a heart that’s purged is empty
and yet full all at once.
stuff and nonsense banished
pomp and pretense vanished
and only there remains
windows stained and clear
and incense in the air
and just the cross…just there.
Author Archives: charissagrace
A Rain-Fall In Autumn
I am standing in the midst
of mist and swirling grey streaked lengthy
with soft silver songs sung sighing
lost so long ago and dying
as the stone piled up on stone
oh so regal, stark and solid
now gives way to winds a crying
over years and years and years
and the rains fall washing all
in the bittersweet wet fountains
of the coming Bright Steep Mountains
falling from Aurora Rainbow
Skies, landing on earth in ruins
ruins, yes, in rain and ruins
I stand lonely and alone
and musky light smudges my cheeks
so wet and blood deserts my body
and runs to the earth between
my toes and there upon the soil
it does lay herself to die
alone
abandoned
and deserted
Only Different Now
Be yourself only
different now
somehow
with all
that
grief.
In case you ever
thought that
you were just
a being, just
a humble
presence
you are not just
anything, you
mean something,
more than that
you mean
everything,
because everything that
means something
beats inside
of you.
“…I’m STILL HERE!…”
This line has inspired me for 40 plus years…literally.
Watch to the end…For I am committed to living to that…the end.
PS: the irony of the fact that this movie is called “Papillon” is not lost on me!!
I Learned This Today
Some days, survival is going to be hard and people are still going to look at you
in the way you hate, with eyes narrowed in judgement, words like quicksand
drawing you deeper and deeper into self doubt, self hatred when they tell you
in how many ways you are not beautiful.
On those days, look people in the eye and say
“I do not know how to be your version of beautiful, but I do know
how to be every version of strong, I am a survivor
and no one can ever take that away from me.”
— I Learned This Today | Nikita Gill (via meanwhilepoetry)
New Beginnings
New beginnings are
often disguised as
painful endings.
often disguised as
painful endings.
| — | Lao Tzu |
My Secret Strings
Will any
fingers ever find
my secret strings
stretched taut inside?
Intricate, delicate,
intimate, articulate
invisible to any eye
not naked, any heart
still dressed in sheaths
and robes and layers.
I am
layers
I am
robes
and sheaths
(or rather,
I am
hidden
in those swaddles)
I am
those strings stretched
from Terebinthia to Gondolin
I am a song
played by wind
on window panes
by drops of rainand lightning fingers
dancing cross
the crests of frothy waves
silver in the light
of hidden stars
and stormy moons.
I am
not accessible
to just
anyone,
and if you
find yourself
become bored
easily, then
shove off,
move along
go and listen
to the Beatles
or someone else
like them
(there are a million wannabes).
But until
the Time
might ever
come, I still…
wonder…
will any
fingers find
my strings,
hands caress
my neck?
Tonight Inside This Skin
It’s lonely here tonite
and all alone inside
my skin
while music plays
and pretty soon
the air is filled with
shadow shades
that sing,
lament, remind me of
my failure to be what
you wanted, what
they wanted.
And there…
in yon wood there
sits the bear
in silverlight
there in the rising
dark and that bear
part and parcel
of itself and
of the wood
but me…alone
inside this skin
well, it’s lonely
here tonight
inside this skin
inside this skin
Irrevocably Loved By God
there dogwood lingers
lost in long and cooling nights
side by side with sassafras
brooding over browning grass
and sumac stands
with red oak and sheds
leaves in broad daylight
while maples paint
in crimsons, scarlets, purples
yellow brush upon the air
and splashed across
the transom of my heart.
winds and rain come now
and colors muddle, fade to dull
and make their ready to fall down
into the soil dark that croons
and calls them to their fall.
and I am shattered in this fade
of yellow birch and maple red
the flower of spring is there unmade
and frost laments now come in lace
and nibble at my tender face
and precious profound beauty
here and gone and me
that hardest of hues to hold
as my life falls in leaves of days
is here and gone in just a wink
and nothing gold can stand untouched
and how is it, Eternal One
can love so strong and fierce this shade
who passes from the day to night
and fades into the mists?
The Seams of Our Beautiful Story
And all this time
I thought I was
building you up
as you grew
and became.
I really never
realized (really)
you were breaking
so unbecoming
and I was failing bad.
It breaks
my heart to
know you were
ripping apart the seams
of our beautiful story.
And now
tatters, shards
shatters, shutters
mutters and
clogged gutters
and it
is too late
at last
I realize
alas.
In Time To Come
Touch me
with unconscious hands
Unaware but
not unknowing
Find me
with yearning heart
untroubled in
the mists of time.
For I am here
dying, Love,
dying on
this slum’bring vine
And I know
myself alone
now and in
time to come
Like Candles
“Good people are like candles;
they burn themselves up
to give others light.”
— Turkish Proverb
Absence
“Absence.
Absence, hear thou my protestation against thy strength, distance, and length.
Do what thou canst for alteration… For hearts for truest mettle.
Absence doth still and time doth settle.”
A Prayer For Healing
Into the compassionate womb of your Love, Oh God
I bring my deepest needs, my strongest hopes, my greatest fears.
Give me tears for my grief, a voice that I might cry out unto You.
Give me words, that I might say what is most in my heart.
Give me courage, that I might always seek the healing You have to give.
Let me always offer my suffering to you, so that if healing does not come,
wisdom, justice, and compassion maybe its fruit.
A life offered to You, Abba God.
Amen
Relevant…Quite Relevant
Behind Bars
Behind the bars
of socialization
and choices made
unawares and assumed
I look and I long
to be set free quick
and to have my own day
to have my own day
In Mid-Air (Ode To Facebook)
Your words,
tossed off
trumpeted out
staccato,
running trills
like some
Miles Davis
of the trivial
not-thought-thru
remark
leave me
set on fire
and hanging
in mid-air
I Love Mama’s Hands
I love Mama’s Beautiful Hands
so dirty with me, with us.
I love that She is not distant from me
But draws close and plunges to muss
My hair, my heart, my head and my soul
She molds and She mushes and messes
And then She will wash me and clean me right up
And put pleats in my Lonely Tresses
I have a self to recover, a queen.
Is she dead, is she sleeping?
Where has she been,
with her lion-red body,
her wings of glass?
Is she dead, is she sleeping?
Where has she been,
with her lion-red body,
her wings of glass?
| — | Sylvia Plath |
“Wisdom cannot be imparted.
Wisdom that a wise man attempts to impart
always sounds like foolishness to someone else.Knowledge can be communicated, but not wisdom.
One can find it, live it, do wonders through it,
but one cannot communicate and teach it.”
| — | Hermann Hesse |
Waiting For The Winter Drums
Blood Red Sunsets smothered by the sea
Parting birds flying south in songs of sorrow
Deep sad hymns are birthed deep within me
sung by longing winds unto tomorrow…
The hawk screams and jumps,
grabs clawfuls of fading blue sky,
rips them loose from the fabric
of the dimming day…and then
away….jpg)
While the red alder sees and sheds tears
in gold showers of dry rustly leaves
that spin and sigh and softly sing
a falling lament, a longing ode
to summer past and gone…
All is falling upon the cooling soil
waiting for the winter drums
waiting for the winter drums…
My Face Against Your Glass
The monolith of your decided thoughts
looms large in dreadfall shades and shadows stark
of lost judgments formed in historic fogs
and lacking light and love, short on comfort.
and I am shrieking-dwarfed in their shot gaze
unblinking, baleful red and white and black
for all those choices made back in lost days
in reactive guilt and in hidden shame
give recoil now to even the mere name
of who and what I am, what I am not.
and still I throw myself against those stones
those bastions large and looming, standing there
in granite ground into your heart and bones
that glass unbreakable that you have set
to look thru, thinking seeing is the same
as being, but it’s not, not even close.
because you cannot touch me…no…not quite
…you will not touch me, that’s it, you will not
then I am naught…and my face…ohhh my face
my face against your glass red, blue and white
red and blue and white and I can’t get a breath
my face against your glass, your glass my death
Frozen White In An Instant
I froze white
in an instant
just a glance
just seeing
everything
except me, eyes
bouncing here there
everywhere
except me, fingers
draping, dragging
dancing around
edges, middles,
dabbling in puddles
and oceans, seas,
except me
black hole
in the middle
of your
universe
A Morning Phase
It’s a Morning Phase I’m in here,
walking in fogs and mists
thru familiar places long past
and gone but glimmering…
hinting,
haunting,
high above
in shrouded skies
wrapped in what?
Funereal splendour?
Swaddling clothes?
I can’t tell which
but then again
does it really
matter?
They signify
the same.
And I pass
along the path
dirt crunching
scrunching under
my trodding feet,
my padding feet
my tramping feet
looking for home
it’s a
Morning
Phase
I’m
in.
A Song For Autumn Without Music
Could I leave the bright waves
and take to the blue skies?
Could I leave my cold skin
and sail into your eyes?
Is the moon high above
just reflecting to me
all the love that you hold
in your heart?
If the leaves on the trees
can turn red, yellow, gold
why can’t I find a heart
that will tenderly hold
my body, my spirit,
my mind and my soul
while the tale of my true
love is told?
Mount up! Mount up!
Take courage on the wind!
Lift the hands of your sails on the waters!
Rise up! Rise up!
Leave the surface behind and let the bow of your ship
carve the clouds on your way!
I will sail all the seas
I will follow the stars
I will listen behind the beauty
beyond what mars
And someday I shall come
to my sea-harbour home
I will finally rest
deep in you.
Yes I will finally rest
deep in you.
UNDONE
Reblogging a poem by one of my favorite poets…this is truly breath-taking!!
She was undone by small things
a lost button, a missed call, stale bread.
Her ribs could only expand to take in so much air
Guilt was a wolf’s shadow haunting
the end of her bed at night.
To darn a frayed patch gave her some satisfaction—
a wound remade with stout thread.
For brief moments she could make the world
stand still, cup water in her hands and watch
the pink light slipping through her fingers.
The veil was pulled back
skin against skin, moments so intense
tears burst from her eyes making her
laugh with joy and surprise.
It Feels Weird To Me
…like Grace Notes has become
an echo chamber and I am
speaking only to myself…
no matter…
I am liking my poetry,
and that pleases me.
To Skim Thru Night With Me
I skim quick thru the darkling night
I skinny along those fissures deep
and rough faults in thick dark.
The sable satin curtain parts
and I slide thru, slide thru alone
and hot with dark-fire smoke.
My eyes flash flash light to light
and gleam within the velvet night
and promise there’s an end.
But you must strip off layers, yes
you must there disrobe complete
and scrub away the past
to skim thru night with me right here,
to skim thru night with me.
The Big 4
“We fool ourselves
into thinking
we’re strong,
then complain
the rest of our lives,
crippled by
the consequences”
Evangelicalism, You Have Traumatized Me. – The Gay Post-Evangical
Source: Evangelicalism, You Have Traumatized Me. – The Gay Post-Evangical
I am pressing this post…it is by way of confession for me. I have done these things to people back in the old days…mostly in the early 90s, and my thinking well on the path of evolving and transforming by the late 90s…but I did them.
Said them.
Thanks be to our God of Love and Grace that They opened the eyes of my heart.
Someone I love deeply recently told me that they will never forgive me for those things said then…no matter that they ignore so much else. They told me that I was not allowed to change my mind or views and that they would despise me forever if I tried to “claim” a road to Damascus experience and now “get off scot-free”. They were cruel, intentionally so, and consigned me to their dungeon of never having status as a free person ever again.
Well…that was tough to read, and the choices that they make do not dictate my future nor deny me the grace of growing and changing and evolving.
But even if I spent my whole life in their dungeon, it would not make “right” the things I said and lived in those times…I truly thought I was saying and doing the right thing.
I was wrong.
In the spirit of forgetting what lies behind and pressing onward to the glory of God in Christ, I am rejoicing that I still have some years to help the ones in my life now who I have the chance to show grace to.
May any who read this who have been wounded and othered by the likes of such as I once was find healing in my confession…and may the ones who say they will never forgive quickly find opportunity to change their own views…it will broaden their forgiveness qualifications most helpfully, and empower them to forgive themselves.
Heart And Henna
Mark my heart with loving henna
not with needle-inky hate
let me feel your brush-sienna
early, lasting, long and late
Worry not that it will fade
victim of time’s ceaseless flow.
I am inside, tender-laid
and marked by your faithful brush blow.
Ever shall your marks on me
Bind my soft heart to your own
So mark me love, with glyphs made free
Heart of hearts, Bone of Bone.
I Wear Your Blood With Honor
i gladly lay beneath you
i wear your blood with honor
it glistens on my white skin
like moonlight on the water
just lay me down here easy
and let your choice flow o’er me
i wear your blood with honor
like scars of precious battles
and every drop, it burns me
tattoos and marks forever
i wear your blood with honor
and ever me your banner
upon the leaping windsong
i wear your blood with honor
upon my face, my soft skin
i wear your blood like medals
Final
…You move on
when your heart
finally understands
that there is
no turning back.
— J.R.R. Tolkien 
And I Think Of You
i pull on
my stockings
soft and black
and i think of you
in the evening
i sit by the fire while
the teakettle sings
and i think of you
i pull up
my covers over
my sleepless visions
while the stars shimmer
shaking behind rainy cloudweeps
and i think of you.
i pull on
my silk blouse
it’s yellow and blue
and i wonder if i’ll
ever be good enough
and i think of you.
i have so much
to give you
meadows of emerald
skies of pure opal
red heart so true
soul of soft pink
and my
thoughts are just you
thoughts are still you
and i think of you
and i think of you
Thinking About Nothing
A man must dream
a long time in order
to act with grandeur…
and dreaming is
nursed in darkness.
a long time in order
to act with grandeur…
and dreaming is
nursed in darkness.
| — | Jean Genet |
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
and women?
dreams?
what are dreams to women?
who work while it is day
and watch in darkest night
o’er all the sleeping dreamers
and their slumbering sight…
and what about me?
I, who sit and think
in the night’s
encompassing embrace.
I do not dream of grandeur
but watch in nights of dark
and I think about nothing
that thing impossible
distinguished from what is
and thus having being
in what it never is
and never can become…
I think about nothing.
Twining Ice And Fire
the ice is silent.
silent and perfect.
silent and perfect and blinding.
the silent
perfect blinding
ice.
the fire sings
sings and dances
sings and dances and sees
beyond
the singing
dancing seeing
flame.
see them twine
ice lacing flame
flame licking ice
heating and cooling
drips in drops
of unity.
i promise you
my love
though ice
ascendant rules the day
fire will win
in The Day
and thawing come
and passion rule
and only water
here remaining
And I Fortunate One…
…I have lived into this…thank you dearest one.
“I want to fall to sleep with you,
and I could care less
whether it is in
layers upon layers
of clothing
or only our skin –
all I really want is to wake up
not knowing
where I end and you begin.”
– Beau Taplin
Neither Am I!
In The Waves
If I should walk into the sea
and find a bed soft, sandy-wet,
and there lay down, there, lay down me
would you reach out with your heart-net?
I’d lay aside my evening gown
of gossamer and pure moon beams
and let my feet find pathways down
beneath the waves to swaying dreams
that shimmer thru the quiet deep
and beckon me with promise made
If I lay there still, would you keep
my heart inside, every debt paid?
We share a bed upon the land
and swim there in the waves of night
Ah, but in that bed beyond the sands
Will you there be my sweet delight?
The Silence Speaks
Do Justice. Love Mercy. Walk Humbly.
Love, Charissa
The Quiet Lonely Lake
the lone swan
flying across
the face of
the moon
like a tear
falling to
the quiet
lonely lake
below
my
heart
the swan
the moon
the lake
and you
forever
gone
Just Watched Rocky Horror Picture Show Again…
…for the first time in 37 years…
my opinion is unchanged.
Me My Entire Life
“I realized that I walk briskly because I feel that if I look very busy and send the message
that I have a very important reason for being in this space, perhaps men around me will think
I have a right to go on my way un-harassed, untouched, un-bothered.“To be a woman in public is to be on your guard, all the time.”
— Yusra Amjad, Why do women walk so briskly in public?
Jack-O-Lantern Of Hearts
When I got home that night,
I noticed the smiling jack-o-lantern
in my front yard was crushed.
No October Orthodontist could
ever repair that ruptured smile
so crooked at its best, and simply broken, now.
I thought about our last talk,
jack-o-boots flying over hob-nail heart
and guttery scuttery candle-hopes flicker-fade
over cooling coffees neglected in the heat
of the moment, where carving knives were wielded
underneath the punkin-spice latte scents, and those blades
sent us reeling like Cinderellas at midnight
our heart-mice flying from Ichabod and his boots
and those words which left us out front, crushed.
***This was written to a poetry prompt…the first stanza***
Samhain Eve by Laurie Byro | Melissa Shaw-Smith
Source: Samhain Eve by Laurie Byro | Melissa Shaw-Smith
This poem is mind-blowing.
I am reeling in its double-back and dream parallels…
what is dream what is awake what is mental what is result
of so called treatment what is what is what is
samhain eve
You won’t want to…dig deep.
But you should.
It’s that good.
Cold Comfort
This quote…
“Your worth
is determined by you,
and with no need for
an explanation to anyone.”
— Wayne W. Dyer
Here is the problem for the person who struggles with self-worth issues:
If you see yourself as unworthy and worthless, then you are doomed. And I have heard it more times than you can imagine…”well just see yourself as worthy and you will be”!
That works as well as the last time I saw myself as a billionaire
This Water, Cloudy
No…the water
is not dirty
or polluted or
even stagnant.
It’s just cloudy,
this water, cloudy.
It was clear and warm,
luxuriant and lazy
but quick-like, to pull you
in and then lay you
down easy and gentle
and snug.
But you
never came in
so my desire,
that unknown
cloud unknowing
leaked out,
just trickled away
around me
until the pool
was cloudy
and thick
with my
longing want.
But You Won’t Even Know…
…because you are blocked! Giggles!
“Cancer will block you as a Facebook friend, immediately cross you off
their Christmas card list and then assign a ringtone to your name so that
if you call, they can ignore your call AND get the satisfaction of ignoring it!
All this followed by a hasty retreat into their shell to sulk because
that’s where crabs go to nurture their hurt feelings.”
Before The Icicles Fell
they were caught here, frozen
before the icicles fell
before the snows all melted
before the laughter faded
before the tears unfolded
before the digger shoveled
before death walked unfettered
they thought this moment
would last forever again
and over again,
and sitting here
i cannot tell
if I am the snowball
or the thrower
or the moment
hanging in static
time stood still
My Unpicked Branches
It’s the season of harvest and fruit,
the culmination of that brown sweat
shed in summer-shimmer sheets
and red-hot ribbons that somehow
twine around roots and snake up
trunks and push out thru branches
in the swollen tender tips of twigs
become blossoms become
fruit…ripe…heavy.
The real mystery to me
is why nobody picks these
crimson circles crisp and crunchy?
Why I stand here full and verdant
fragrant and feeling fine,
and not an apple plucked or pulled?
I cannot pick myself.
I cannot harvest that which
is perpetually out of my reach
but is only one ladder away
from anybody who hungered
for those apples bobbing
on the swaying branches.
But I am used to that, being
a feast for birds and bugs
and winter worms in the cold,
a fermenting hearth in a frosty night
under the stars so bright
and dancing and the wind
still caressing my unpicked branches.
Charissa's Grace Notes 
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