“Anyone who takes the time to be kind is beautiful.”
| — | Richelle E. Goodrich |
Monthly Archives: November 2013
Working on this!
“I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.”
| — | Franz Kafka |
For the page to turn
I watch carefully and slow
and peaceful.
Stress claws constant, gnawing gnashing
teeth sharp and white
and tipped in red.
And yet I live, sustained and filled
as I am drained and killed…
Grace-God reigns and wreathes me
in Comfort-Smoke-Incense
and I am watching
for the page to turn.
Behind the set the Makers Move,
Hear, Feel and Pray.
Grant grace so I too this day.
And every day to come remain
Faithful to turn the page.
Surfacing
I’ve swum and I have paddled
For years, all senses addled.
To finally break thru
And surface, all things new.
Today is a beginning
I’m somber and I’m grinning
I’m in, but coming out
Grace protect this tender sprout.
Bleeding Light and Memory (without images for page structure in the poem)
When light struck my soul and I blazed
fierce and exultant into awareness,
I bled radiant joy like the horizon
bleeds the sun at dawn.
And when I gazed into the glass of exultation
(seeing darkly thru that glass)
I knew myself and was
glad and wonder-full.
Until it rained
titters tinkling,
then rebukes raging, lashing at my roof
and thrumming drumming until
I saw no more darkly and thru a glass,
but thru the storm and eerie green glow
of radioactive remarks and careless cerulean (cruelean) comment,
alas. I came to know what I was not,
and I was awful (dropped an e I did).
Into days long and same,
passing people of 2 kinds that
belong and never see beyond,
never see within.
But still I pluck
throbbing buds, thorn
blood price cheap,
and hold them out
on my side of the glowing glass
(dark, through)
and wet with stormy tears
and the washy rivers of assumed presence.
But flowers fade and grass withers…
wheat words last forever
dying and reborn
to die and be born again,
as life and glacier glances grind
and move without mercy
till I am caught
between that frozen moving flow
and the dark rocks.
Bones strewn around me
in pick-up sticks of
careless hands and players
who tired of children’s games
(forgetting they must become a child)
until at last long
awareness bursts yet again
from heights dizzy and brilliant
and bleeds over me in fullness
and in terror tinklings,
thrumming and cold and stark
and cold blue clarity.
And I remember who I am,
and know what I am.
A lass.
Will you find the mercy today?
Will you find the care?
Will you go gently into our long night
and rage, rage
together with us to bless
the living of the light?
You too are dual natured,
all ye who sing sanctifications’
sweet and austere song
(old and new in one fighting)
(dead and alive in one struggle)
(corrupt and incorruption deadly dueling)
You….are US.
and we are you…but
without arms,
without eyes,
without mouths
we scream loud
and cry for release…cry out for
midwives of mercy to meet us,
make us beautiful for situation
and delivered of our awful charge.
OPEN YOUR EYES AND EARS FOR US.
See us…
hear us…
do not fear yourself,
to stare down your stormy floods,
but see, glean and grow glad.
Oh Pharaoh’s Daughters, reach down
and lift up from the reeds and mud.
Light strikes in blacksmith blows again
and soul sparks chip off and away
As She sings and joys over me
(and you).
And on this day
I intention and remember,
remember the radiant flood
and bleeding light
of day’s eternal promise,
remember the rolling thunder
and frowning floods of painful
gushing gouts and waterspouts
in the long years walked in
the country of lost men
(and despair),
remember
the pangs,
the waves,
the start of labor as I,
pregnant with my own mystery
and full of knowing
began to emerge
and break forth, touched,
warded by Grace,
and kept from the pit
which has tripped so many
and eaten them
like Goya’s devourer
chews and rends
(let their fate haunt you and give you holy hush and silence).
They too are
Eve’s sons,
Adam’s daughters,
trapped
and
yet aware…
who fell by dreadful hands
and eyes of no symmetry.
Dare. Look. Feel.
I will too, and somewhere
we will fight off the things
that so easily entangle and be
free again to fly and
Bleed Radiant Light.
Bleeding Light and Memory
When light struck my soul and I blazed
fierce and exultant into awareness,
I bled radiant joy like the horizon bleeds the sun
at dawn.
And when I gazed into the glass of exultation (seeing darkly thru that glass)
I knew myself and was glad and wonder-full.
Until it rained
titters tinkling, then rebukes raging
lashing at my roof and thrumming
drumming until I saw no more darkly and thru a glass,
but thru the storm and eerie
green glow of radioactive remarks and
careless cerulean (cruelean) comment, alas.
I came to know what I was not,
and I was awful (dropped an e I did).
Into days long and same, passing people
of 2 kinds that belong and never see beyond,
never see within.
But still I pluck
throbbing buds, thorn blood price cheap,
and hold them out on
my side of the glowing glass (dark, thorough)
and wet with stormy tears and
the washy rivers of assumed presence.
But flowers fade and grass withers…
wheat words last forever
dying and reborn to die and be born again,
as life and glacier glances grind
and move without mercy
till I am caught between that frozen moving flow
and the dark rocks.
Bones strewn around me in pick up sticks of careless hands
and players who tired of childrens’ games
(forgetting they must become as a child)
until at last long awareness bursts yet again
from heights dizzy and brilliant and bleeds over me in fullness
and in terror tinklings, thrumming and cold and stark
and cold blue clarity.
And I remember who I am, and know what I am.
A lass.
Will you find the mercy today?
Will you find the care?
Will you go gently into our long night
and rage, rage together with us
to bless the living of the light?
You too are dual natured, all ye who
sing sanctifications’ sweet and austere song
(old and new in one fighting)
(dead and alive in one struggle)
(corrupt and incorruption deadly dueling)
You….are US. and we are you…but without arms, without eyes, without mouths we scream loud
and cry for release…cry out for
midwives of mercy to meet us, make us
beautiful for situation and delivered of our charge.
OPEN
YOUR EYES
AND EARS
FOR US.
See us
hear us…
do not
fear yourself,
to stare down your stormy floods,
but see,
glean and
grow glad
Oh Pharaoh’s Daughters,
reach down
and lift up
from the reeds and mud.
Light strikes in blacksmith blows again
and soul sparks chip off and away
As She sings and joys over me
(and you).
And on this day I intention and remember
remember the radiant flood and bleeding light
of day’s eternal promise,
remember the rolling thunder and frowning floods
of painful gushing gouts and waterspouts in the
long years walked in the country of lost men
(and despair),
remember the pangs, the waves, the start
of labor as I, pregnant with my own mystery
and full of knowing
began to emerge and break forth,
touched, warded
by Grace, and
kept from the pit
which has tripped so many and eaten them
like Goya’s devourer
chews and rends
(let their fate haunt you and give you holy hush and silence).
They too are Adam’s sons, Eve’s daughters
trapped and yet aware…who fell by dreadful hands
and eyes of no symmetry.
Dare. Look. Feel.
I will too, and somewhere we will
fight off the things
that so easily entangle
and be free again to fly and
Bleed Radiant Light.
When I am Mis-gendered I feel like this
Amazing article on Gender Formation
To All You Who Have Been Wounded by…
the so called church, by religion, by those who take the Wonderful and Graceful Name of the Blessed God of Grace in vain, I am sorry…
Please do not hold the behavior of these Pharisees against the Father, and know that what this pic shows is anathema to Them!!
Kulani
lie quietly by my side
like a still lake.
My heart beats
on your heart
as we hold each other’s
breathing in our arms
What I Want To Say
It’s as simple as it can be.
I’ll leave the clothes off my words
and address you nakedly as anyone can
Each one was perfect–
that is what I want to say–
PERFECT
The perfection found
only in loving.
Do you understand?
It seems against everything we know and
It seems against everything we believe and
It is true.
To say “I love you” is a humiliation for
It is the Absolute Narrowing of Possibilities
And everyone, down to
the last one
Dreads it…and wants it…
For only in narrowing is found
Endless widening freedom.
Firebird
Plunging, plunging with screaming speed,
Oh Eagle of Flame, Whose lidless eyes
Have looked into the Light behind the sun.
When all other creatures are blinded
You soar–and then–faster faster
With talons outspread–You plummet to earth.
To spit fire and speak
Speak of Her! Firebird–Flaming One
Give me words of purity!
Giggle
Yes
I wept, but I shall triumph in Joy
No Matter What…
I will praise the Lord as long as I live. He will never desert those who trust Him.
The Holy Spirit, Lady Grace is my ward and my protector. I love Her and trust Her always.
God is my refuge and my strength, a very present help in time of need.
Walking Free
If I could walk free through this shadowed place
And Time was on my side, Charissa Grace
Would step on flowers’ fragrant in the air
And keep my head up for to see you there.
My level gaze made confident and sure,
If I was free, if we had found the cure,
Then I would sing of sunsets in the night
And we would swing so high in radiant light.
And from my gut would gush great gouts of joy,
And I would ne’er again be sorrow’s toy,
If I could walk free through this shadowed place
And Time was on my side, Charissa Grace
.
Emily Bronte said it best for me…
“I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free; and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed? why does my blood rush into a hell of tumult at a few words?”
― Emily Bronte.
Ghosts
“We were dead before the ship even sank” she said.
Thin tendrils of pain wreathed round her face
unnoticed and they left scratches unseen.
The Dutchman walked the decks in her eyes, and
in her voice was the echo of wailing and tentative tongues
trying to tell themselves they were sailing
on the ship of the dead.
Her hair crowned her soaked skull, a holly wreath
presenting her own crown of thorns and those claws
dug in to her waxy and pale fishflesh and clung
like limpets and mirrored the
cold and enflamed tendrils of grief.
“One by one we fell, overboard” she droned, as if hypnotized
by the drumming of the waves,
the thrumming of the engines,
and the humming of the wind
in the torn and tattered sails.
“Gone, given up by the ghost we gave up the ghost”
she murmured.
“We fell into the vast
and bottomless sea,
and the ship Sailed
unheeding on into
the long and everdark night.”
I thought on these things
as my feet were burning hot
in the bright and gritty sand,
and my face baked in the grip
of the gleaming sun
and the taste of salty strain
and the happy ache of
love’s labors in my bowed back…
and I was fiercely glad
that I had never taken that voyage.
Gender Is…
“Gender is who you go to bed as,” says one specialist in gender identity issues. “Sexuality is who you go to bed with.”
Read more: Brittney Griner Profile – Brittney Griner Interview – ELLE
What is Transgender Remembrance Day?
Why…it is simply the day that the decimation of transgendered people by violence, rape and murder is mourned, and the victims are remembered.
As a point of fact, know this: for the ratio of violence against trans women to the overall transwoman population to be equivocal for cis gendered women, there would have to be over 2.2 million acts of rape, violence, and murder every year.
2.2 MILLION!
Imagine the outcry.
But a few transwomen who are brutally beaten, and then their memory fouled and polluted with painting them as deserving what happened…meh, who cares?
thus Trans remembrance day.
Find a place in your city where there is a memorial going on…attend it, and let the horror really get inside your heart.
Winter
From far out in the center
of the naked lake
A Lost Loon’s Loud Lament
Echoes the cry of someone.
My love, we did not arrive at this place
To remain whole.
We came to lose our leaves
Like trees.
Trees are broken in winter and start again
Drawing up from
The Great Root.
Like Trees
We live again.
Longing
I am longing,
as a sailboat
longs for water,
Longs for the
cool swell of the river.
I am longing
as a dark soft curl
of a woman’s hair
longs for a flower.
I am longing,
as the blueness of sky
longs for the rhythmic
fables of bells.
I am longing,
as an empty cradle
longs for someone’s
tremulous sleep.
I am longing,
as a mirror
longs for
Reflections.
Such a longing.
Such a long time,
such a long way,
Such a longing.
They both cause Cancer
Cornered
And I find at long last
the days taste of black licorice and
camphorous witch hazel
scrunched over my heart,
and ground-in dirt and gritty green and gummy pain
crust thick and stale over its surface.
I pull my brown drab blanket closer
and cling to clotted adhesions
of inner and outer worlds in collision.
Cornered, walls of the past and the future
hem me in. Raw, bleeding tears
and tears
where I seek to
strip away small comforts
but only tear pieces of me
off with them.
cornered.
and how deep runs the river,
how cold the current
how silent the stream.
Reposting An Article which helps distinguish drag queens from transgender women
Will TransAmerica Aid or Exploit the Lives of Trans People?
Posted: 10/18/2013 6:25 pm
I was having brunch with a friend this past weekend. As we walked off our meals, we talked about a few upcoming events bound to impact transgender people (and, just as importantly, public perception of transgender people). The conversation eventually turned to the upcoming transgender-centric reality show TransAmerica, currently in its casting phase.
Described as a “docu-soap reality series” that will “[push] the envelope … to redefine sex in the city with a transgender twist,” the casting call expresses an interest in “dynamic and fashionable trans women,” referring to them as a “divine sisterhood.” Additionally, Doron Ofir Casting, the agency behind TransAmerica, is most famous for also handling the casting of RuPaul’s Drag Race, a show about (typically cisgender men who enjoy performing as) drag queens. Given the “dynamic and fashionable” line in the casting call, I have to wonder whether the TransAmerica casting will reflect the actual trans women I know or will be something more along the lines of a flamboyant, over-the-top, Drag Race-esque monstrosity.
And given the fact that the show’s creators would work with such an agency, I really have to question their motives. In my opinion, RuPaul is one of the most transphobic men in the world. When asked about the difference between a drag queen and a trans woman, RuPaul answered, “About $25,000 and a good surgeon.” I think the blog planetransgender responded to this statement best:
Matting of makeup and hitching your penis between your legs for a occasional night of fun at others expense doesn’t make you trans, it just makes you an obnoxious man in a dress. That’s all. Being in drag for a few hours doesn’t give you the right or even the life experience to speak for trans people.”
RuPaul is not transgender. He’s a cisgender, gay man. Nevertheless, the world looks to him as some sort of trans icon. When he says “tranny” and tells those of us who might be offended by that term to “fuck off,” he’s damaging the lives of actual transgender people. His cavalier use of that hateful term gives others the impression that they can use it when describing trans people or drag queens. He exploits trans people for personal financial gain.
Something about this casting call tells me that the casting agency isn’t exactly looking for anyone I’d be able to even remotely relate to. As I write this, I’m wearing a pair of jeans, a navy-blue, long-sleeve T-shirt, and a pair of beat-up Tom’s flats. You’ll never see me with big, fake eyelashes, nor will you see me teetering around in stilettos. I’m guessing that if you play the “Trans Documentary Drinking Game” while watching this show, you’ll end up wasted.
Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe the show’s producers can shift to a casting company that has a less tainted past when it comes to trans sensitivity. Maybe the show’s producers will realize that their show has the same name as a 2005 movie starring Felicity Huffman. (There’s nothing wrong with using the same title, but seriously, couldn’t they be a little more creative?)
When the show premieres, you’ll likely find me here, banging my head against a wall as I watch my people exploited, lumped into one big, over-the-top mess. There’s a chance I’ll be completely wrong about this, but something tells me that that’s not going to be the case.
Follow Parker Marie Molloy on Twitter: www.twitter.com/MissParkerMarie
Sooo TRUE!!
When I was in 8th Grade…
I listened to The Carpenters incessantly! Constantly, and I would cry along with the dreamy sad sound of Karen Carpenter, whom I thought was the most amazing vocalist I had ever heard. How was she able to capture the lonely longings and isolation that I was in all the time?
I also liked Vikki Carr, and her song “It Must Be Him” just broke me everytime with her despair when her lover didn’t end up calling on her. Take a listen sometime…to the beautiful Karen Carpenter (God please Bless her), and Vikki Carr.
How many cis-gender women would be willing to wear the label of transwoman?
The salient part of this article is what I will post. The whole thing can be found at the following link:
http://womenborntranssexual.com/
***************************************************************************************************************
Now let us suppose that being TS/TG wasn’t an exceptional burden for any child to grow up with.
That would presuppose the transkid wasn’t obvious, that it wasn’t written on their body and they didn’t have their education destroyed by bullying.
We all have one thing in common. At some point in our lives we come out and transition.
Considering how M to F transsexual and transgender people have to fight to be considered part of the human race, much less women is it really reasonable to smack us around with the male privilege slur?
Further this gets used in a gender policing manner that requires us to adhere to some of the strictest gender guidelines this side of some of the fundie religious cults.
If our status as female goes unquestioned then we are free to be loose in our embrace of gender without taking a bunch of shit. Unless we out ourselves to people we think are our friends in the lesbian/feminist world.
Then our doing anything is seen as residual male privilege. Even if we learned the skill long after transitioning and had to put up with all sorts of sexist bull shit to learn it.
I feel sorry for those sisters who aren’t able to blend in. What sort of male privilege is there to being obviously TS/TG? To being unable to get a job or walk down the street without being taunted?
But there is a real test, one that is pretty much a fail by anyone’s standards.
How many cis-gender women would be willing to wear the label of transwoman?
One would think that all sorts of cis-gender women would embrace the label in exchange for all the privilege transwomen are supposed to have.
But I be willing to bet damned few would risk coming out to their friends as being a transwoman, even as part of a psych experiment to record their friend’s reactions.
Most of those who hurl this slur are simply being hateful and displaying their own norm-born cis-privilege. They know full well that TS/TG people go through life taking shit cis-gender folks would be appalled at were it to happen to them.
The real kicker is we are just supposed to suck it up and absorb the bullshit, just like we did when we were transkids.
South Delhi Roadside, 8 A.M. by Michael Creighton
One of my very favorite poems ever, appeared in a newspaper years ago…I am blown away at the capturing of the power of a Woman, and the ready relish her man takes in being hers.
She is lovely, I think, as she sits,
one hand draped lightly over the shoulder
of her breathless companion, the other moving up and
out, as it punctuates the monologue she is murmuring
in his ear. Even from here, I can see that fines lines
break and run from her eyes, and banks of invasive gray
have taken root in her wild black curls. (Later today,
I will read that Sharon Stone has proven older women
can be beautiful, and I will think—was there ever
any doubt?) My God, this woman looks like a queen,
except she is sitting sideways, balanced,
on the back of an old, black bicycle.
The late April heat is already up,
and anyone looking would see
this man of hers is hard at it; his pressed
white shirt had become untucked in the back,
and the slick bare skin at the top of his head
is pearled with sweat. I wonder
if he finds himself wishing
he could trade the load he is pedaling
for a bottle of cold water, or an FM radio.
Suddenly, the corners of her lips elevate slightly,
and taking his right ear between her thumb and forefinger,
she tugs. His head snaps back, mouth open wide,
and he laughs with such force
that even the dogs drowsing
in the dusty shade that lines this road
lift their heads and sing.
As She Sleeps
I watch, fingers for eyes,
as she Sleeps
night pulled inside her,
down her eyes
like a velvet blanket
I touch…face, and see pain flying away,
ducks from the pond
breaking
dashing in the dark
feathers fluttering feebly
all that is left of the fight
i stroke and see
strife shuffling off
shambling shibboleth
gross golem
gone.
my hands heal, they speak,
and call the sun
rising inside her, restoring her to
light to
love to
life…and life.
my lips preach with
a kiss upon her brow,
and she sighs
and i know the dawn is come.
I AM NOT A JOKE
I know enough now to rewrite this and say “I was assigned to ‘be’ male when I was born, because I had this stupid stunted genitalia that looks like a penis, but I have always been a woman! THANK GOD!
Hounding of the Hares
After A Kill There Is A Feast.
Toward The End, When Dancing Dies,
The Hounds, Drunk On Hares’ Blood
Begin To Talk Of How Soft
Were Their Pelts, How Graceful
Their Leaps, How Lovely
Their Scared, Sad Eyes
Regression
Regression
I have seen, in my solitude
Very clear things that are
not true.
The poet does not pursue
the fundamental “I”
but the essential “you”.
Things to ponder:
a heart that is solitary is
a heart no longer
But when you criticize me,
Catch also
a cricket by the wing
and accuse her
of chirruping!
Going and Coming
In misty morning’s early grasp
autumn rituals of smoke
and crackly leaves
lay strewn around about…
and I hover
twixt two times,
two places and wandering
from side to side
and place to place
and me to me,
fading, forming,
transparent and thin
dropping (fig) leaves.
this tree longs
to slumber
and lay dormant
awaken and
break free…
I take on form and visage
and gather threads together
of my true heart,
and feed to life’s
warp and weft and beam
till I am fashioned again,
with face and substance shining…
me…
Her glowing Grace-Kissed Gleam.
Waltz time
3/4 time the music swirled
unfurled and rolled along
while life just twisted, doubled, curled
and sang its starry song.
Pastiche, panoramas, plans
click by like slides before
the slumbering spirits too drunk on draughts
of dreamy days of yore…
and nights of normal life, assumed,
taken as granted and gifted
while life just twisted, doubled, curled
and sang its white swan song.
Waltz time strains echoing through
A life time of refrains
But Joy endures with compass True
To dance, to love, Sustain.
Charissa's Grace Notes 
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