Piled, Pierced, and at Peace

See her, here.

Broken tops and
edges gathered softly and
with gentle timing.
Rubble, rubbish,
ruin and remains

racked up,
just so…just so.

Holes and wounds gaping,
whistling and singing in
every flickering breeze,
and light running
full and free
wherever She sends,
wherever She leads.

I am Her Tor,
Her Tribute,
Her Trophy
and my heart
is Her Altar
Spilling Grace


My Heart Dares

My high hills have heaved into mountains!
They’re muscling and bunching with glory
and streaming my Star-Ribbon story.

Hills of want, hills of pining and yearning
were worn down by storm torrents and winds,
became mounds, became cairns to lost futures
for this poor girl born so out of time
and so life-lorn and null in her place.

But up! They have been drawn, been pushed,
been called clarion and clear, brassy-broad,
with fresh timeless bright voice, they have answered,
and begun to grow high right before me,
in my solemn amazed wide eyed presence.

And my heart dares to become a mountain!
Thrusting boldly through stained steely clouds,
into blaze, into dithery-dazzle,
into light and life, cold and warm sun,
and they thrive midst glad gales of good Portent!
Noble sigils and icons of trust,
And I let my glad self stand and live!

Thus I sing to the Dwellers in Shinar
lift your heads, lift your eyes, lift your hearts
Take you hope, take ye courage and comfort,
Grace and Peace be your portion,


Vignettes from the outlet mall

she was talking, allowing her voice to carry.

“She is a loud, obnoxious froward woman!”

she was quiet, moving from rack to rack, circumspect and quick inside.

“She is an icy haughty bitch, too good to talk to us!”

she dressed with pizazz and showed a bit of skin with skillful concealment.

“She is a slut and slingin’ it around, the little prick tease!”

she dressed modestly, clothes fig leaves concealing naked limbs.

“She is such a shovel face, plain patty and doesn’t give a crap about how she looks!”

she smiled at his complement.

“She wants you, dawg!!”

she shot him a dirty look and told him to back off.

“She is such a c***! Can’t she just accept the attention and be grateful!?”

Sadly, all of those incantation,
spoken to control and other
came from both
male and female hearts,
brains turned off
and lights inside
darker than death’s own heart.


Every Grain of Sand A Word

“So, do you have anything else you want to tell me?”
She asked archly with smothered mirth and lurking laugh,
cus the coffee-laced conversation had been gay, girly and bouncy.
tumblr_mqagxrnlOO1rmw338o1_1280 She expected a flip answer…
but her eyes begged me to
discombobulate, surprise,
entertain with another
jitter-jump turn of mind,
another juke into loose laughing
and yet another paving stone
in our miracle road together.

I turned, priest-solemn with limpid eyes
and entoned with sonorous sotto-voice serious,
and dripping with implication:
“Darling, were every grain of sand a word,
and every star in heaven an idea,
I would not have the makings of even a preamble,
a preface to all my heart would say!”

She threw her head back,
Pegasus rearing and rising
and laughed like She
who sits in the Heavens,
and her eyes danced with glee,
delighted in my expected
impossibly unpredictable reply.

In that moment, I lived forever.ggg

Robbed No More

The thief had tightened his bright red cawl
over his dusky-dim face of shadows.
Sneaking snaky-quick past slumbering guards
awash in smoky-hazy
maisy lazy thoughts
(and assumptions)
he stole to the cradle and breathed
ice and death in stark puffs.
And then he touched what was not his
and rent eternity bloody within.

I have screamed for 5 decades
The tear, jagged and oozing in my soul
gapes, stupid and dull and empty like
that cradle was, ever after.

But Grace has been walking,
from then forward to now,
a gryphon on steady paws
beating breaths of golden Life
to the ever-ache within.

She, with unveiled face and shining glad,
has caressed, crossed
the vast and rheumy spaces
with Promise and Her Red and blazing
tender love to ease my throat,
my heart,
to  transform
that empty achy cradle
into a vacant tomb…

and let my voice now say
in thankful praise



The Daily Dot – RuPaul still hasn’t learned his lesson on transphobia

Another thoughtful essay on the Ru Paul mash-up…this time demonstrating that this important spiritual principle:

Judge not, lest you be judged.  For the measure you use to judge others will be used to judge you.

Tragically, when an oppressed group finally gains some measure of freedom, liberation and self-definition, they turn around and do the very things that were done to them to the next least powerful group onhand.  This happens in all realms and strata of humanity:  sexuality, gender, race, religion, economic class…it is unfortunately endemic to the human race and is part of our tragically flawed and broken nature.

To rise up…to overcome this low road…this is our task and our heart…or should be anyway.

The Daily Dot – RuPaul still hasn’t learned his lesson on transphobia.

My Trans Story is Not Your Growth Experience

My Trans Story is Not Your Growth Experience.

This is one of the sharpest and to the true point essays I have read in recent times.  I am going to copy the whole thing here, but encourage you to follow the link as well…she deserves sober consideration for the topic she raises, and her pointing out of how we have unconsciously taken the other and turned their struggle into the affirmation of ourselves and thus have inadvertently reinforced the sexist and privileged paradigm that dictates thought is quite insightful and perhaps on the border of revolutionary.

When I say “we” and “our”, I am speaking of our society today collectively, and not myself specifically…but I will admit here that the lightbulb went on for me…and now, when I encounter people who do this around me, and some who have even done it with my own story, I will be armed to speak truth to power, albeit in my own way with Grace and Mercy and Kindness as my riverbanks, that the water from me will edify and build even as it challenges and changes.


The Toast’s previous coverage of trans* issues can be found here. This post brought to you by figwiggin.

Last year, my girlfriend and I spent our first Christmas vacation together in my hometown of Dallas, TX. We’d been together for only a few months at the time, but she was excited to see the town I grew up in, so we boarded a flight after finals and landed a miserable 10 hours later. At the border an agent accosted me over discrepancies between my passport and my appearance.

This began happening more regularly after I started taking hormones in 2010, and for obvious reasons. Why a terrorist would be dumb enough to get a fake passport with an opposite gender marker, an opposite gender picture, and an opposite gender name is beyond me, but apparently the USA is absolutely terrified of such an eventuality. As the Hank Shrader-looking fellow glazed dumbly over the 5 pieces of ID I placed before him, I wore the same expression I always wear in these situations. I cock my head slightly, narrow my eyes, and swallow my lips as if someone is presenting a desiccated cat to me and I’m pretending to be nonchalant about it.

Several days later, my partner and I went to Barnes & Noble and I spied a book out of the corner of my eye bearing a name like My Husband Wears My Clothes or From John to Jane or something like that. Ever since I became aware of my trans-sexual identity I’ve become very attuned to this sort of thing. I suppose it’s like gay-dar, but much less sexy. I have a knack for immediately noticing any piece of media that even suggests trans-sexuality, as if I had heat-vision goggles on.

I cracked open the book, and immediately shut it. Of course. This was a memoir of another cis-woman who finds she isn’t as enlightened as she thinks she is when she finds her “husband” raiding her panty drawer and is subsequently transformed into a better person through the grace and patience of her partner.

As a member of a minority whose voice is very rarely heard, much less listened to, seeing such a piece of media unfailingly irritates me. It makes me feel like Richard Pryor in The Toy. My presence in another person’s life leads them to grow as a character, to undergo an arc. Character arcs are what define protagonists in stories. If a character goes through some trials and challenges and ultimately comes out of the story a different person, for better or worse, then they are a more fully realized character. As a trans person in this narrative I am relegated to a plot device. An obstacle. Something that must be overcome in order for the real protagonist, the cis-woman, to complete her arc.

Obviously the stories of partners, parents, and friends of trans people are valuable. The existence of this book and the multitude of books like it (see: Sex ChangesAlmost PerfectTrans-sister Radio) as well as films like Normal, provide comforting narratives for these people who are struggling with deep emotional questions about their own identities, attitudes, and beliefs when confronted with a profound change in someone close to them.  Transition is hard for all parties involved, and all emotional struggles are important. As a feminist it would be unbecoming of me to suggest that some perspectives are not valuable.

That said; I am completely sick of it.

Trans-sexuals are one of the most marginalized groups in North American society today: 1/5 of us are homeless for a portion of our lives; 57% of us are rejected outright by our families; 30% of us have a physical disability or mental condition; we have double the rate of unemployment of the general population, and half report being harassed on the job; we have four times the national average of HIV infections; 41% of us have attempted suicide; and these numbers get even worse when whites are separated out from the rest of the sample, leaving only racial and ethnic minorities.

One very effective method of countering all of these effects is the introduction of an accepting network of family, friends, and partners. In this way cis-centric narratives about trans people are very valuable to the trans community. My partner, who is a cis-woman, owes a small portion of her awareness of trans identities to a book she read at 14 called Luna, a young adult novel about a cis-girl and her transgender sister. I probably owe my sanity to my girlfriend. I love her, and if this book played a small part in expanding her mind, then surely it deserves to exist.

Please understand: it is not the cis-centric narratives themselves that I take issue with, but rather the prioritization of these narratives over stories of the actual marginalized population here, which in the case of trans-sexuals, in particular trans-women, means a population that generally lacks positive role models and protagonists of our own. We need role models in order to understand ourselves, and to have positive self-conceptions, especially considering we live in a society that largely despises us. It is not difficult to extrapolate that such a hateful cultural landscape would instill in us a profound self-loathing, a feeling of being freakish and different.

Yet, the most privileged narrative about trans people is not our story, but rather the story of how the cissies learn from us to not be complete asswipes, and are subsequently showered with praise and hole punches on their liberalism card.

Stories from the perspective of the “normals” which look in, almost voyeuristically, on the lives of the non-normals, are baby’s first empathy. It is far easier for the privileged to view the oppressed through the eyes of someone they can identify with, and that identification comes from a shared privilege. It’s a stepping-stone to truly feeling empathy for those who are different, even radically different, from you. However, it feels like many simply stop there.

On this level it makes perfect sense to me that stories like mine aren’t the ones getting the spotlight. Trans-gender people by their very nature fly in the face of thousands of years of shared cultural expectations of the immutability of gender, gender expression, and sex itself. Some see us as traitors, as traps, or as generally incomprehensible altogether. Even some feminists and gay activists shy away from us, or even go so far as to outright detest us. We complicate matters of gender and sex, changing them from static constructions to mutable shades of grey, just as the gays do, only more so. In order to understand us it makes sense to me that people would use a metaphorical telescope to view us instead of getting up close and personal. Cis-centric narratives are that telescope. They keep us at arms length and view us through a lens that is at once reductionist and familiar.

This is a necessary stepping-stone toward building empathy, but it is just that. A step. It is very worrying to me that this step is given so much more prominence than the actual lived experiences of minorities simply because it is easier and more palatable to the privileged.

At the time of this writing I haven’t traveled back home yet for Christmas 2013. My partner will be coming with me again, and for the first time since I embarked on this journey I will finally have a passport that reflects my true self. I received sex reassignment surgery in May, which made me woman enough for the Canadian government to stamp a tiny F next to my new name (yes, our stories continue on after the big surgery in the 3rd act.)

My girlfriend has never once said anything remotely transphobic to me, has never asked any prodding questions without my consent, and was fully supportive of me getting my surgery without ever suggesting that I don’t know what I need or how to run my own life. She doesn’t just owe this to some book, but to her own intelligence and introspective abilities, as well as her willingness to listen and learn. It is really not that hard to treat us like human beings. She is proof of that.


Eternally Hers

Always up, awake…
remnants of the past
Haunting my soul,
revenants of violence
And pain…

Learned habits of quiet,
silence imposed by rage
And the towering
pressure of anxious abandonment
Echoed into the present
from the past
And prophesied future

But she came,
into my life like dawn…
Kisses healing,
touches soothing,
And whispers igniting
Fire in my belly
and wet desire
Slick and sweet and…

She is real,
she is true and
has taken me
Like a buyer takes a home,
moved into me
And with me.
I am lost…
and I am found.

Her face,
her mouth,
her tongue,
her hair
Brushing my thighs
as she works,
and drinks,
And imparts and gives.
Her cheeks
her lips
her breasts fountains
That I suckle,
at long last
finding my soulmate,
my Lover,
my sister…
yes my mother,
who suckles me.

Thank you darling for you,
for true,
for real and forever.
You have rescued me,
delivered me,
and I will ever be grateful
And make me
an altar of love
unto you.

Love…your Charissa Grace


The Good

I am regretful
that I wasted good love,
good emotion,
True heart and blood
on something
that was a farce
from the start.
But I am rejoicing
that things within
were given voice,
and birthed…
I bloom and
the Flower awakens.

Her fragrance is her writing,
and I shall forever write
until there is
no more need of words…
I am glad
for the poems that were born,
I am glad
for the rants that cathartically
revealed fractures and
flaws in me,
all around me…
I am glad
for the recounting
and expiation of
telling my story…
I am glad
for the chance
to opine to myself and
clarify my own thinking
to myself.

I am a blooming
of the roots of Grace…
Charis Kiss

Yes…I love
The Good


Words fail me

{I wrote this last week…and put it in drafts, because it seemed toxic and radioactive.  Now, a week later, I think that it is good to post it, as I want a picture to be painted that is as true and real as I know how.  Clearly, we all fall short of True-truth understanding of reality and our place in it, but practically our perception and experience is real, and valid for being vulnerable regardless…these colors are an essential part of the picture of my life that is being created…and this poem a small work in a larger Work which someday may indeed be found a profound and priceless creation:  A life well lived.}

Words Fail Me

No pretty words,
no elegant phrase,
no alliteration
dancing and spinning,
distracting from
the deformed spirit limbs
and lack of true hallmarks
as a woman.
Just the moments,
which heap up
and pile up
and ever deepen
the ache inside.
You know this about me,
and still let it be.
It is preferable
to having to talk
to this stupid bitchy mutant
and tolerate her

why…her what,

her her


I fall,
Icarus struck down
and wings revealed
as crude and pathetic



when the twisted tilt
of this off-kilter place
rains down hard
and drowns my parched face
without quenching my thirst,
I feel swamped,
savaged and slain.
My hold flooded,
but buoyant resilience
beyond my kin
keeps me afloat…
and chained to a place
of teeth-gritting
white-knuckling determination
to finish this thing.


Cracked Mirrors

It’s so hard to see yourself
in a cracked mirror.
I gaze, deeply into faces
as they swirl and stream
past me in the byways and highways,
and the low ways too,
scuttering along in
gutters and grime.

I search for myself,
straining to see
past slackness,
lost blankness.
I watch dances,
intricate and musical and tone deaf
but find no rhythm
that matches me.
Dark, seeing darkly,
peering intently past
foggy facades
hanging like moss
off cliff-sides.
Cracked mirrors…

Image 01

“…having eyes, but not seeing…”

Hey!  Yeah, you.
Gotta question for ya:
what do you see?

I wonder what you see,
when I look at the way
you walk with blind eyes
to trembling and quivering souls
who just want a crust of bread…

I wonder what you see
when you speak right into someone’s face
with fistwords and hammer sounds
and their face pulps up,
mashes and folds in on itself
as blood rushes into their rendered heart
from pale cheeks to heal
the tears of horror and assumption…

I wonder what you see…
oh no I am not rhetorical,
in my question and intimating blindness.
I am watching you gaze,
dripping poisonous benevolence and
wallowing in privilege and whining
like a jet setter’s steed
whining from party to party,
and I literally wonder what you see…

I wonder what you see…
is it puppets without strings
that look like real people?
Is it the recited line,
rehearsed by the social director and
expected by you because you
have said your line and given your cue?
Is it happy field hands
singing in the blazing sun
and glistening with (you see it as)
joy-juice-just-jivingly-jumping-jack rabbits-of-meet-your-every-need-and-love-it-pleasure?

I cannot even find
an image to post,
I wonder what you see?

What is Grey?

Maligned and mistrusted,
assumed and embraced

Accused of prevarication,
of compromise,
of spineless stand
and no principles,
kaleidoscope of get along.

The soft medicine between
the hard icy edges
of sky and earthtumblr_n1xraviSx21qzkm8ro1_1280The velvet comfort of snuggly
drizzledrops in early spring
that fall gently and call out life.

Grey is a mirror to you.tumblr_myys11fnFX1qeku48o1_1280


No Roadmaps Now

No Roadmaps Now

You are going the same place
you always were.  We are…
all of us going there.

Blows rain down in cloudburst clamour
We are nails…we get pounded.
“God pounds his nails” the character said.

But it’s in your face now, it is in
your gut, gripping and gnawing
Who will you listen to now?
The fear? The pain?
fa871206fee6486aeccc3519be89f315Their song is always the same…
threats, mocking laffs,
Rinse repeat, booga booga boo!
Their voices have no power
but what you loan them!

And you need all your power to yourself.
Dare you empower yourself?
Dare you look past prejudices,
religious fig leaves, the uncertain awkward fears
of the many who swim on the surface?

Their lack does not change the available!!
tumblr_mxou0kqPA01s2z59jo1_500Look not inside, for there you will see
only the dandelions…
harmless in appearance,
but the slightest puff and they spread thru you
…and clone themselves
Until you are no longer a rose but one big dandelion.

Look not around to others…
they are faithfully what they are…UNABLE.
you have no roadmap, you have no footsteps to follow
But you DO have a COMPASS…a SEXTON…
Instruments of old to navigate by
Unseen and Signifiers.
You have a sigil…but it is called FAITH!
So get you up in the morning…sing
Wash your face. Sing
Choose your life today…Sing.
Control what you can, and all else
hits the umbrella of SING.tumblr_n2a1kaiaac1red7huo1_500Blaze me a trail baby…for I am on the same path…
My body just doesn’t know it yet.
And along the way
I will catch up to you, we will walk
together, hand in hand into that night…

Fear not!
We know One Who has overcome that night
and walks in Day forever.
Call out!
There is no roadmap baby
Follow your heart…walk on the water!
What is there to lose?

Only fear and pain.


My Self Esteem

It’s a fragile thing, proper self esteem.
I’ve never really had any as
I didn’t really have a true core
and solid sense of who I was.

Knowing I was one thing inside,
while everything around me
telling me I was another thing
is really diminishing and corrosive.
But since wondrous and very miraculous revelation
that I am not crazy,
or a freakshow,
or evil,
I have found self esteem
sneaking its shy mischievous head
well above the ground
soil of my soul,
and it has at first frightened me,
then puzzled me, and then
at last delighted me.
It makes me giddy,
and its fragrance is intoxicating!

It is like a dandelion, like a snow flake.  It is here, delicate, beautiful, but fragile and fleeting.
The slightest breath, the slightest ray of warmth, and

I pray that Your
Love and Comfort
would be in me
a Redwood of confidence,
an iceberg of self esteem.
After all,
how can I love
my neighbor as myself
if I am shapeless and void?

tumblr_n0banjxbRe1s2z59jo1_1280tumblr_mhvbshlTHp1r2zs3eo1_1280Image 2

Ode to Self-Righteousness

They lurked,
in lurid shadows, hurt,
angry inflamed
by evil righteousness
steeped in self
then drunk like
Dr Jekyll’s elixir.

The music,
light and beauteous
favor become sound
drifted, threaded
in and out and around to
remind them,
tantalize them,
sadly to torture them
with the dreary ugliness
of their inner bed o nails.

“Kill!  Destroy them!
Our Lord demands it!”
they shrieked
imagining they were
christian soldiers following
a wrathful righteous
incensed king returned.
But they didn’t know
they had stapled
His Wondrous Face
onto the caustic and rotten
golem of their own design,
they couldn’t see through
the veils of fear

That the Joyous One
was swirling, dancing,
and laughing with
gracious glance in the midst
of those lost, those abandoned,
those wounded…
…those forever finally found
and running free.


Grace Ain’t Easy

To look upon the gaping gash and see
not filthy dressing posed as fancy dress
but sour disease soaked rags to hide such shame
that noble queens and kings forget their name.

To touch adroitly, tenderly, yet firm
resolved to bring a medicine that heals
and then adorns in precious stones and gold
and then withdraw lest secret shame be told.

A costly way of life, hidden alone
committed to the coming bright Someday
enduring sorrow, betrayal, no sleep
cuz grace ain’t easy, grace is never cheap.

Though none come with, still pressing on for always
to heal, before…to kill, left far behind
the short death chosen now with Love’s embrace
Will yield forever beauty, Joy, and Grace.


The Wind Blows

In gusts and
tear-pulling rakes at my cheeks
the wind leans against me
like a drunk on the train.tumblr_n26w3zsxJE1t3hn5ao2_r1_1280Her fingers rake my hair
and glean out chaff from
useless yesterdays,
empty hulls with purpose served.nkuwrt033ia3oeartrkhHer fists though…shock me
with blindside blows and
I watch vital branches of my life
ripped away and gone gone gonedde42082959a25ff2cdc0e5d29180c94-d4tobk3Wind blows do leave bruises
on my tender gushy heart
holes in my too strong cover
and bleak determined knowing
that I must go on
resolute and face
into the wind.tumblr_n1qs20uvOj1t2lnl7o1_500

Unstained Melody

The crooning strains tugging, pulling and
my keyboard unfurls within me
and wriggles itself to limber up.
Its scales tinkle and shimmer
and I hear them, feel them itch within
for fingers to reach and trust
that they will be worthy and true means
to a beautiful melody’s end.

But know…
see what you do…
the rough rock
and dumb
unthrumming stone
that clunks and never ever
shall touch and unlock that
molten and unbridled core,
shall never be played so
my strains would soar
like smoky keys
thru keyholes of passion
to unlock desire.tumblr_n1hkw6As0R1rkjsoyo1_1280Acquiescing I hunch down,
grunt up some cover
and tamp down forever
that writhing living
crystal keyboard of
my soul,
my beauty,
my shine,
for fingers of faith are few,
and another symphony passes stillborn
and adds its own tone to my

Unstained Melody.


Desert Tryptich

Crunch-snik skitter-slide and trudge
has been my journey
step by step for long years.
The shifting sands lugubriously,
mockingly move and break promises
of direction, affirmation, guidance
and I am left thirsty again,
having drunk not even gall.
Yet sands still mount in dunes,
in waves, in mute grinding grains
of dull grey gold, and
will not end,
will not stop,
will not relent.

I have discovered
that one doesn’t die of thirst
when the water-words never come,
when the oasis is a cruel ostrich
buried in sand to avoid seeing me.
No, one lives on, persistently
dead in that cruel and sharp core,
throbbing and pulsing pain

(who knew
death hurt
so much,
so long,
so wide,
so deep?)

I turn to survey the cold and thriving
stubborn rim of flourishing thorns
and brush and stunted trees
that snigger behind my back
as they spot one of their own
without the sense to stop
walking and put down roots
and become assimilated.

Mountains stained
blood-light red and purple-bloat
rise in front, and promise a desert end.
Rain falls and I feel blessed relief
on my cheeks, eyes and tongue,
thirst promising to slake
and they touch the sands
and are swallowed up
by hunger so great it is as if
the rain was never there.
Crunch-snik scrinch skitterslide
towards those lofty promises
capped with frozen drink that
shouts to my heart

“Your fire, your fire will melt me and
I will soothe your dry throat always and
you will thirst no more”.

But when I get there, I find I was wrong,
for the snow crunch-sniks like sand,
I skitterslide and trudge as always
thru the same cold and empty world
And I see that like sand,
snow will not melt to become elixirs
I so desperately long for.

I will always long to be beautiful, desired, worthy…
but those jewels belong
to sun, sand, snow and
shall never be apples
in this cactus orchard of desert
to which I cross.


If I could go back…

What would I do?

Why, I would have a best friend and go bike riding with her all day
and end up at the creek behind the Gibson House
Buried deep in the pear orchard
where the water doggies dance and skitter across the surface
and my dog, chest deep and soggy-doggy dank,
(Mighty Huntress!)
would chomp and snap them up, protecting us from
those threatening piranhas and keeping safe our
Treasured Trinketstumblr_mxwwnrdHFn1rfq36qo1_500We would shinny out of our clothes like
young garter snakes shedding our skins and
cannonade off the bank into the cold and merry flow.
Smelling of sun and creek and joy we would swim and
shrilly shriek (quietly, lest we be discovered).
And then we would lay in the weedy straw (waiting cutting,)
and dry off with closed eyes and open hearts
holding hands and content.

Later, after we rode through the orchard (on our way to Paris)
we would end up late at night watching
Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie
eating popcorn by the handful and ice cream by the
painful spiky skull full til we at last had
outlasted my parents and been ordered to bed.

And when I woke in the night, fearful and stiff and petrified,
she would be there
my friend, and breathe on my cheek and
tell me that Jesus loves me.

If I could go back, I would ask only and ever always for that…tumblr_me6yjkCvbF1qas1mto10_r1_1280




This morning I am struck anew by the uncanny
parallels between my transition of presentation gender-wise
and my transition of presentation sanctification-wise.


Many do not grasp the gospel,
the essence and simple diamond bright
and glittering graceful good news that,
quite simply,
sanctification is the living out
of the gift of a new nature.


Have you ever felt corroded, polluted,
and ruined to the core?
You are, that is the old nature,
corrupted by pain and
beaten by betrayal and mutant,
breeding death from death
and radioactive rage to pervert and ruin.


Into that horror
comes a great gift,
something new and original,
something that “Ought to be”.
But oh how the curses,
chains, and bonds
of the old, begun
from our first breath
do rage and and
resist the new.


To transition,
you must take courage
and get in your boat
and sojourn in faith that
All things bear fruit
according to their nature.


On the other side
I will be new, different, and yet
Actually fundamentally and essentially just
Me, as always but as
hidden emerged and revealed
and rejoicing.

Child On Board

The Sea of Me

Facing the front, and clutching my oar
Confused if this ocean is really a door.
A passage way surging to carry me on
To shores of what…freedom? Or ruin? Or Gun?

I don’t know the way, and yet I’m not lost,
Surrounded by sights never seen and yet crossed
Over, time and again they pressed inside of me
So I got in my boat, and set sail upon me.


Standing in the Rain

My umbrella of fear
got blown inside out.
Her-ricanses cleansing and
Grace-Gales grasping, mending,

Can you imagine stark rendings,
scouring removal of years,
assumptions imposed,
paradigms of creaky and stale
rheumy simpleness?
They sucked!  But they were
something present,
(Stockholm is more than a city!)

And the rain falls,
drives and pelts down
and on and in…
soaking, clammy, draining

But my umbrella is now moot, and
I (with ships and song) am
standing in the rain.