It caged me in its cold confining bars.
Long have I been its lost and longing thrall,
its tenant-serf of weary plodding on.
Its tentacles clung round my throat, my eyes,
and darkness was its cruel confederate
who caged my strong uprising Ne’er-Say-Die.


But lately, through these months of journey labor,
I’ve groaned and strained to heave off shell and shield!
Bright-beauty-bursts-dark, red, that primal pulse
sings in my veins and I feel me revealed,
but tentative in fragile waking Joy.


For I am soft, and never more me clothed
with harmour. I am closed, but only just
in poise for the Great Opening to come,
my exit from the carapace that clung…

Her Song and Sun e’er on my windswept face,
I’ll live now, bravely, on the precipice.


No April Fool We

Fed up with the drivel and condescension,
we made a dash for it!
Baubles joggled and then
fell like dead leaves and moulty old shells,
but we didn’t stop for them.
Those trifles were known to us now,
minus the shine, the shimmer,
the sting of deceptive bribe.

Trailing lies, and curses
streaming out behind us like snapped leashes,
we leapt for the wall and
monkeyed our way quick-shinny clamber
over the top!
Freedom-vented fragrances
tickled our nostrils,
and the air was heavy
and thick with liberty-scent…
but our jailers were breathing hard
through their mouths,
hairy and drab-dull
stone brown buffaloes
galumphing along
behind us.

They shouted, threatened,
and wheedled for a glance back.
But we had heard of Lot’s Wife,
and thought that the
salty tang of freedom
was better than
the certain security of slavery!
So we bolted,
gleeful and breathless,
scared and exhilarated,
dreaming of all that
we knew lay nascent
and yet to be born.


Note to Spammers

Hi Loyal Readers…thank you for your kind attentions and encouraging notes.  You really cannot imagine how deeply they encourage me!

BUT:  to the ones who start to follow, and it turns out your blog is just a come-on for some business, or some “can’t miss” make money scheme?


On the off chance that you have read, or maybe will read, I am not winnowing, but I can guarantee you that I will never EVER get drawn in by the promises and lures…

…well, except in one case:  Send me $100,000 up front, and then I am all in!


Oh, damn…well in that case, don’t go away mad…just go away!


Lots of thoughts about stones lately…Ecclesiates 3:5

It dawned on me…I have written 2 poems, consecutively mind you, on stones, rocks…

Ecclesiastes 3:5 is in a famous passage which is listing things for which there are times and seasons.  So many of these things are complements to one another, things which spiral around into their time, and then spiral out and lay at rest while other things take prominence.

“…a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them…”

I have loved this passage (Eccl. 3:1-8)  over the years, as it is some poetry with a bottom that I have never reached, for every time I think I have sussed them out, Mama pushes the next button and the elevator floor drops out, or the ceiling blows off.  They are a sort of spiritual escalator into the eternal reaches of Truth, and it is our destiny and honor to search out those truths.

“It is the glory of God to conceal a thing: but the honor of kings is to search out a matter”.

So with my creative mind occupied by stones, I naturally thought of verse 5, which speaks of a time to gather stones together and a time to cast stones away, and oh how the last year has been a casting away of stones in my life!

Things I thought I knew, things I trusted and relied on, things I assumed were axiomatic, revealed to be sandstone and crumbling upon touch…and then the hammer blows, breaking chunks and chipping off bits and pieces of long years of hurt and loss and pain and suffering and loneliness in the core…

Who I once was, which although it never felt like me for real was none the less all I knew, and therefore was a security to me…going, going, gone…

But the true me, the inner me which managed to survive and is now beginning to come out like the lambs in spring from the stalls…she has been walking, I think, together with Mama, and rock hounding!

“PRETTY!” she says, and picks up another, and another, and soon I am finding a sort of stability returning, understandings, awareness…stones!  Piled, stacked, set in ways that are strange and alien and yet at the same time like old comfortable shoes…they just fit.

The real quest in this broken sphere is to get in synch with that time, season…when it is time to gather, resist the gravity which will seek to get you to cast away, and when it is time to cast away, open your hand and resist the urge to clamp down, clench down and be a miser with the things which must go.

I am Charissa Grace.

I am under the Mercy, and I am OK!



Stones are alive,
inhabiting a welter-world.
Speaking, standing,
preaching, crying out
in mute voluminous
wordy paeans.


But some have forgotten
they are stones
and dwell in
silent dull “there-ness”.
They have forgotten
their voices, and their throats
choke on dirty cloddy poems
fed them by
taxmen and misers.


Those stones leap
into heavy horned hand,
rocket from ragged arm
to fly and howl and maim
and drink vorpal draughts
of gouty spurty blood
welling up from crushed
and broken tender skin,
and throbbing in
painful, reflexive retreat
from standing.


But other stones,
sentinels, stand and watch,
witness, and take note
in their solid and lasting tongue.
These very rocks cry out
when all else is silent
and their melodies
wing back to the stars
and their song remains
forever chronicling
the rule of Grace and Mercy.