The Great and Long Reduction

It’s been three decades.
Longer with than without…
and I see the reckless words of callow youth–

dried husks, dead and cast away.

How small! How single! How hard!
Thank our Captain and our Shepherd

Faithful Husbandman
Vinedresser and Sower

Patience poked deep into the dirt of time
to plant my proud poems and bury
my plaintive pleas deep.

To die. To leave the dirt behind,

The husks split by Night’s trial and Death’s
Danse Macabré.
And the love emerges still from stalks
Staked and made strong by time.

Eloquence wanes as love remains waxing
eloquent in gesture and deed and glance…
…I love this Journey-Dance.

And I love you Jane,
God’s Gracious Glance.



Today is my 32nd wedding anniversary.

I am so thankful to God for bringing me my precious friend, partner, companion, wife, and mother of my beloved children.


There is literally nothing that I would not give up for her…there is literally nothing that I would refuse her.


I love you baby…Happy Anniversary, and may we have 32 more!!  (at LEAST!!)

Watching Time Pass


how long will it be for time to pass…
I sit inside,
inside male skin and inside my house…
and I watch others go
about in the world…
comfortable, freaking unconscious

My candles are lit,
and I sit
at the window
and listen
to the gears turning
tock by tick.
They march
in time to time
passing easily
but I must sit
as time passes
because I just don’t.

Velvet River


The following poem is of a sensually charged nature…if you are one who loves to take up offense and carry it like a badge of honor, if you are easily inflamed by the actions and words of others that you disagree with and then choose to be offended over, then you need to skip this post.

It is about desire, about connection, about the wondrous and primal physical analogue to the mysterious spiritual ecstasies that are woven into the warp and weft of our being human.  After all…we are spiritual beings who are having a physical experience, and yet we are also physical beings who are having a spiritual experience too (otherwise, what is the point of a physical resurrection???  Hmmm????

Anyway, I am not hiding on this blog, and I am going to share.  Look away if you are afraid, and read if you dare.

Velvet River

Darkness grips
with velvet claws and fastens
Fat and swollen
all around the bed…but soft
and welcome.

The darkness of becoming.
The unbecoming darkness.
The one at whose door
evil darkness can
only scratch in
frustration, shut out.

The darkness of a womb waiting.
The darkness of a room…
bed waiting…body aching…
The darkness of the moon,
Then you come,
sliding and gliding
hat low over
one steely glinty eye
behind which hides
a wide and glowy winking eye
merrily seeking me.

your tie askew,
your blouse undone
I lay in the darkness…
in the grip of velvet claws
Fat and swollen…echoing
my fat and swollen river banks

And the velvet river
wakes and stirs.

you sit
on the bed
and touch my legs
with that eye,
that glance,
that want.
And the river runs
velvet and soft
and your
touch is plush
your tongue my hero,
my champion.

sounds in the darkness
cannot be heard elsewhere
and i groan and moan
with longing and desire

and then
we plunge
into the river
and breathe


Being transgender has given me a different perspective on life than most people…it is a terrible burden and tortured place to live…


It is also a huge gift, for it gives me insight into a greater spectrum, and in the long run has been a crucible of great value and worth to form me into the kind of person that I desire to be.

See…I desire to be a surrendered person, yielded to the Good and Love and Grace of my creator.  I desire to show thru my life that God is indeed Good, and that every good and perfect gift comes from Him.

Aside:  I am using the traditional pronouns for God…simply to keep things simple.  Anyone with half a brain knows that God transcends male just as much as he transcends female…I will post on this later, but for now, assume that my pronoun use is knowing and intentional, but not rooted and bound in religious tradition.

Back to my thoughts…to be a real Christian, to truly live as a child of God:  what does that look like?  Whole libraries have been conceived on this, heaping up requirement on requirement and burden on burden.

I think the whole thing can be reduced to this:  Yielded vessel yielding blessing.

If we but yield, and allow Love to flow into us, inform us, heal us and renew us, and then flow out of us so that we do not stagnate, then we can truly be little children of the great God of love.

So…as a transgender person, I an positioned and gifted with a wider spectrum of tools to use, and have a greater potential to truly empathize with the plight of men and also the plight of women.  I chuckle as I think of my daughter who has told me that so much of what I used to tell her when she was in high school now makes sense to her…it was a mystery to her how her father could give her insight into growing as a woman and being strong as a woman.

In my job, I work around men who are macho types and high testosterone fueled…our job is stressful and dangerous, and takes people who are both independent and reliable, yet able to meld as a team.  These men are so lonely, so cut off from themselves and from others in their life.  I am able to be received into their hearts because I wear the skin of a male…but then once there…I can give them the nurture and love and care that they are starved for.

I am especially aware of just how enslaved men can be within the palace of White Male privilege in our society…keeping up the front, keeping up the image, bearing untold burdens and stress and never ever being allowed to talk about it for fear of being perceived as weak or …GASP…FEMININE!!!!

But they will talk to me.

Similarly, I have counseled so many of my sisters in how to deal with their husband,s brothers, fathers, co workers, helping them to know what men are like from a woman’s perspective, because I can move unseen through their camp.

It is a lonely place, for each one is glad for me, but each one thinks I am strange and apart.

Someday, I shall be released.


Destroyer of Worlds

I wrote this poem during one of the dark days…you out there, you cisgendered, please please open your heart and listen.

You literally do not know what it is like to be NULL, to be NOT and naught…

That doesn’t mean that you cannot feel hurt, pain, despair, depression…but at least you can be at home in yourself.

For transgender people, this is something that we have never ever experienced, that feeling of belonging to ourselves…

I am asking for your kindness, if you could find it within yourself to be kind…to not call us trannies or shemales or freaks, etc…and to not assume that we all just want sex so we are doing these perverted things.

It is so much more basic than that.

Anyway…here is the poem…
Smoke is a metaphor here (clue alert lol!!) for Hope, for Love, for acceptance, for Being…
smoke is the revenant released from wood by fire…
ponder it.

Destroyer of Worlds

Smoke is gone,
dispersed on unknown
Winds of Strange Terror and Havoc…
and Abandon.

Acrid scents that once
stirred memories of
Happy hearth
and hale health,

now just
lament of torched heart
and rejected soul
I mourn, I grieve,
and keen from the loss,

my voice
a soundless scream,
my throat ripped
by silent strain
to utter no noise while
my heart shrieks

trees bend and move,
and grasp and grapple
but Smoke twists…
flows…and passes thru,
ghost of some future happy hope…
alas that phantom hope

Smoke has gone
and I am ruined
forever marked
and branded
with loss.


Les Séparés

Les Séparés

N’écris pas. Je suis triste, et je voudrais m’éteindre.
Les beaux étés sans toi, c’est la nuit sans flambeau.
J’ai refermé mes bras qui ne peuvent t’atteindre,
Et frapper à mon coeur, c’est frapper au tombeau.
N’écris pas!

N’écris pas. N’apprenons qu’à mourir à nous-mêmes.
Ne demande qu’à Dieu . . . qu’à toi, si je t’aimais!
Au fond de ton absence écouter que tu m’aimes,
C’est entendre le ciel sans y monter jamais.
N’écris pas!

N’écris pas. Je te crains; j’ai peur de ma mémoire;
Elle a gardé ta voix qui m’appelle souvent.
Ne montre pas l’eau vive à qui ne peut la boire.
Une chère écriture est un portrait vivant.
N’écris pas!

N’écris pas ces doux mots que je n’ose plus lire:
Il semble que ta voix les répand sur mon coeur;
Que je les vois brûler à travers ton sourire;
Il semble qu’un baiser les empreint sur mon coeur.
N’écris pas!

N’écris pas. Je te crains; j’ai peur de ma mémoire;
Elle a gardé ta voix qui m’appelle souvent.
Ne montre pas l’eau vive à qui ne peut la boire.
Une chère écriture est un portrait vivant.
N’écris pas!

N’écris pas ces doux mots que je n’ose plus lire:
Il semble que ta voix les répand sur mon coeur;
Que je les vois brûler à travers ton sourire;
Il semble qu’un baiser les empreint sur mon coeur.

N’écris pas!


Hobson’s Choice

This poem is about that place where you just cannot win in a relationship…if you do not speak, you allow the person to harm them-self with selfish actions and attitudes…but if you do speak, they will be hurt by the hard truth that they have been awful pills…

My partner just went thru one of these…

Hobson’s Choice

Speaking never says what hearts are crying
Mouths cannot explain the bloody truth
Thoughts forbidden breaking, blasting, flying
Diving after foolishness of youth.

Actions done but done with such politeness
Explanations stacked up like cord wood
Other deeds committed in rich rashness
Raging in the tempests of no good.

What’s greater wrong, the rudest indiscretion
the revelation of a hungry heart
or blank indifferent lack of comprehension
of any wrong or false step or misstart.

i do not know, i do not see, no i do not
have any good in me, no i do not.
To speak is to confront and thus to lose out
but silence is to choke a spirit’s shout.


The Whore We Am

I recently posted the first part of the story of the woman caught in the act of adultery, and we left off with our heroine/victim/criminal face down in the dirt, and Jesus…you know the Guy…the only One without sin, and thus the one person who by right could cast the first stone…that guy.  He was knelt in the dirt beside her and gently shaking her, rousing her from her stupor of broken, desperate despair and empty lonely barrenness.

He asked her where were her accusers?  And when it finally penetrated her paralyzed mind, she hurriedly gave a harried look around, and saw…

……….no one……except the One who was without sin.

Jesus smiled, and I am totally certain that His eyes glistened with the tears of compassion and love for her…I am sure that He identified with and empathized with her pain and sorrow and desperation…after all, He knew that He would be accused of being a “religious whore” and “caught in the act”, and He knew the pain He would endure, all so we could be in the dirt before Him as the woman was, naked and ashamed…

….and unaccused!

She looked back to Him, and He asked her “Did even one of them accuse you?” And she mumbled, barely audibly, “No”.

And He sat awhile, writing…have you ever wondered what He wrote?  I think He was writing her name, and that He loved her.

But after a bit, He told her “Then neither do I accuse you.  Go your way…and sin no more.”

And that was that.

Now…flash forward a bit, to an important dinner at the home of a wealthy religious leader who threw a dinner party in the attempt to win favor with Jesus, and standing in his own social circle.  They were at the table, eating…

…and suddenly there was an intruder who broke in, and rushed to the feet of Jesus and threw herself down at His feet…



…and she unbound her hair and cried on his feet, murmuring under her breath nearly incomprehensibly (I think it was “thank you” over and over again).  She got his feet completely wet with her tears, and then used her unbound hair to dry them off…all over…completely.

The leader was highly offended. He knew this woman…she was the town whore, and he had heard rumors that she had even been caught in the very act!!  He hated her for intruding into his house, and for interrupting the dinner party.  And he was also beginning to despise Jesus, feel contempt for him, because he was supposed to be a prophet, and if he were, he would know just what manner of evil was touching him.

But Jesus did know…who she was, and what the leader was thinking…

So He asked a question of the leader…

…”Suppose there are 2 people, and one owes $10.00, and one owes $1,000,000.00?  Suppose that neither one has the means to pay, and then further suppose that the one who is owed decides to forgive each one’s debt.  Now…which of the 2 people will love the man who forgave the debt more?”

The leader was so caught up in his offense that he totally missed the flinty gleam in Jesus’s eyes…and he roughly and blithely answered, “Oh, I suppose the one who was forgiven the million.”

BAM! Fish on!!  Jesus then gently but sternly rebuked this man, reminding him that the man had not washed His feet, or shown any kind of gratitude to Jesus, but rather had sought to enhance his own social standing, while this woman had washed His feet with her very tears and dried them with her hair…

And He ended with this:  he who is forgiven much, loves much…and he who is forgiven little loves little.

Now…we are all forgiven much…but we are also blind to that, and it takes a work of grace to perceive just how much we are truly forgiven for…

Grant us the grace to see how great our debt, that we can then be set free to love even more than we owe.