wrong with me,
she thinks. She slips away from husband,
guests, to the back porch by herself,
and scans the blue shining serpentine
river for a twitch, a movement,
for a basket in the reeds.
– From “Hagar Poems” by Mohja Kahf
If you are someone from my past and you read here, I want you to know something.
You are welcome to read here.
If you are someone from my past, and you are genuinely open to learning new things, updated understandings of the ways that technology has revealed realities regarding gender and DNA…if you are willing to meet me…Charissa Grace White…and truly receive me as you would any human being you had met and were getting to know, then you are welcome to be in contact with me.
But know that my choice to transition is not up for debate…it is made and done. To debate that with you would be as silly as debating with you whether or not it was the right thing to marry the person I chose. So I will not allow this…I will not put myself at the end of your firing range to become your scapegoat for the social ills you so deeply dread.
And finally…if you are someone who reads here while thinking of me as that freak who is a “man” but is deceived and deluded by the devil and is now under demonic influence for thinking “he is a woman”, then just GTFU…ur dum. Holding this position is like boasting about how stupid, intractable and ignorant you are of the incredible body of literature on the subject. You ought to be asking yourself why you are so deeply upset over this! Why does it bug you so much?
I am by far a better person than I ever was before…more of what people have always loved about me and less of what people have always despised about me.
Just go away if you are in that latter category…I don’t care how long I have known you. The length of time you have known me is directly proportional to the ought you are obligated to in connection with me! You ought to be more compelled to read the literature…you ought to be more compelled to know the open flower and stop worshipping the tightly closed bud.
There is a male who flat out broke off a relationship that was over 3 decades old, because I “had crossed a river he would not cross”. He has had zero contact with me since. This in spite of how his actions violate the very gospel he claims to love. This in spite of the countless hours we spent together, the countless actions of service and love and support, the walking thru darkness on his behalf…
…clearly the issue is on him.
But I bring him up to tell you that his is the party you want to go join if you are in that latter category.
I am me…free…and flying. You can fly too, if you would actually take responsibility for your choices and your failures to choose…your fate is in your choice, and may you find surrender to Love as you choose…
I take a picture
think about it)
(the shutter shudders)
(the lens blinks)
and a reduction
becomes a memory
Last year a wolverine broke loose, came slashing and gashing, ran up and down
canyons and cliffs and crittering quick up tree-trunks with such fierce red claws…
Snarling and yowling the haunting roar raged, moaned and cursed with such
hunger, such fury, that flurry of wood-thirsty teeth insatiable, free from hiatus and
running heart birthed straight from Their Great Altar There which purifies
all things with Holy Fire so freeing, so cleansing…wafting austere like pure Incense
arising, in billows and plumes and ash, ASH, everywhere and in perpetual
Wednesday, marking the Cross on all things there…within.
the fire had time to make up…
One Hundred and Fifty years to turn…and it was said to be
A Great Mosaic Burn.
At last to feed its need to cleanse a forest fat with care, beneath the watchful eye of
Moses there, beneath his rod extended, as if the sun stood still again, and trees grew
up and great in grit and girth like Children of the sun, see how fat they had
become…See them, their indifferent eyes unblinking, safe, satisfied and
self-centered and all together, such a stand of forest land, secure, untouched…
so sleepy, nodding off with rusty Time’s tock-ticking Heartbeat softly crooning
to ossified great forest stands so very grand that didn’t know they needed
Severe Mercies to come with fire and hot kisses from the Phoenix.
It had not chosen cleansing
It did not know it’s need
for resurrection, for refining
For fire comes to cleanse and make new everything it can consume and challenge all
it cannot touch to understand that TRANSFORMATION’s the destiny
of every-thing with the courage to crawl out from underneath the letter and run
from the rod and leave behind the tyranny of the typical to the flames…
and walk away from Moses, into freedom in liquid-gold fireworks,
free from the cares of the world that cling so fierce and so easily entangle us,
choke our lives in hoary growth and lullabies lulling us fast to sleep,
a Sleeping Beauty Bride on her bower of soft and easy privilege.
She like an eye unblinking
safe in her cloister so fair
deaf to Her loud Divine Dare.
And (just like that forest or Sleeping Bride), there amidst that red hot bloody conflagration set another eye, a forest eye, unblinking sightless eye and
woke up wide awake in terror tribulation, hushed in dread anticipation and fear and with helpless petitions arising, not like incense but like signals…smoke signals…
to Moses? To God? To the Universe Fire come down to feed? Protected by roads
cut with care and foresight, that Eye Unblinking sat there in fright…
and Holden its breath and leaning against a wolverine dread come at last to
consume the dead, to rip that forest wide open and slash the woods to crimson rags
dripping bloody with flame and red flurries…
wrapped in silver sheets reflective, shiny
(or were they merely space age burial shrouds?)
It never blinked, that Eye, and all was shrouded safe, cocooned within
and underneath the rod and the Letter, striding secure thru the Red Sea Fire
escaping the sharp teeth of wolverine the Eye remained preserved amidst
a work that renovates the face and gives a skin-deep makeover, but leaves
the sleepy years untouched and undisturbed on laurels long gone brown
with age and loss of life though all appearances would say that Holden is
alive and well and safe from that destructive hell of fire and fear…yet
none could name that something still so desperately needed a root canal of flame!
for all the Who’s in Holden sigh
for yesteryear, forgetting that it’s
the thief that steals tomorrow.
And this year, one year later in the same Unblinking Eye I rolled in on the waves
and wind (Charissa, meaning “Grace” but named “Char”-issa, “Ashy-one”) seeking
to drink of the life that flows through a village untouched by anything that fell
outside the Mosaic burn and no longer shrouded outside but just maybe mummy
rags still wrapped so tightly around a heart perhaps long grown so slack, so sleek
and oh so fat just like that forest was last year before God gave a wolverine to rage and feed, and cleanse, renew…I saw History on display and windfall fruit rife
on the ground and satisfaction ruled the day, and familiarity won the race
and wore her shiny tangy plumy purple tinsel crown…
Golden Apples, everywhere and casual and everyone was on the in,
societal, and fire roads cut secure and ohh soo straight.
So I said Hi and reached with blinking eyes that squint into the light,
oft times in fright of storms and lightning flashing forth…and found
my blinking words rebuffed by cool and hooded eyes that had seen it all,
eyes satisfied and cynical cus been there done that, ho-hum…done much worse
I ran aground on fire roads and that Moses curse of long ago still Holden Court
over long hearts that found consuming fire fearful, dreadful and to be avoided
at all costs by any means…and thus She stands this very day…Holden Village
on cusp of…petrification?…or on that hot edge of the Phoenix Way!
Holden, Eye Unblinking, ensconsed
in the forest, last year just as this one,
in a forest cleansed to living bone, and Holden?
I heard the Spirit resounding The Word that Fire must fall upon a village that mirrors the forest that kneels all around…She said that She has a fiery crown and Holden is that forest fat and ready for the Refiner’s Fire, the Cleansing Burn that
resurrects those vital dry bones waiting…but She must choose that fate and blink…
Yes, we must welcome Fire Fate from God and let the dead wood burn,
and blaze, and feed Mosaic Ways to the flame and trust the Good God of the Fire
to keep her safe underneath Their Name and resurrected, cleansed, renewed
and ever delivered from stain and shame!
Let the rod be cast into the fire hot and be consumed!
For Moses died on Southside, short of Zion is his tomb!
And find us Lovely on the Northside, once again the Spirit’s womb!
Letter cannot take us there, nor blaze of past great glory fair
We must eradicate those roads of preservation that we wear!
They trap and capture us and cut us off from Grace unhindered
so we, like the forest, turn dull and dry, reduced to deadwood’s kindred!
I see Holden cleansed by Fire, and crying Holy tears when Holy
Spirit has free reign again to fall in fires that restore
and interrupt Sleeping Beauty’s snore and dead trees gone,
that speck removed and blinking eyes await the Dawn!
And animals can come again now welcomed
and bathe released in Grace and Precious Holden,
His Eye now blinking free and shining fair in Jesus’ Face.
Oh Holy Lightning Strike like Griffin Swift
upon this yearning heart in desperate need
of Your Mercy Severe, Your Holy Gift
Give us Grace to Find the Phoenix-Way!
To rise in faith from Ashes and from death
to self and self reliance, come what may!
On resurrection wings and Spirit’s breath
alive again and all is well this night
that breaks and shatters with the rising dawn…
and not a single fire road in sight,
and what will be well it shall simply be
and what will not be well it will be gone!
Come Holy Fire, we answer Your Call!
and All Reborn, and Love is All in All,
“Someday…someday the snow will fall!”
Shine into the darkness
of brooding quiet forces
that do not want you there.
Radiate into those shadow grey spaces
that don’t claim the name of place
and thus do not receive or comprehend you…
shine on loudly into that sinister lurk.
Your bones deeply grasp
their independence from person,
place or thing…they embody
the stringy collaboration
with you and you alone.
They do not need anything’s
skunky permission to be
or to do or to sing into the
communion of the stars
of courage and anthemic
soaring adoration of LIVE!
Some would shine like the sun…
but you, like the moon
are magnanimous and magical
in your mystery and simplicity
and your goodness and gift radiates
in glowy glimmers and clear silver
beams bouncing off soft evening meadows.
They wait for morning, in
that sinister lurk, that cold
and sinister lurk, while you
mount up…big, bony,
beaming gentle in the soft
that sable cotton brilliant
I wrote this last year related to the events current…and this morning I am struck in how all that has changed is the temperature…which has gone up and up and up…
…and half our nation has lined up behind the likes of someone who truly believes they can simply fire the rest of the world…
I think your heart is called by canyons,
you find them, or…do they find you?
But all across creation’s face
the creases, clefts give you their Grace.
You have left labors to themselves
and sweat and tears behind.
You put your nose into the wind
and cleared your clever mind
And headed west, west, west of West
to canyons once again…
but these are running, bloody, wet
with nature’s life blood pure
So sit…it’s called a river out here
but you know its bone-truths
It’s really still a canyon dear
So be renewed…be clear
At last we finally
have come down to it,
perched here on this edge
of sun-bleached splintery white planks
and darkly stained with shadows and blood.
I hear the wind winding
thru the distant trees wistful,
insistent and full of desire for
golden times long past and golden
songs sung oh so long ago.
It saws its way, the wind, it saws.
Forth and back, across again
that one long thin strand fixed just so
to that grey ancient, heavy beam
that I can barely see because
history’s speck embedded
in my eyes and clawing,
and clouding my ocular
true blue vision.
But as I stand here, on the edge
of gone for good at last, and I
behold the hushed and held tense breath
of the gawking crowd…I remember
Tuscany and us
when we were young and ageless
and we ran the fields like wild-fire
in joy and wreck-less free abandon…
we ran…and ran…and
free we ran…
I recall vineyard embrace, green
in the cool night sprawled beneath
the glitter-glare of celestial songs
taken form and sight in night
and flying, shooting, never landing
never ending, never…
except in our hearts,
our ageless hearts,
we Lords of Tuscany,
we Ladies of the Meadow
And time it stood still while we swirled
and then somehow twas we stood still
and everything turned round about us
here at the end
in the hangman’s
noose as the reaper
plays along upon
his shimmer-scythey harp
and the rope
and croons and
begs me to
But I remember
Gold and Fire
and glowing embers
and in me…
We Ladies of the Meadow
We Lords of Tuscany
“Humility invites us to let go of our hold on productivity as the measure of our worth and discover the deeper value of who we are.”
— Christine Valters Paintner, PhD Creative Flourishing in the Heart of the Desert: A Self-Study Online Retreat with Hildegard of Bingen
Who might you become if you stopped defining yourself in terms of what you do, and how productive you are?