What a Week for the Trans* Community

I am sitting here in tears…this Mother has poured out blessing to me, right here and now in ways she has no idea…by doing this, writing this.

What a special person. What a large heart.

Religious Reader (Not you, Constance)…you who hate that I call Holy Spirit “Mama”…you need to be sure to read this, because what this woman’s heart looks like is a microcosm of Mama’s.

Thank you, Rozgkeith…my heart bleeds happy thanks, for the world is a better place, my life is better…because of your love.
Charissa

rozgkeith's avatarCall Him Hunter

WOW. It has been quite a week. For the past few months there have been many emails, texts and phone calls leading up to the event that occurred Tuesday evening at Temple Israel in West Bloomfield: Transgender Youth and Families, You are Not Alone.

BACK STORY

When I was a little girl my mom always made BIG birthday parties. Every kid on the block was invited and she baked, planned games, bought party favors and served lunch…all at home. Of course there was a lot of anticipation leading up to the big day. From shopping for a new party dress to choosing the right hair accessories, birthday celebrations were a big deal. On the day of the party, I would get ready and wait. The waiting was agony. Looking out towards the front of the house from the vantage point of our entry way, I wondered if anyone would show up.

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Where I’m From by Jane White

I am from the west
the pacific north one here
the wild one there
from dark, dreary rainy days 
and bright cold snowy ones
from fruit orchards and hard times
to wide open spaces 
where the deer and the antelope play

I am from polite and proper
to  “let’s red-neck this thing”
from Rose Festival princesses
to Miss Indian America, Custer’s Last Stand
and the world’s biggest strip mine

I walked to school
every year of my life
rode my trusty old bike
all around town and across the state
and cherished my library card
like it was sacred.

I come from piano lessons,
swim lessons, girl scouts and
Sunday school…
From a stay-at-home mom , a tennis-loving dad
two sisters, a brother
and my sweet Molly dog.

I’m British and Norse and German and Irish
born into the sixties
the time of assassinations and rock bands,
Woodstock and Vietnam
and the first man on the moon.

I sprang from a Rockwellian past
but live in a Web 2.0 world
seeking to do justly,
love mercy and walk humbly
on my way to the Eternal Citytumblr_nl2nhqdeg01qat5pio1_400

Reflections

This poem so unerringly captures the damage inflicted by words spoken…and the damage created by words withheld.

barrira's avatarunheardunspokencogitationum

If you could see the damage
Your words inflicted on others
Trace the scars on their skin
Will you be more thoughtful?

If you could see her heart
That you left scarred when
You decided to cheat on her
Will you do it differently?

If you could read the doubts
He carries in his eyes for the
World for you fed him lies
Will you try to set things right?

If you could count her broken
Bones followed by each angry
Night you spent with her
Will you ask for forgiveness?

If you knew how your son cried
To sleep each night because he
Was never smart enough for you
Will you try to make amends?

If you could see another soul
All the beauty and sorrows
The make humans vulnerable
Will you tread more carefully?


http://penningmyvoice.com/reflections/

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The Wrong Side of the Glass

Come close, up here, on the porch and draw near where I sit,
hunkered down, clinging close, pressed with all I am
against this barrier thin, austere, and yet impermeable
thru which I see, and speak, and yearn but over cannot cross.

I get naked, bare and slick and covered in Her Oil
and hurl myself hard, fearless, face first pounding in wild flails
until the fists of my heart break and bloody grow within this cage
and sorrow rises right alongside all my heartsick rage

at being born here in this place so richly furnished wrong
at hearing music so distinct but dissonant from my song
Maybe we together can make a crack in this stark mass
and relieve my long days spent here, on the wrong side of the glass.

I Hope You Are Here

…warm, snug.
Side by side, sisters
nestled against Her
and to each other

learning how to be white
and to bear all things
as our day dawns (you/me/She)
in all of our colours.

May I Ever Be Pink

May I ever be pink,
my heart’s hidden petticoats
tender and always-fresh.

May I ever find that place
hidden but accessible,
there in Mama’s Heart-Springs

where I can wash
in crimson founts crystal
clear and sweetly astringent.

Others might love green
still others regally wreathed
in Autumn’s Golden Gleam,

but it is pink for me,
pink always, tender,
present and near

May I ever be pink,
dwelling soft and
without fear.

Rip Me Open

go ahead and rip me open
see what makes me tick

where my pearls come from
inside my shells thick…

but I will then perish
my heart torn in two
yet if that act salves your pain
I’ll be torn for you

clams are ugly outside
not so great within
but perhaps, just like a clam
I’m more than my sin

Wishes.

Ran across this marvelous poetess…wow. I love her work, and am reblogging this one up on Grace Notes. It captures so many of my thoughts and feelings, the tumult and clamour that plays tennis inside my soul with my heart…

thank you dear poetess…I am honored to read, and more so to reblog…

PS:  For me, it would be Grandma

Shreya's avatarTheOpenWindow

I wish you were here
To see me doing so well,
To see me be my own rock,
To watch me break my own shell.
I wish you were here
To keep asking me what was wrong,
And when I would tell you,
You would hug me close.
I wish you were here
To be my map and guide
In the foreign land,
I wish you were here
To warn me of the marbles,
So I wouldn’t slip.
I need you here
To witness how I’m doing
What I could never do
When you were here.
I want you here
To see me loving myself,
The way you’ve always wanted
Me to see myself as.
I wish you were here, Grandpa,
To be my anchor
Through the thick and thin.

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The Work of A Bee

this is me, a busy bee
flitting from flower to stem
and blossom and stalk.

it’s tough work
dragging that pollen
all sticky and clingy

from place to place
where pride is unsheathed
and starves on itself!

if it weren’t for me
those poor lil bloomings
so pretty but hungry

would wither and die
alone with themselves
the few chosen few…

well, I unmark them quick!
those marked for death
as I buzz and I murmer

all covered in sticky stuff
lugging around
the seed of all life

anyone got any sugar water?
trade ya some honey
and I won’t even sting!

I learned yesterday that when you see a bee on the ground that isn’t moving, it’s not necessarily dead, it’s probably just dead tired from carrying lots of pollen and needs re-energising.

So if you mix a tiny bit of water with some sugar and let it drink it will give it the boost it needs to continue on its way. Bizarrely, this exact thing happened today! I found a knackered bee, mixed up some sugar water, gave it a drink and watched it guzzle and guzzle then suddenly come back to life.

It was amazing! Thank you patrick, it was an excellent tip that i’ll never forget and will continue to pass on to others!

Running Canyons

She runs in the canyons
there beneath the smiles,
hidden in the miles.
Around her she throws gleams,
glints, she strews her favors in winter
like flowers cast by gathered throngs
lining her way, ostensibly cheering her on

but really just hungry for blossoms and blessings

and she looks with stark eye, assessing cost
beneath gleams, glints, under
dazzle-cast clouds hiding
and she’s striding, loping
like the lean wolf taught her
in those early years of lashing
words and cutting looks
and her fire unbreakable

burning in that flood that drowned…tumblr_njpnvaveEQ1qmew7go7_r1_250

it’s canyons for her
when it’s time to tap out.
They are really just the same
as the mountains that she runs
and talks about and paints pictures of
with words and heart brushes
except that no one else knows this,
or sees any difference.

But she
knows, loves
those dry,
clean walls
close and
carved of
living stone
and loving
survival long
wrenched from
the desert’s
clutches.

She’s a true hermit, like those of old,
untouchable in this land and yet such
a product of its austere and strict demands
and she knows she’s a canyon herself,
majestic not in what remains but what is gone.

Sweat runs freely here, and carries toxins back
to their source in the sidewinders and scorpions
and stinging nettles so she doesn’t even bother
for pretty or cute and she has long ago arrived
in beautiful and assessed even that place for what it isn’t,

content with knowing what it is…tumblr_ngvvqwxx801suvylso1_1280

she runs in canyons, while I sit,
staring thru rain-streaked windows,
hunkered down in this Oregon deluge
so grey and green and clammy,
so ham-handed and drizzly
imitating the stony walls she runs between
and I absorb this water and channel it,
stream it, spray it against that unrelenting blue sky
that tears the rainbows right outta the water
and waves them like banners in the wind
so she can see where the pit stop is, pause, drink,
squint, wipe the sweat away

(gawd, that impossibly feminine gesture so implacably tough)

She is grit, she has sand…she runs canyons.wg441_ghost_1

*****
Much love to you this day,
from your true friend
and heart sister
Charissa

 

Do Justice. Love Mercy. Walk Humbly.
Love, Charissa

I Am Words

what am I?tumblr_nl51npc95T1sppftyo1_500besides being
a tranny bitch
a tranny freak
a shim
a shemale
a heshe
a waste of a perfectly good man
a river too fartumblr_nl2mgruxUx1thfeewo1_500that’s what I’m called
by others who other me
everyday each day
over and over
again and again.

and insults and slurs?
they are the costume
they make for me
to comfort themselves
while searching the mirror
and seeing themselves
while trying to get
a handle on me…tumblr_lvlbcphL9V1qeovheo1_500am i a singer
of this song that spins
out every day
into the ether
right here and then gone?tumblr_nhyknoYu2l1ty9vwwo1_1280am I a brush
grasped in a hand
waved at the world
leaving some streaks
of texture and color
smeared thick on the day?tumblr_n87ojhCmwL1tbmiowo1_1280I think I am words
for they never stop
welling inside me
piled up and pushing
there thru the darkness
under the bright stars
slicing the darkness
with brilliance and beautytumblr_nkyqm5ruDi1sjh145o1_1280i am my words
the brilliant and broken
the loving and least
in total summation
the holy and horrible
here all at once.tumblr_nknlxhy9yt1spygklo1_1280

 

Dust and Ashes Redux

I fear
being able
to soundly navigate
through noisy choruses.

I fear
the blind spots
that I have—
and nurture.

The will of God
involves giving our lives
for the sake of others
on this downward path
this downward path of Jesus
that I follow
or try to.

She tears
my clenched fingers
from my own throat
She says
put others
before me
(interests, preferences, desires)
and this putting
endures beyond
stronger than death.

is there a resurrection
from this desperate
self-preservation?

is there a life raised
here/now
where I can matter
to someone
and result in
a shared existence
renewed,
restored
hopeful?

She says
I will only find out
when I seek not to save
but to lose my life

as I have said before
it is the season
of dust and ashes20150222_121045

No Holiday For Love

Il n’y a pas de vacances à l’amour, ça n’existe pas. L’amour, il faut le vivre complètement avec son ennui et tout, il n’y a pas de vacances possibles à ça — Marguerite Duras

Soft and Furious

words are all I have left,
soft and furious
like ocean waves
breaking on themselves
far out to sea
and lonely
because there are no rocks
to dash themselves ontumblr_nl3yxwcJaH1qz62xqo1_1280sometimes those words
get frozen inside my mouth
because everything around me
is cold and static
but the words are insistent
and well up inside me
soft and furioustumblr_nkibc3eZgO1r4d0svo1_r1_1280

 

Back In Black

The rawkus bands boast
of being back
and in black.
Like somehow this

confers some strange authority.

It’s like a mantle they don,
and they are infused
with some strange reckless power
and become “more than”

in electronic banshee screams.

But I am different…back in black
because I was knocked there,
nine ways to Sunday.
Kicked back into shrouds

and disabused of slipper notions.

And yeah, I am back…in black,
and weeping over Rama
My, my, hey hey, and Neil Young
and Rust and Burnout

and back…in black.tumblr_nl2e715VM31tp0s1po1_1280

 

Nothing But Trash

I can’t seem to get it out of my head right now,
that voice that says I am nothing but trash.

I watched them eat today…all the love I poured out
into a soup made of cabbage and heart, tomatoes and soul,
sausage and love…and oodles of noodles spiced and
called Minestrone…

how could they know what I add to it,
as I stir it, sing over it, taste it, and most of all
picture their faces and hear their glad voices
as they partake of it and are made more whole?ophelia_by_avine-d8gzrdwI don’t use any measuring cups for adding me, I just
pour it in, and then add a bit more…that’s who I want to be.
That’s who I think I am, try to be…
but the voice, gawd that gibbering skritching itchy voice
so insinuating, sibilant, and reminding…it never forgets,
it never lets me forget either.tumblr_mh7kswp48l1qg39ewo1_500oh fuuuu…how I wish I could forget making
a love offering, excited and sweet and for
a Once in a Lifetime Special Occasion…
and to the trash bin…to the trash
and that is what the voice says I am
a transgender piece of trash not worth
the paper I am printed on.

“you call yourself grace, at least have the good grace
to go die, or at least put yourself in the trash”.

I poured me in!  My me…in there!
So nothing, me…so trashy me…so dangerous and poison,
me.

and then voice speaks of the transgression of the me,
and the infinite regress of guilty, and
guilty by association…

not a good time for this garbage
nothing but trash.tumblr_mwe8yxcZhZ1rouua1o1_1280

 

Shrieking

inside, shrill, ringing and sounding tuneless and loud
never varying or rising or falling
and yet shrieking, screaming in horror
in terror of the tongues wagging
tongues slurring, and my heart
shrieking.

how can a shriek be, with no rising and falling,
doesn’t it usually sound like an ambulance
on the way to a 6 car pileup and bodies ejected?

no…this shriek is the ambulance on the way back in
with someone who will be called DOA
but arrival has not yet commenced

so it just tears and pours and roars and shrills
and spills and scratches and gouges
and shrieks.

god I wish it would stop.

tumblr_n4u2x7UyW81t6nr0io1_1280

Breathing Underwater Once Again

That long slow glacier spit me out whole
Into the ice-cold sea, fully formed and floating.
Everyone saw me hit, that splash, those waves,
and my voyage launched and me christened.
They broke their arms patting themselves on the back
because I was looming, tall, could sink ships and loose lips,
and I made them forget how deep the ocean really is.tumblr_nh9f9wH4x81r3wk1zo6_1280They didn’t know I was born breech and upside down.
They didn’t know I couldn’t breathe.
Have I told you my recurring dream, that I could breathe underwater?
In that dream I go where I want, I am free, and I suck in
great draughts of release and blow out winds of release
and I live in the place of one, limber and lithe and little
until the dream-ender smashes my face in again, and I surface and choke again.tumblr_nc9vp6L89D1qgvdcto1_1280Storms rage, waves rise and billows blow against me
but I just float along, every once in awhile catching my breath
between waves, when they are careless and let me snatch a gulp.
But I have noticed something…the rhythm of the storm, and myself
and the timing of ruin running and tugging in deadly gravity:
It’s gonna follow Napoleon into Russia, and when it does
I will be ready to go all counter-intuitive flippy-floppy!tumblr_nkwoymmVUu1spq83no1_500Yep…I am going to turn upside down and let my dreams come true
Stick that soggy, waterlogged drowned rat soul straight up into air,
just roll in the waters until I have no choice whatsoever but to breathe.
Maybe there will be water-jewels showing? (They look like carbuncles to me)
Maybe there will be pits and secret crevices shocking that the leering crowds
will peel, eat, and throw away as they move along to the next carny freak show…
But at least I will be able to breathe…finally…and dreams at last come true.


“In the case of this jewel-like iceberg, the ice is probably very old. In glaciers, years of compression force out air pockets and gradually make the ice denser,” according to the National Snow and Ice Data Center.

“When glacier ice becomes extremely dense, the ice absorbs a small amount of red light, leaving a bluish tint in the reflected light, which is what we see.”

“In addition, minerals and organic matter may have seeped into the underwater part of the iceberg over time, creating its vivid green-blue color.”

The Far Side of Finding

When you look for something, you will never find it.
See, things move around, pushed hither and yon
by the pressure of searching eyes leaning against them,
straining eyes longing to wrap them in desire,
so they squirt thru our eye fingers slippery like fish
squirting thru the billowy tentacles of a hungry octopus. tumblr_ni2tj8ZQ041tbb5qdo1_1280

And it’s sad, because you aren’t really looking for that thing.
No, what you groan for is that space, that yearning hollow place
in between the thing and your thoughts
in between that maelstrom between your ears
and the tableau between your fingers
which are sticky and messy and covered in paint.tumblr_mkfn6dAZET1s31miko1_500You’re looking for yourself, or rather the answer
bouncing back to you from another heart
instead of off of another…what?  No, another who.
Because we live just this side of that fit, that meld,
And when we set off searching we end up over there…
on the far side of finding and still oh so hungry.tumblr_nkwuaaAxGD1rbbwv5o1_1280

Aanndd now I am crying…

for my good old Millie.

“I buried Little Ann by the side of Old Dan. I knew that was where she wanted to be. I also buried part of my life along with my dog.”
—Wilson Rawls, Where the Red Fern Grows

tumblr_nh9f9wH4x81r3wk1zo3_1280

For Better and Worse

What is worse?
Failure to comprehend
or inability to do so
or simple stupid unwillingness?

Well, those are bad,
but I think maybe
that mindful dedicated
application of religion
is the worst of Worse!

Disguised in pretty robes
and preening in petite frocks
but there beneath the costume
naked greed bathing in legalism
and staring into the mirror
of pragmatic production
of self righteousness.

Opposite of Beauty, that!
Legalism.
Opposite of Beauty, this!
Greed.
Opposite of Life, there!
Pragmatism.

And those determiners
strangle souls
and injure the living
with their so called answers
and blind eye to suffering
and hard heart to longing.

What is worse?
Not knowing any better
and not knowing any worse.tumblr_nkcu99jEau1rebxsto1_1280

 

The Language of Lilies

After all this hurt and all this pain

(when would that be?  After?
When does that happen?)

I choose silences.
I choose to let myself be haunted by words
rather than speak those rivers
that would erode fabricated realities.tumblr_nkysbbiivV1thfeewo1_400Tonight the wind smells like memories…
oh nothing I can put my finger on,
mind you…just memories
blowing on winds fragrant
with nostalgia and neglect.

I am mindful in these memories
of the language of lilies
and I wonder if I have missed 
some great and vital means and end
in their present beauty,
some antidote for anxiety,
some prescription for preoccupation,
some long term cure contained
in short-lived beauty born?tumblr_neun01eNyf1sq3g2zo1_1280I am mindful of Mary
there in Bethany pouring out
perfume fragrant and pervading
with extravagance
permeating every pore present
and singing the liturgies of lilies
on the winds!

Sweetly, singly soaring over that rukus of disgust and anger
that puffed up, distracted religious men
righteously piled on in their
Canticle to Cacophony!tumblr_m6aywgZh0X1ro74x3o1_500They hated her…but they hated Him more
for His blindness to her there,
clinging in tears and wild hair

sinner
whore
profligate waster
defiler and defiled!

They hated His stinky feet
smelling of humility and adoration,
perfumed in gratitude and broken beauty
and I think they would hate me, too
sitting silent and choosing
the haunting wind over the haughty story.tumblr_nkt7lsPymx1u6ehjeo2_500
I imagine the language of lilies
that day divinely appointed
and here this night now,
I look, listen midst ashes all around me
to catch a glimpse of life
in risk and recognition,
of rising up, above
the toiling, turning,
spinning and weaving…

life lived
simple and poured out
in haunting perfumed
adoration and beauty…
life as a lily,
and how it grows fleeting
and haunted by memories in the wind
and eternity in my heart.Image 002

The Wreck in Ruination

This instrument, bound in time and dust and ashes
attacked by pressure and moments passing
wracked by neglect and careless stroking
of keys made of flesh and bone

has lost its continuity, lost its simple melody
cannot follow harmony
but mashes sound chromatic
and dissonant, dramatic
just echoes all the static

that rattles all around it,
neath the layers of grime
the passage of time
and each gender crime

To These Bars You Flock

looking through them,
at me here inside
rattling my tin cup
back and forth
clitter-clatter-clikity-clak-clak

shouting, raising a ruckus
and raving about the lost key
buried somewhere out there with you
in the snow and sheep dip and shed wool…

and yet you stand, stare, and bleat
about bearing crosses and binary rules
uncrossable rivers and unforgivable sins…

even in frozen air
the smell of sheep

is pervading everything

sheep!

Though Ye Be Made of Stone

Ye possess a beauty innate
far surpassing my deepest efforts
and most twisted machinations,
for I have being in living flesh sensate,
I dwell in alchemical dirt miracle

While you, though made of stone
find shape and form that fits you fair
and curve that matches moons and stars
and softness that my soul sings of in air,
and sadness choked and stifled by me, dirt and stone.

you are carved, a statue, stuck and still
and yet are one, while I am severed in this chill,
never knowing unified connection
with myself and peace within the nill.

alas and not a lass, that’s me
and you? mere shackles hold you
that one day you can break or be delivered from
by some grave Odysseus or Hercules,
someone with the boldness to forgive you

i would trade plights with you in a millisecond

In Hope of Dust and Ashes

We start this life with such bright expectation,
each sunrise morn of discovery and
each eventide of hope, our lifetime passes
and time flows like tides constantly in waves

that wash in over us, the same and ceaseless
yet we, in ever-new anticipation
that this new day is diff’rent, something yet
to be discovered in the shell-pink dawn,
we lift our hearts up cheery with bright song.tumblr_nkijfepxvE1s6fchho1_1280But there are ashes from the desperate fires
that we assemble in the long sloe nights
so cold upon those yawning yearning shores,
when stars hide behind black clouds of unknowing
and oceans hide in mists of dank despair,

and we are forced to burn all our Hosannas,
those palms fronds of our hopes so optimistic
waved innocent and arrogant and prideful
because we hadn’t seen the moon’s dark side.tumblr_njh7l88RC31tsumipo1_500We built frail fires from those brittle branches
and clutched at weak warmth, bathed in dim wan light
and marked ourselves with those imposéd ashes
and mourned those days we sang triumphantly
unknowing of the coming loss of all
our innocence in suffering…

and sorrowing…

and death and…

Ashes…ashes…
we all fall down…

and we are mindful of our common crown,
our destiny of dust wreathed round our foreheads,
that destiny of dust around our hearts,
that destiny of dust from which we came

and thus departed

that destiny of dust and our return…

to dust returned,
from dust departed, dust returned,
from dust departed, dust returned,
from dust departed, dust returned,
from dust departed, dust returned,
dust returned…tumblr_mvt5wq6eGf1suq7neo1_500And it is only at this place, in ashes
after our hopes and dreams have burned to ash
and we have lost our hope and optimism
that we can finally see that stony path

and squinting, see the bloody foot-print outlines
left by the One who goes before our hearts,
the One who walks the Via Dolorosa
the One who, living, there lays down His Life,

the One who shows the way of self-denial
the way of sacrifice, relinquishment
entirely unnatural, the opposite
of every longing of our liquid hearts
that wants to feast upon self-preservation
and turn from bitter cups of self-denial…tumblr_ne0li72EJb1qgk7mfo1_1280And we must choose the place that we will walk:
the ceaseless shores of our naked ambition
and never finding ending place, or home?
Or…walk the path of ashes with this Shepherd
and lose our lives completely to His care
and thus spring from the ashes like a phoenix
leaps from the golden flames to live anew!

See, ashes are the opposite of owning
the mirror image of self-preservation,
the sign-post of the way of life He offers,
the insignia of the lifestyle that He models,
the mark He makes forever on His own
writ large in His own blood mixed with the ashes
of hopes consumed and dreams become dry dust!

This is the downward journey to the highest place victorious,
the deeps of Sabbath Rest and Victory Won.tumblr_njn61sFcPS1tsumipo1_500Regardless of the gods you say you follow,
we all share in a common destiny:
“From dust you’ve come, to dust you shall return”.
Like Him, we too shall die, Life’s pressing question
becomes…how shall we live?  How shall our lives
this day respond to death’s reality,
and answer to Life’s strident invitation
to leave all of our privilege and status,
and turn from lives marked for success and promise,
and turn from some potential undefined,
and turn from false things that we think are true,
and let go of wealth, power and consumption,
and deny that false god:  accomplishment
and dare to love our enemies with candor
and dare embrace the heady risk of peace
without one stray thought of self-preservation,
take courage to live for the sake of others
and for the sake of Him who shows this way,
the way thru death, the way of blood and ashes,
will we walk in valiant hope in dust and ashes?

We can sing our songs
of life in dust and ashes
and thus return to God
our dust redeemed.tumblr_mujjr2KMSj1sohz2fo1_500

My Dearest Darling Lives In Me

Constance…I want you to all know.

Each one, everyone…know that I have been given this person into my marrow and core.

She lives inside me forever.  She is woven into my essence.  I cannot imagine life absent her, anymore than I can imagine a life without a living heart within.

I am never alone…my heart of hearts is mine, and I am hers…transcendent and elevated, and practical and day to day.

Thank you my dearest darling, my love and heart of hearts.

 

My Heart of Hearts
by Charissa White

The dawn, peach fuzz on this dripping peachy day,
smelled like juice dribbling down my chin,
and musky yellow perfume.

Your earrings flashed in the sunbeam sneaking thru the blinds
Your eyes flashed, lamplights of love sneaking thru my blind
and gleaming like that cat Cheshire.

I intended to rip my heart from my chest
but it came free eager in my hand
which was covered by yours (I had not noticed that happen)

Fell from me like that peach
with groaning, heavy relief and ache
into your waiting basket (I was the only one there)

You carried me to bed, and there we sectioned our fruit
and fed each other with fingers, slick and sticky
and smelling of the peachy summer day

And we drowsed, and woke to find our hearts grown again,
except mine was now you, and yours was now me
Oh my Heart of Hearts, My Heart of Hearts.

 

More Lara Croft Than Lana Turner

Speaking for us,
making a way
for those of us
shattered by abuse
and raped by men…

defending the powerless,
which is (unfortunately)
most all of us (even men)
in this paradigm
of patriarchy and privilegetumblr_nkee9iBwQ81qzs7m3o2_1280It is far,
far deeper
and more complex
than anyone
lets on or is allowed
to show…

I could be wrong…
I could be vapid as vapor…
(or wapid as waper, you wascally wabbit!)
but my heart tattoos say otherwise

they are more Lara Croft than Lana Turner.tumblr_nkhrs3tQ911qk2poao4_1280

My Soft Plurality

I like plural words…
cus “S” softens syllables…

adds blurry velvets to names.
You are stones and blurry velvets overlaid

with steel, over and under
and blurry velvet insides

singing of snuggles and tickles
and sorrows too…you are plural, you.

I receive treasures unto my heart…
I have always done,

whether I was able to say or thought to say…
because my grandmother, who taught me such manners as I have

made sure to teach me tenses and how to see small shadows
in the gardens of nurturing and tending hearts.

Thank you for statements that you make…you are,
your solid sure plurality is a such a glad good check for me,

and your recounting of our history, well
all the better to project the future of our we.

What I mean is that your core vitality emerges and defines itself
as you tire of your current doing and relax into the coming being

and the realization you have aggregated resources of preparation
for your plural destiny…of this I am certain, sure, my dear…

Of that I am sure and certain, my dear,
my soft plurality.a5be72dc1c85c207dfde3a6e8513f5e0

 

A Poem Preceding Easter

Messy houses filled with secret staircases
leading neither up nor down and built of starved excuses
stellar and extending to the past and to the future
as a hedge to make secure our souls against their cold inflation.tumblr_mh1jjoVnRI1rix1r7o1_1280Idols stand resplendent in their regal good deed rags
atop secure safe mantels stolid, still
in false security within these homes of disarray
and all the forlorn deeds of our own self-besotted hands.

No corner is untouched or deemed untouchable,
no conclusion inescapable, for we did soon discover,
no–we were shown–these messes low and broken,
jangly jagged in the pieces of our ruined hostile hovels.tumblr_nkee9iBwQ81qzs7m3o3_1280This is that tableau displayed of our lost searéd conscience,
disembodied, floating room to room and deeply mourning
what’s been lost, and worse, abandoned
in the losing of idealism’s living throbbing shine.

And our hearts, once lifted up and strong
are finally unadorned and brought down low,
so broken, so contrite and finally open to this Living Invitation
to be drawn at last into a bigger Story…tumblr_nkee9iBwQ81qzs7m3o1_1280to be remade and molded, gripped and filled, to be enfolded
in the new creation by a Mercy Stark and so unyielding,
by a Love Severe and so unwieldy in our messy rooms
and serial sin-stained walls and monstrous ways of utter horror.

It takes a broken body and it takes a different stain,
one indelible and permanent, scarlet red and bloody glowing
in the darkness of our tragedy’s pretentious phony triumph…
see the Hand that rips our masks away to make us whole again!tumblr_mqnl59GkbI1qe31lco1_r1_500Eat and drink, remember!  Then forget the past and rest within those ruins
at last cleansed and emptied of their wreck, delivered of the dreck
and durm und strang of fallen souls, set free of weights unbearable,
interminable, mighty, proud and fell and flawed and haughty.

And then, look…out there, thru yon window broken, there!
Behind that dingy jagged pane of brittle separation,
see the Cross so Stark, transcendent, final ever resting place
of all our sin and wrong, and also Final ever new beginning

of this race, we human butterflies set free from chrysalises left behind,
discarded casually forever…
yet never left for death to feed upon or to devour,
for they will someday be raised again
to catch up with us and to be made one again…tumblr_nkf5patY1J1trfg04o1_1280to be made whole…
again…at last…again…
amen, again…
amen.

That Effigy

after you’re dead, there’s a funeral, red.
i discovered this recently, except i wasn’t
invited to show up, new, old or otherwise.

in my place was piled up wood, grey,
and lotsa brush all crackly-brown,
a stand-offish, prickly thorny-crown.

they set that half-truth fire blazing and incendiary,
mis-remembers and other (missings) hidden inside
curses, excuses, judgements of indigo echoing depth.

they thought me bound and captive but epithets
were synonymous with white-washed choices made-unmade,
were effigies hanging in flames, in smoke, in spirits.

then that noose just snikked up tight around their heart
like a golden curtain drawn but never rising on a play
written and rehearsed but never actually performed.

just as that funeral, red, was really never
held for me, but just that phantom never-was,
that effigy.

tumblr_njpw2tnYY41tbkr3io1_1280

Underneath the Mask

Underneath the make-up, powders, paints, colors bright
there beneath the pretty words and funny sayings light
the blood pools red, the bruises throb beneath my cheery grin
and ruin overflows, and spreads its pain and hurt within

Mama heals, but often heals with pain’s sweet overthrow
She will let the woundings come to deepen healing’s glow
Still, it really breaks my heart to walk alone so long
I must dig still deeper, be brave, and just sing my song.

i get lonely sometimes…

…And Thus Find Rest Forever

delicate pink porcelain
abilities encased
in steel cold and smooth.
my heart recoils in sorrow…
and I sheath them in velvet
red and lined with gold brocade,
those porcelain abilities
trapped in cruel grey steel.

a monolithic aggregate
of standards, expectations
and end results I cannot meet
no matter how I try
it’s never good enough!

If I do miracles and magic,
nurture hearts and raise morale
in stony grounds and ice cold hearts
it’s just what is expected from me,
normal, uncommented on
and there I languish, emptied
and so hollow in the birth.

And the Bible tells me one thing
but the world flat contradicts Them
and my weary heart befuddled
goes to Stockholm for a moment
and agrees with the accuser
and I’m falling then, I’m tumbling,
falling, turning in the dark and formless void.

But Mama says I must not wallow
but must strip away the velvet red,
and let Her cut away the steel
and touch the porcelain inside
for life, for love, for others
and thus find Her rest forever.PaWT3El

Any Reason Good Enough

he said he lost control.
of himself, that is…
and I wonder why he did
what he did and left other things
undone?sina-domke44
a word like glass
across my neck,
a splash of blood from
blasted nose, a shove severe
and skidding down
on skint and bruised knees…why stop there?
If it was mere control
he lost?

because
it might make him look
like…what?tumblr_mrz6qkmeV11rhpg9vo1_1280like the man with loaded gun
and empty heart
and heartless soul
who blasted her
out of her shoes
and into her grave?

like the man who
bashed her face
to bloody mush
and flicked his bic
and burned the pile
of gender trash
transgressive?tumblr_nj1iv8mDkj1s4ixmuo1_1280the lost control excuse
the panic and murder alibi
these abusive rampages
verbal, physical, psychic
feel justified to them,
morally acceptable, defensible,
any reason good enough.

Any reason good enough
lost control…
they conflate the two
and we continue
to die like flies.scars_of_self_hate_by_kapanihan-d8htjev

Into the Wilderness

In this Lent, Spring
threatens with her breakthru
of new life amidst showers,

but in these moments
I am mindful
of a different

turning…a journey.

a journey with Jesus
into the wilderness,
a place not unfamiliar

and yet each time I venture there
I am surprised by places that seem
so known to me and yet are not familiar

wilderness spaces never seen
despite my sojourns long and weary
oh, I know the dry topographytumblr_m016eoB7LQ1qai5yeo1_1280the landmarks’ names
(suffering, disappointment, doubt, sin)
caress my heart like tattoos

darted into my soul with ink invisible.

I want to rush thru the wilderness
to get to the other side and done
but am compelled to burrow deeper…

into deaths and deprivations
like the Shepherd did when He took nothing with Him
in that desiccated place.

in this wilderness of unmet needs,
what shall I do?
Where will I turn?

I dig deep for water but tap only the dust.
I seek to meet my howling needs in my own time and place
but all my clever methods only blow up in my face

and once again this journey ends
beneath that shadow long, that mark,
beneath the cross that stands so tall, so stark,
so still…

it can’t be circumvented or avoided,
it cannot be escaped, or null and voided
it’s the entrance and the exit all at once.

and once again anew I realize
that the suffering of the wilderness
transforms us, shapes, delivers us

into the resurrection
and the naming of our soul.sina-domke93

I Must Follow Drinking Gourds

sometimes people speak with mouths
while I am listening with heart
and heralds ringing in my ears
and golden trumpet blasts from spheres

and from those mouths comes noises
that I do not understand
as gravity pulls down
distorts the klaxxon soundstumblr_njx9mbtLMO1r082vzo2_540and it is then I realize
I live in a different place
where angels watching over me
and chariots swing low

and I must follow drinking gourds
and look for railroads underground
and throw off shackles every day
while people make their sounds…tumblr_njfol8SYPe1rvpbxco1_1280my ears hear different frequencies
they swoon with soft harmonics
and songs swift, supersonic
and way beyond the boom.

But not to worry, people
I learned to lip read early
and watch non verbals busy
and nod a lot and smiletumblr_nfui3v8YEH1tuoqeco1_1280

 

Faith

Faith: the substance of things hoped for
(not wished for, God Forbid!)
the evidence of things not seen.

Those were words that controlled us,
an electric fence to wandering minds
and to our quaking bodies.

The pastor oft repeated them
because he was afraid of loss
and overthrow of  his control.tumblr_njg7d19N8e1s4uwt4o1_1280But we were young and sang
“We will not fathom a defeat;
we will not even think about a death of any kind.”

a theology that’s bold enough
to voice a serious objection
to the status quo of fear
and to the slavery it breeds.

We took our crowbars optimistic
to that verse, we treated it
as if it pertained just to us,
jarred loose so juicy from its story
and community in history.tumblr_mxyq6k6Tow1ra0exdo1_500Once loose, we used it as a tool
to pry history from its flesh,
from its life pained, pulsing in time.

We used that verse
like a two dollar whore,
distorted it, individualized it
into half truth to keep ourselves
from considering anything less,
or contemplating anything more.

Our God,
more slot machine than Sovereign,
each prayer a greedy pull
upon Their Heart but for our lust
and we there, fake, beatific as if
answers were dependent on our shining phony faces
smiling dutifully in Canaan but saddened by the selfishness
that haunted in our hollows.

we needed a miracle
that would erase life
as it had become,
misshapen and ungainly
grovelling neath
our gaudy costume faces

we needed a death
that would restore us
a healing to deliver us
and language that was steady
not the dodgy bob and weaving
of a fickle weak theology
of self and self fulfilmenttumblr_mlnwsxC4301r9wdyco1_1280it was the language of lament that cut us open swift and true,
gave us honest prayers and angry prayers
grief stricken, low and lowly 
and we, finally laid low by loss
at last found the road Beautiful,
the road bloody and difficult,
the way of just the Cross.

Our confidently spoken truths
were just too good by half
and thus just mere half truths
that couldn’t go one pace beyond
into the place of fiery testing.

Thank God we got delivered
by gradual and sudden
loss that transforms everything
and quickly sobers up the dreamers
drunk upon communion wine.

We got our invitation and
we broke past that temptation
just to tarry in the safe and feast
on fat and easy answers…

we pressed straight thru to honesty
and wrestling with the mystery
of our Christ Crucified and big enough for everyone,
finally became big enough to die to self
and small enough to live here now

in stark repudiation
of our youthful indiscretions
so full and yet so empty.

We dwell now midst the paradox
of Living, Reigning Savior
in this woeful place of dying
we set our dark face like flint to walk
in living faith straight into ever after…

Living faith.
Amentumblr_njyzoi2o6B1t0lovho1_1280

Wisdom

Oh Wisdom, who partners You?
Age?  Experience? Who dances with You true?

In youth I blundered into loss and felt it sharp and keen,
knew the meaning of a promise in its status shattered, broken,
in its secret name left mute, loudly unspoken
except by shadows cast in pain and lonely loss.
And Wisdom came to me, to walk amidst my ruins.

Experience resulted in a somewhat measured gain
mixed freely in the world’s follies, and pleasures and pain
and while I received understanding tasting bittersweet
the bitter chased and nipped and bit my fleeing bloody feet
and Wisdom ran with me amidst those ruddy copper stains.

As time has passed my bones grow thin and brittle, so washed out,
bleached white beneath a blazing sun gone tharn and super-nova,
my heart has been ripped out and tossed into the fragrant clover
and that hole gasps and gapes like some ridiculous lost fool
and Wisdom came to fill it with Her Resurrection Jewel.

It is not age that counts, it’s not white hair or callow youth,
all must pass beneath Her Sceptre stretched, bright Golden Truth
and tarry in Her purifying white hot crucibles
and suffer all consuming losses cruel and terrible
to gain Her Presence constant, deep and rich and sweet and full.tumblr_nk02dlIsSv1r3fkjno1_1280

I Sit Where Edges Meet

Greys, silvers soft and tinged with gold
and washed out pinks bleed from my heart
as I sit on the dock and look out on the lake
in longing, in lingering longing.

I wash across the sky so blue,
soft blue, robin’s egg unbreakable
and endless in blue, endless in echo
of my longing soul, lingering.

lingering.
yeah, that’s me,
and always has been.
on the edges sitting,
living inside my longing
bleeding, rising, blossoming.tumblr_njts5cL7951spq83no1_1280I cannot fly like birds
so instead I send me up up
tinging, coloring, rising
grey and silver and pink
against blue, and over blue too.

The edge of sky and land,
the edge of land and water,
the edge of water and sky,
it is at this nexus that I sit…I.

Without wings, without boats.

But I have my inner cello,
strings taut and tuned just so,
I have my song of greys and pinks
sprung from my silver bow.

So I will sit, here in this meeting
of sky and lake, land and song,
and play my tune across bright waters
that glow and glisten under skies

of blue tinged silver, shot with grey
and gleaming pink into the glowing night.

C’est pas grave…

C’est pas grave…
Si j’ai le cœur en lambeaux
Les yeux en sanglot
Les joues chamallow
Et la voix lamento
Presqu’une épave…

C’est pas grave…
Si l’amour s’enfuit
Si le jour se prend pour la nuit
Si l’hiver encore me poursuit
Si le diable me séduit
Je ne serai pas son esclave…

C’est pas grave…
Quand le ciel me tombe sur les pieds
Que je me sens abandonnée
Que ma plume perd sa volupté
Que mes mains sont désarmées
Je continuerai à jouer les braves…

tumblr_ncb0y0bE531s8uwpyo1_1280
Mystic4Ever
Le 25 Novembre 2012