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 compliment.

“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.

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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
WRONG WRONG WRONG!
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

ENOUGH

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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
travails.

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…
Ummmmm.

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

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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

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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

(blackholerazorplacedarkmawhungrymonsterland).

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

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Onslaught

Sometimes,
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.

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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,
furtiveness,
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?

Seriously,
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…

Seriously,
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…

Seriously,
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…

Seriously,
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,
because
Seriously,
I wonder what you see?

What is Grey?

Grey
Maligned and mistrusted,
assumed and embraced
Grey.

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

Grey?
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.
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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.
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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!

But…
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
poof
drip
gone.

Mama,
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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

 

 

Parallels

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

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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.

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Standing in the Rain

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

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.

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There’s an app for that!

Her eyes bugged out
(like reason on the run)
and spittle flew
as she waggled her sign
and bawled her slogans
like incantations.
She thought she was sharing Jesus…
she thought in vain,
as people parted
and passed her by
like the Red Sea shrinking
back from the touch
of Pharaoh’s Army tred.

But one true girl,
too young to see
her crazed and frothing fear
marched up to her
like Moses’s Staff,
and tugged at her
drab and brown mask,
until the woman noticed
and looked down,
to see what missive
the little gift of grace might impart.

“Ya know there is an app for that!”
she said forcefully!
The woman’s eyebrows crawled up
like earthworms from the light,
and the girl saw her question,
and simply answered
“For hate and meanness,
there is an app for that.

It’s called Love”.

She walked away,
and the woman was left behind,
bereft of even her hate…
but pregnant with
the path and possibility of following
where a little child will lead.

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The Golden End

So blows the wind,
blowzy and loud
Tugging, tickling and
talking of life
on the water
Without boats,
without pride.

I have squirmed,
crawled, walked
and danced this far
and the air
shimmers and shivers
(a puppy wanting petted)
And She sings on the wind
to step off the end
and walk on water,
walk on Love,

Walk.

So I raise my silver sail
and rise up heart first
dancing over mercury waves
and cobalt deep blue to
merge with the golden end.

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Broken Kaliedoscopes

I wrote this poem this morning, after thinking most of the day about the notion that when we seek to understand our identity, we risk losing the gestalt of our Self…reducing ourselves inadvertently as we seek to understand ourselves.  This fracturing may perhaps be necessary as a beginning, even as when we want to create an amazing dish we must first understand the components and how they go together and interact.  But ultimately, each facet, each ingredient must willingly give up the ghost of its independence, and join the unity to become married into the dish.  Otherwise, the dish fails.

We define ourselves by gender, by sexuality, by occupation, by spiritual allegiance or lack thereof, by ideal, philosophies or concept.

What if all of those things were like the stones and glass shards of a kaleidoscope?  What if they all could marry, come together, and we might actually be something far more wonderful and complex…and simple?  And what if the kaleidoscope of me was a mere shard going with the kaleidoscope of you…and you…and you…until we were a blazing mandala of God extending thoughout His universe in His hand and we would ride on Her song and shine for Their Glory forever?

This poem is about that…the idea is a deep one, and needs to be unpacked inside you for days, perhaps months or years…I know that I am understanding ingredients easily, but only just realising that they must now conjoin, and consummate this marriage of me.tumblr_mme6u64gGM1qdh7g0o1_500Bright colored stones and lacy graceful glass,
Refract the Light and bend it beautiful…
(our world is bent so Grace responded with
refracted Beauty), hand to grasp, hold hope
and twist that tube, Tender Kaliedoscope.
And wakeful bright and peering eager eyes
convert sensed input into wondrous meaning,
Glad riot glorious, such brilliant beauty
a visual symphonic concert singing.2-v4lg89The sullen bully was afraid to look,
afraid to feel, so afraid to become
a subject. His hand ragged, rudely rough,
and she, her slattern eyes sloppy with fear…

Their mouths shot stones and cannonaded curses,
cascades of clouting shouting wounding words
until I broke, until I shattered final
and glad glass, patterned fragments intricate
of my me placed just so to catch the light
and burst with grace that glowed and shone brilliant
to beauty forth with glory-shine and SHINE…tumblr_mzxm204mls1rw5ktmo1_500

Now broken, fallen shattered, they were able
to clench at last, to fumble furiously
To grasp and rape and ravage with their fingers
and hot insinuating tones of terror…
they grab a bloody shard and cut themselves
and cut each other “proving” I was poison
reducing me to that fragmented shard
and say they named me, no more numinous.tumblr_mzzqvsLAI01s5u2cno1_500But I rebel, reject their brutal label,
and gather up the pieces of my beauty
and bring them, mourning to my tender Lady
and lay them down there, shattered and so dull
and praying, hoping, believing and knowing
She is my Mama, Warrior-Sister too
and She will integrate me intimately,
so that I coalesce to shine again
and turn in faith and love and shine in Hope
that I’m no more Broken KaleidoscopeImage 2

 

Underneath the Surface

Will you look?
There, beneath
grey quicksilver waves…
Under brown boulders
lashed by billows and tides
Wreathed in seaweed strands
of surface stuff that clings
and grasps and changes
ever in riptides and caustic currents.

Will you look?
There, I am sitting
small, quietly azul and shimmering
Circumspect in flowing thoughts
Piled up like surf
queuing to rush the beach
and show themselves
in my limpid eyes,
my  starry smiles,
my liquid laughter.

Will you choose
to grant me freedom
by limiting yours freely?
Then join me, and fly
Underneath the Surface.

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Roses out of Ruins

She walked, head held high
like a servant who pilfered a sweetcake
from the grouchy old cook
(who ruled her kingdom with iron,
a slave who fancied herself sovereign).

She took their glances,
their sneers, their horror
and fashioned it with cake and hope,
and bullheaded faith

To make flower out of flour,
and freedom out of fashion,
and roses out of ruins.

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Freedom Face

Attacking the barrier with faces,
we dent, crack, and bust it.
We see from our side
Progress! Advancement, baby steps.
Them? We are
Cracked, obscured, broken
Forgotten…
But the cracks run ragged, the breaks flow deeper,
and freedom’s whisper is strong
and Insistent.

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The Instrument

I dip, low…
Leaning in over these words like
She moves over her cello.

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My mind moves busy,
back and forth,
a bow vibrating
over those words,
seeking for
Resonance and Mystery
latent within
waiting poised,
ready for release from
just the right
strike, touch, draw.

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There!  Sound it so, clarion
and my words will
Sing in your soul like
her music o’erwhelms mine.

Firetongue

Go ahead…say it!
Tear me apart and
blood me with your firetongue.
You think so little
of it.
You think your right
and you’re right
but you are just a slave owner
marking time on the old plantation
before the dispossessed
find their arms, their legs
and their tongues
to speak of freedom and
walk in your world at last.

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Walmart Woman of Privilege

she ran me down
with her eyes…and words
as she walked by
clutching her child frantically.
Her angular frown glowered
and she slid sideways with her heart and
threw up a covering
for her own panic…
but that covering
was a wall to me, a barrier,
and her cruel mouth and
silent slashing slap to my face
cut me, gashed me,
and left me trapped and alone
behind the barrier that
only the outcast can see and feel

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Hourglass in Reverse

Time slides sideways
and runs rapid and drags
doggedly.
I watch my days
march closer to the end,
and I feel fresh life
fragrant hope and
promise
flow into me from beyond
as I gain access to myself
and the silver that
lay so long dormant
in the lining.
I will dance forever,
regardless.

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Visionary

She laughed as she thought about that
sideways thinker,
or was he just hungry,
the one who first thought to look past shells
and the smell of seafood…
limpets, mussels, clams, shrimp, snails,
oysters (omg shudder shiver).

Desperate, or bored?
Interested or Inspired?

No matter…what a world he opened up, what a
feast of delicate and wondrous
flavors, aromas, delights.

I lick my fingers,
and suck butter out of my
garlic escargot, and ask Lady Grace
to give me courage to look
past shells, smells, false tells,
with no fear and great inspiration
to find true treasure in everyone I meet
drawn up from
God’s Great Sea.

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Miriam’s Song

Roll back stormy waters, roiling steely dark and deep.
Roll back clinging finger-waves and the icy grip they keep.
Make a way thru waters where there isn’t any way
And lead me laughing, walking, running out of miry clay.

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Elder voices rebound around, echoes from my past,
Deep bass rumbles, gruff and loud remind me of my caste…
Hairy, clumsy, unrefined the world which held me chained
Roll them back, please scour me, set me free from all that’s stained.

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Behind me, tumult quiets as I stride forward in grace,
At my left hand are threatening wails and rain-lash on my face,
At my right arm benighted phobic zombies gibber shrill
Roll back the waters Adonai, and lead me up Your hill.

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I walk on dry ground breathlessly, forward in the night
Reminding myself all the time I walk by faith not sight.
My soul will someday sing the song of Miriam and rejoice,
But now, ROLL BACK, please…save me, for You are my always choice.

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Golden Grateful and Glad

Flowers sprout
with fierce purpose.
Pushing, unnoticed, til thru
dark and unconscious earth
they poke, appear, and sing.

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Blossoms of hope,
of song, of trailing beauty
and fragrant comfort.
My heart soars,
rises like the wave rises
and longs for Her
as the wave’s curl
longs to break
onto the shore
and be wasted there
in adoration…
and I too
will break on her
and rush over this earth
as a tide of fragrant blossoms.
This girl,
your garden of Grace,
this Grace
Golden
Grateful and
Glad.

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Breaking into Wholeness

There, ‘neath the charred and crisp skin
the hull, the shell, the null…
Something shines,

laughingly lurking and eager
to break thru the crusty cap and gleam
brilliant and true.

Fire and rain have fallen
and taken tribute from
my bleeding vital heart,
and twisted back again and over,
licking kissing and
claiming all their bounty…

what can be shaken is
what can be eaten is
Leaving…what?  Who?

Leaving me
Charissa Grace
Shining thru.

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Your Happy Daughter

Unquenchable, I sally forth in song
Unbreakable, I shatter into view.
Unmakeable, I plop onto the wheel
Unanchored now, I give myself to You.

Come down, come close, come change this mottled clay
Into the Living Woman that I am.
Take every barb and barrier stinging sharp
And give Your song, that bright celestial jam

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Let Heaven flow into my tattered soul
Let earth be rent and give up all my dead.
I rise remade, renewed from sorrow’s bed
Your daughter, touched, delivered, and made Whole.

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From Whirling to Spinning

She spins,
drawing down and deep
from her most secret treasure.
She carries with her silk,
gossamer strands and strategy
and patiently she makes
from who she is inside…
her one and only option.
And need.  Her One Desire.
She gets life, sustenance,
exists for transformation
and creation
of her web of life.tumblr_ldlhpe2nsW1qdnbr8o1_500And I watch, fascinated
by her patience,
her diligent patience,
her perseverance.
Mama, teach me
to take the traumas,
desires, longings,
emptinesses, hurts, wounds,
deposits and experiences,

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Teach me to yield
and let this whirling
confusion become spinning,
and spinning out of who I am,
that I might spin a web
to catch Your Sacred blessings
and life.

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Horizon Beckons: Passages From A Journey Painted in Haiku

I walk slow on a
road that bears leaves in mountains
on the peaks of spring.

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#1
rain-filled ruts reflect
an apple-red summer sky
that highlights brown hills.

in the wind my skin
revels amidst bitter-sweet
echoes of that day.

wind, you will have a
terrible time smothering
my soft clarity.

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#2
in fog a tree steps
back graceful, allows passage
shedding misty skin.

light fall of the moon
gently caresses the tree
and subtracts some dark.

silver sliver slides
through dark blue breaths of still night
on a cricket’s song

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#3
voices of snowmen
call the white-haired children home
then melt in their mouths.

beggar’s withered hand
stretched out inert, silent as
if already dead.

The old ones, bookends
whose bodies encrust their lives
find peace yet again.

#4
a good poem somehow
makes what’s true a little more
DISTURBING/PROFOUND.

melting candles drip
with hidden light most precious
a grain-growth of gold

Poem within the poem
Grace inhabits this body–
Image finds its Source.

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#5
I love you, but it’s
not the finish, not the end
but the beginning.

flow’ring thru silk sleeves
are come memories of all
the moments of life.

You say “I love you”
a sound so tender that the
dead could even hear!

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#6
I raise my hands high
to have them remember you
they trace you in air.

Floating Home
together they sway
like a small boat on a lake
hull snuggling waves

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there is no rainfall
no wind’s taste nor full moon’s touch
soft enough for you.

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#7: Final Call
Come. Walk beside me
Heads held high we’ll sing into
the difficult dark.

River meets river
They meld, one to another
our beings, the streams

We journey slow, on
a long road that leads to a
Final, Always-Dawn.

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Butterflies are Free

They move, they flit.
I have felt Them.
Lumps of Life weighty, inert
thick points of presence.

Though there was thick stillness now
They have wriggled,
struggled and groaned
their way free.

I accept them.
I receive them.
They are me,
and I am free.

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Merry Christmas

And I sit, pondering today,
tomorrow, but yesterday
Yesteryear looms large.

The shadow cast of those events shines
inverted and bright
Light on Darkness Backdrop.

Crystal clarity and
pure purpose precipitated,
linger now,
surge now,
stay now
inside me.

I face fears,
uncertainties and self-centered acts
that will wound and rend.
People of agenda which is
dark on light’s backdrop,
people of ignorance
who assume all things.

My heart quakes,
my bones are water,
my thoughts are anxious acid
that etches my soul.
I pray thee,
Precious Christ Child,
cover me in such a way
that all that is
etched away leaves you
Shining thru me
The Christmas Star.

LK072

Can I Just Say AMEN!!!!?????

“Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.”

Rosemarie Urquico

The Harp of Hope

For upon my heart will I play my song,
plucked and strummed and tapped
with fingers of faith-full thoughts and Hope,
Assured that I belong.

For Hope’s not hope that only wishing
waits in resignation.
Hope sings, soars, and gladly yields
And echoes Faith’s Vibration.

I dare not hope in my own strength
for strength is but illusion.
I rest instead in Their own Rest
and dwell there in Collusion.

HA! Trite and amusing rhymes
occupy my busy and anxious soul…

And give space and time
To Choose, to know Whom,
and Play the Harp of Hope

Amen.
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Windows and Pathways

Altars within.
What lies inside leads Outside.
Windows and pathways, like sunrise
Faithful and free.

I sip, slow, as spectrums
Bloom and what was fullness
drains, swirls, and I see beyond
Wavelengths.

There is a forgetting that is born of folly,
There is amnesia kissed by Grace
How to remember and forget in this
stoppered Lonely Place?

Oh Creation, be my window, be my pathway,
Be my temple to stretch out and
Fill with GloryGrace.,
And toast That Which is Beyond
And They Who are Within

Windows and Pathways.

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Numinous Vineyard

Numinous Vineyard!
You place unnamed and unashamed,
flourishing in the swirling and tenacious
embrace of splendor and beauty…

STOP!!

Turn around!!
The True Wine is behind you…

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Come Sit With Me

Come sit with me, still
in the cold and winter wonder
of the singing silence and
radiant velvet dark night.

The moon hovers,
a hen nestling down
on us, chicklings,
and our sentinels
stand watch,
stand guard for
our place.

Come sit with me,
my love,
my love

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“And it has been
one hell
of a year.
I have worn
the seasons
under my sleeves,
on my thighs,
running down my cheeks.
This is what
surviving
looks like, my dear.”
Michelle K, It Has Been One Hell of a Year

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Moments of Metamorphosis and Eternity

Light, fragile, buoyantly beautiful
and strange they emerge from
woolly woven tombs and skins
of hairy fur and no wings.

Just legs, too many and multipede
in creepy ambulation from plant to twig
avoiding the crushing boot and pecking beak.

Do they know, what they are and will be?
Do they crawl in faith, miracle filled
and waiting?

Or do they toil, in their
earthbound blind and brown dimension
to fall into chrysalis, not knowing that
Emergence waits?

Oh Mama,
may my cocoon be wrought
by Your Faithful and Loving Hands,
May my tomb be rent
by His Faithful and Fierce Sword of Light,
and may my cage be carried
and left behind in moments
of metamorphosis
and eternity.

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For the page to turn

I watch carefully and slow
and peaceful.
Stress claws constant, gnawing gnashing
teeth sharp and white
and tipped in red.

And yet I live, sustained and filled
as I am drained and killed…
Grace-God reigns and wreathes me
in Comfort-Smoke-Incense
and I am watching
for the page to turn.

Behind the set the Makers Move,
Hear, Feel and Pray.
Grant grace so I too this day.
And every day to come remain
Faithful to turn the page.

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