look for me, search
in my solid words…
and you will miss me
in their sparkle-spazzle
and solid spunk echoes.
i’m in the spaces
in between my words
shining and shim’ring
in dance-implications…
Category Archives: Poetry
To Come Back To | Charissa’s Grace Notes
This is a simple love poem…it’s about that moment, that one timeless on-the-precipice moment
the one that you wish would never end…
Source: To Come Back To | Charissa’s Grace Notes
it’s that moment
when lungs forget
how to billow
in and out faithful
when air is tangible,
shimmering silvery-alive,
right before our
hushed wide eyes
that moment when
we both know finally…
Prairies and Pearls | Charissa’s Grace Notes
These days I cannot tell
the difference between
Lara Croft and Laura Wilder
Didn’t they both face mummies?
Didn’t they both raid tombs?
Didn’t they both find secrets?
It’s somewhere between
prairies and pearls
that the line extends
to connect their hearts.
Living Origami | Charissa’s Grace Notes
A poem about the fingers of God inside the fears and frailties of a woman. And yes, I am cognizant of the implications, and wonder why this is not more commonly experienced by others…the touch of God is so very intimate…
I feel your fingers
in my folds and
my fine feathers
ruffling, riffing
sometimes ripping
for your pleasure
folding me and
creasing me
until I do not
recognize
the shape
I’m in.
Turning this way…
Unfurling From A Set-Free Throat | Charissa’s Grace Notes
I am gunna begin reposting older poetry, here on Grace Notes…because Facebook is a wasteland of the driest thirstiest most stingy desert sand that has ever been. Proverbs would say that Facebook has two sisters: “Give” and “Give”.
My older work is good…at least, in my own internal scales of what I like and do not like, it weighs out as treasure. I feel it in my bones…it RINGS of true truth. But it is unwieldy, this blog, in getting to those older poems…one must make time and space to even find them, let alone to eat them and digest them…
…because my poems are not immediately burnable carb calories…
Anyway…here they are, such as they are.
This particular poem is about finding my voice as symbol of finding myself. It examines paradigms and presuppositions, and advocates for freedom from old superstitions and lies…and freedom to timeless Truth.
I still struggle to dig it out,
that splinter you shoved into me,
down my throat without so much
as a shot of whiskey or
a shot in the dark.
and you are so certain, sure
of how to walk the world an…
Source: Unfurling From A Set-Free Throat | Charissa’s Grace Notes
Holding It Tight
you’re there
I see you in the
glow, the fierce proud
glow that melts snow and
vaporizes anything in the know
you hold
your bouquet
of blooming hatred
tight, vise-like, clutched
and gathered to your chest
where it
burns everything
it melts anything that
even thinks about getting
close-like, including your fingers
clutched
gripping
so tight
that you cannot
shake it off of them
your fingers and your face
so that your heat could even
get shared.
Pauper-Heart And Paper Mind
And though Your feet find every path
how is it I can see no sign
that You have ever cared to pass
along this trail, travail of mine?
I, pauper-heart and paper mind
bequeathed with Heaven’s own dear Breath
look at this empty road to find
it circles, curls unto my death.
That I stand asking is itself
a rich and bottomless grand gift
and that I scrabble at Your Shelf
and fumble, clumsy drop and sift
Until there’s nothing left to see
while all around me diamonds gleam
Until I take my eyes off me
then shall dust to riches be
The gifts are not in garlands rare
Nor ease nor comfort fading fast
Thy gift is very Breath, it’s Air
With me til I breathe my last.
The Turmoil Of Spring
I am wearing the turmoil of Spring in my hair
I have worn it so young and so old
It’s for you that I wear Spring so zestfully there
For your heart, I am wearing Spring without a care
For your soul, well I wear Spring so bold.
But you rush thru the seasons so fast and so blind
Looking into the future so blurred
It’s for me that you strain your eyes, trying to find
Something different, a lodestone to anchor your mind
Alas, you miss the damage incurred.
I guess pacing is part of the problem, my dear
You pull hard, while I toddle along
For whatever our eyes rest on, touch on, hold near
those things take flesh and blood then they stoke up your fear
And they co-opt your voice and your song.
Can we walk thru the seasons together, our hands
Clasped gently yet joined as we wait?
You can see far, rejoice in the coming of that
I can see up close, making the moments grow fat
While the seasons just slip out the gate.
Shaking And Trembling And Speechless
It is
a strange spiraling
of meaning…
draining out
of works that
felt pregnant
with them…meanings…
Meaning.
Now?
prowled and picked over
by hurried lazy eyes
losing meaning, my poems,
like a bike tire
like a sleek balloon
gone sad and pudgy
from too many bon-bons.
See, I write them
in such a way that
it is the reader plugging
into them
that births that meaning
each one is pregnant with…
and the reader midwifes their
own “poem” in the interaction.
but I look at poems now…
living creatures that slid
into this world and onto the page
in my tears of all stripes and moods…
born of water and Spirit…
and they just seem silly, like debris
in maelstrom currents mixing with cast off Micky D wrappers
and the latest pop culture Rapper
hanging in the wastelands with the other vultures.
it is stunning, really…that they really
do not matter to anyone like they do to me…
these lil “Tardises” of words…they are just…
forlorn, they are petals after they have been
trod on by the wedding party and the departing guests
and now are at best mere curiosities better suited
for Ripley’s Believe It Or Not
instead of Lord I believe help me in my unbelief.
I think I wept
for two days
after this…
it was
so
beautiful
as it shouldered
its way in and it left me
shaking and trembling and speechless.
I think I literally babbled as I wrote.
(Sometimes I do that when I get hit
with Creative Fire…I just babble
without words because the
UUUNNNGGGHHH of creating is too
AAAUUUGGGHHHH!!!!)
And then I see the latest
hater-aide clever meme
get hit millions of times
as everyone goes
“O00000h!!! BUUURRRNNN”
and pours another cup of coffee
(one more cup of coffee before I go)
and snaps their fingers where
the newspaper used to live and
pulls up their light-stained cheeks
to the latest send up to entertainment.
And this compulsion to share…
this fucking HOPE that someday
someone would read them
from the inside out
and have their OWN babbling
UUUUNNNNGGGHHH and
AAAUUUGGGGHHH
and the words would snap to,
alive and burning and twine
into the human being’s
very own unique living poetry
just for them
and them alone.
The Sound Of Weepy Rocks
the rocks are weepy tonight
in the mist they hide,
like a sorrowful bride
beneath her veil so misty-thin,
so impenetrable.
the trees lean grey and low
in acts of love and sacrifice
and yet their branches can’t suffice
the blow, the brunt the rocks endure
in the endless name of Time.
and out upon the roiling sea
I dance the waves and they dance me
and we keep time to metronomes
so deep and quiet that their song
may simply be the sound, the weep…
the tears of the weepy rocks 
And Dogs Ran At Us Hard | Charissa’s Grace Notes
Last year on this day this poem came to me, along with feelings of overwhelming grief…
today, after the hunters began their work yesterday, legislative guns blazing and celebrating after…
today it makes sense.
we soared high on currents,
uplifts unseen by human eyes
but oh so visible to us,
we dancers in the skies…
ever young and long did we thus fly
until we tired and we had need of
landing, resting…
Never Ending Irish Rain
Written for My Father…
“…and then you turn your head
your beautiful estrangéd face
to the other side of midnight
and behold that silky rain
(as if for the first time)
that Never Ending Irish Rain
fell green across the golden waters
and washing down those greying sands,
quiet, themselves ablaze, a-falling
like stars straight thru the night…”
Source: Never Ending Irish Rain
Haunted, Haunting Beauty
The place of Beauty
in a broken, breaking world,
how to recognize it
rather than define it,
those moments that stop us
dead in our fatal tracks.
Do you know beauty
is conducive to stillness?
It isn’t that which excites
or makes us want to replicate it…
Source: Haunted, Haunting Beauty
Haunting Beauty, Redux
“it has long been rumored
there was a night, that night
when Juliek, on brink of death
played Beethoven so hauntingly
in the dark for dying men, starved,
doomed to meet dark doom so soon
but regaled in that lurking dark
with beauty’s fire unquenchable…”
Source: Haunting Beauty, Redux
CHECK THE SCIENCE: BEING TRANS IS NOT A ‘CHOICE’
I am posting this for those readers who still may not understand the complex physiological and psychological factors that work together to form our gender orientations.
In light of the fact that the Bible is utterly silent regarding the so-called “morality” of gender, this article could be especially helpful for those of you who claim you love Jesus and yet treat transgender humans like Hell.
May God spare you the kind of treatment that you have handed out to others in the name of Jesus…but that is not how it works, is it? The fact of the matter is that the exact standard that you employ to show your rejection and hate of transgender humans is the one that Jesus will hold up for you on your day of dawning…
The Hounds Of Torquemada
sometimes scared I hear
the stink and the hot blood
rushing thru the crowds
like demons on the loose
the hounds of Torquemada
sometimes I see them
all the people in the streets
lost and in a mumble
of pain and crazy jumble
and death in every tumble
and I just wanna lay there
in the streets so dirty
teeming with the garbage
of privileged excrement
and tear my chest wide open
and with my desperate fingers
claw my hurt ribs agape
and reach in for my heart
and rip it from my soul
and hold it over head
and let my blood gush forth
in step with all my tears
and wash it all away
why can’t it wash away
oh Jesus wash, oh Jesus
why is it them not me
i think I’m gunna cry
and cry and cry and cry
while my heart bleeds and bleeds
until it’s bled all dry
Nothing Rhymes Orange
“…and the nuance is gone,
disappeared in the mist
along with soft kisses,
it’s all been dismissed
by orange fading soft
into white then returning
to orange, and orange
and then just more orange
so i sit here, i wait,
i remember another time,
other days full of
sweet music and rhyme…”
Source: Nothing Rhymes Orange
The Sound of Beauty Silent
Standing beside gull-force winds
strong enough to blow a waterfall
back into its own face, something
no man has experienced but needs to
I watch Beauty roll down and meet unbelief.
And I remember all over again how I am haunted
by the ghost that grows when Beauty glows and screams
to the body transcendent and compelling and
then goes silent once again
a waterfall thundering down
and pushed away with every might
and longing stirs all over again
as I just wonder how it is
that God can be resisted, how
that God has chosen suffering, now
in person and in heaven, wonder
that God is…that God is…that
then the song is sung by Beauty’s
absence in the scattering
the scurrying, no one cannot not be aware
and longing for the shelter
of The Safe Wing Stretched Divine
though it feel ominous, and gone and here
the absence of what cannot leave
beauty…or itself.
a guillotine to answer to the knife in my clenched fist
and I realize I must go thru this once again, this absence
that leaves all things scattered, scurrying, suffocating
in the Stripping of the Altar, in the scattering of all
and the sound of tombs slammed shut
and the sound of screaming triumph
and the sound of darkness looming
and the sound of Beauty Silent
all compel a halt to movement
so we listen in the stillness
to the absence, to the absence
to the looming screaming absence
and the Sound of Beauty Silent
Good Friday 2017
everyone denied it.
that He was killed
that He was alive
that there was a Door
that the Door was closed
everyone denied it.
that there was it.
that it was.
that she was dressed
that she was it.
She knew better
because dawn had done
and blue was shining
in her golden hope
She knew open and empty
were Something.
My Offering Of Violent Worship
Born transgender…
concealed…
in rushes, in tulies
wandering deserts
and walking lonesome valleys…
and we walked around the sun
50 times, spinning, circling
while I, spinning and circling
spiraled out of myself
torn in two
or maybe parted
by Solomon’s Silver Blade
my inner me stifled and screaming
“Give Her Away! Give Her Away!”
as he just shrugged and said
“I don’t wanna be here anyway”
but then to come to myself slow
trickling back home
and draining up and in
before coming out
the sun so bright
the wind so fresh
creation dancing
and the stink of hate and horror
and the sting of brutal spittle
and eyes that bruise and stab
and the cries of the powerless
and the silence of the othered
and the dust of death settling
I dance, I sing, I SHOUT!
I whirl and lift that dust to the wind
as my offering of violent worship
of our Liberty God, Our Graceful GOD
our LOVING GOD
and I hear Their loving strong whisper:
“For such a time as this you were created”
and I take my place with Esther
and take Mary of Bethany’s hand
and settle into this truest truth for me:
“My maids and I will fast likewise.
And so I will go to the king, which is against the law;
and if I perish, I perish!”
A Handful of Memory
And again…from Last Year:
it was a village
no longer existing
it was a laugh
that echoed that village
and hung in the air
like smoke from a fire
extinguished in nightfall
and drifting in winds
and lonely midst stars
while crickets and frogs
lament as it faded
and pebbles and diamonds
all heaped up at random
and sticks and steel swords
all jumbled together…
Source: A Handful of Memory
ever Spring, ever Autumn
My own poem from last year…I do really favor this one.
it looks the same to you
whether you stand
in winter or summer
…the gate of my heart…
Source: ever Spring, ever Autumn
In Every Dear Breath
in that place…
it only exists
between your lips
when you are sleeping
and I am awake…
it’s the same place
between the dark
freshly plowed field
and the deep night sky…
I live there, quick
in every dear breath,
in between them as well
touching your parted teeth
the way moon touches sea
my love touches you
your want touches me
I am a doorway
eternity dwells
and we enter thru
in every dear breath.
Where The Light Passes In
Do you know the place where the light passes in?
That’s where you’ll find me when darkness is seeping
from crevice and cranny while Spring trudges weeping
I sit in the place where the light passes in.
You’ll find me there singing of beautiful life
and of faith like pure gold burnished shiny with hope
as my tears fall like diamonds so soft in the wind
In that place where the light, where the light passes in.
Listen…you barely can sound out the echoes
that buzz in the trees and bounce off the crags
and run back and forth from my mouth to my chin
In the place where the light passes in, passes in
It’s tempting to think that I never have lived
a sad day or bad day when dark gathers grim…
But I have…what’s the secret? Outside and In?
Why I let the light pass thru, and out, and then in…
I’m the place where the light, where the light passes in.
The Fog Like Still Joy
the fog gathers, nesting
over the deep quiet glen
dialing down sunlight
damping every sound
in this gloam my supple soul
nestles in, gives up control
and ceases struggle to be good,
or important, or subtle
and she feels the fog like still joy.
if you wish to care for the soul
you must decide it matters
more than human life
and simply know…still
Our Sacred Desert Story
We set out on tender feet
and tender hearts to match
and faces become flint as we
determined that we would not faint.
When our sojourn was hip deep in heat
and we were well and away, out to sea
she told me of the heartbreak and the horror
and there how we did rain our tears…
We took turns (while we wiled the desert paths away)
swimming away from the ship of us…naked, vulnerable
and healing in the slick water…further and further
and then return and up and back into our desert ship.
It was in the sunset wrought with haze from distant destinations
that make you think about fire, and about what might have been.
We, perched on that rock solid emanating heat and spitting healing
while the sky, bruised by our advances, turned purple in our song.
It was just Day Umpteen Kazillion in our great traverse of deserts,
we walking, swimming straight by myth and extraterrestrial,
feeding on lizards, trilobites, and our sacred Stories our Communion shared
and we, oh so close to our arriving, our becoming, our sacred Desert Story.
The Land That I Haunt
Simple, slow
embodied in sinew
and oiled with sweat
traversing territory
between the heart
and the mind…
this is the song of the strong soaring soul
this is the song of the wind in the night
this is the song of retreat into wholeness
this is the song of those swaying stars swinging
in the midst of the tumult of hurried compassion
dwelling in antipode virtue of soul
mired in distant connection called intimate
sucking the bloated cold teat of efficiency
this is the loss of the soul…
and what of me?
I am not quick, yet
I move like the lightening
singing and zinging and sizzling bright
kissing the stars and empowering earth
this is the land that I haunt with my life
Resurrection In Purple Flow
Sometimes when
I am in the presence
of the royal mountain
I can’t help myself.
I run purple, violet
I feast on fallen blossoms
(somehow the fallen sing more
of loss, of all that comes before
Resurrection
in purple flow
A Disjointed Incomplete Meditation…
This is talking about my own life, my own family…and yours, too…because all of us have this brokenness. The evidence is irrefutable.
This poem is all about forgiveness…trying to give it and trying to receive it…and the incredible revelation that it is impossible.
There is no trying…there is only becoming.
“…And so now we get down to it:
there is no exit,
no escape from agony,
pitstop from pain…
all we can do is
exchange suffering’s form
and it’s face, from our own
for the pain of another…”
This Darkened Path Of Self-Examination
Your vain cold words wielded stark like an ax
against a tree because you’re cold in spite
of conflagration blazing behind you
but that ax slinks solo chopping at that
frozen sea, once us, so insufficient…
and now? It is just more ice-pick chipping,
adding to that devastating sea
of loathing and despair you wallow in,
you, leper in the Dead Sea of yourself.
And common grief can crack a frozen wall,
but frozen sea? Alas, this grief looms large!
Singular…and you giving, so giving…
but only of more death and dumb destruction…
where was this giving when there was something
more to give besides grief and a pecking,
a chippy picking needle peck peck peck ing?
I’m searching in corners dark, difficult
because the light is empty, Fool…and ‘neath
barrage of comments belittling, gory
I face our scandal torrid, flaccid, hoary (our story)
which is the scandal in every last story
that you refuse to read…instead you hide
in that pervasive smothering attitude
and as I gasp for breath and fumble with
my flaws in jagged close shuddering dark
you trumpet your search for beams of darkness
that occlude specks of light, light that, blinding,
irritates our eyes to tears and tears that
frozen sea to pieces, tears my frozen
flesh to pieces…tears me into pieces…
It’s difficult, this dimly lighted place
that requires much more, and then some more…
a merciful throne compels honesty,
transparency…that a dictator sees
as only weak capitulation…but
it is here…
In the shadow of incarnation, Here
I find the strength to walk this…this darkened path…
this darkened path of self-examination.
Abandonment
This was my being’s experience for too many years, and the first poetic attempt to deal with the major stronghold of my life…and the gif at the end…brrr…I lived in terror of those footsteps on the stairs, coming towards me with harsh words and blows…
Source: Abandonment
Fire With Fire
All it takes is a word…just one.
It gets free and yeah, so it trods a toe
but hey that’s okay cus the point is so
important, potent.
Then a couple words,
and a sideways slide
and down the hill
a ways
but that is acceptable
too, because this
is so important
well, the next thing you know
you’re in the WWE (even tho
you’re the good guy)
and death is okay because
you HAVE to fight
fire with fire.
The Very Thing You Hate
It starts small.
Just one word,
connects almost
without effort to
another word
and they twist
together a corkscrew
actually…
and suddenly
that cork slides
so easy so tight so slick
and then
such popping
sudden relief!
the bottle in
a heart so bitter
is open at last
invective is free
but just a sip
then a glug
(one must be
careful you see
to apply bitterness carefully)
just to make a point
just to become
the very thing
you hate
Hearing Glimmers
Lately
I have been studying
kittens…
is what they see
determined by
how they sit?
I strain to relax
into the posture
of a cat at the window
and hear glimmers
of the Purr
When Words Are Written Here
there, in clouds and nothing but clouds
above and below as I…walked? Or did I
swim, or fly, and in the distance
hearing songs of you…and clouds
obscure and yet they also part
and thru the silver mist She came…
Her Heart and Ears and Eyes (the singing)
stilled and still and still She came Singing
and in this cloudy parting is the only knowing needed
that I am Her child, Her emissary
sent to bend what thinks itself straight
and straighten what is broken, bent.
Me the paper, pen and ink
Mama, unsayable, beyond the think,
the clouds, the parting, emerging and wordless
song…and She the emerging and yes
the clouds parting
when words are written here
After A Disdaining Blue Jay
Chilly Morning stretches
night-swaddled wings
(damp in the dawn)
In the frosty filigree
from the handrail
of the back deck
a Blue Jay disdains
the silent feeder
with two quick breaths
puff puff
A galaxy birthed twice
in blue breath
and floats off
in the cold
silent air
in the
morning light
In The Slanted Dust
Language straining paralytic,
thrashing around in a kerfuffle
of dust and cant and sorrow…
exhausting itself and
still and side by desperate
side with Experience…
As Melody
eludes the lack
of knowing hands
delicate and stands
free and unfettered
and still a Mystery
to Language, to
Experience
Ears made for melodies
run to dance and spin
in the Slanted Dust.
Not My Poem…But Yes, Mine
Trumbull Stickney – “Song” (poem)
Song
A bud has burst on the upper bough
(The linnet sang in my heart today);
I know where the pale green grasses show
By a tiny runnel, off the way,
And the earth is wet.
(A cuckoo said in my brain: “Not yet.”)
I nabbed the fly in a briar rose
(The linnet to-day in my heart did sing);
Last night, my head tucked under my wing,
I dreamed of a green moon-moth that glows
Thro’ ferns of June.
(A cuckoo said in my brain: “So soon?”)
Good-bye, for the pretty leaves are down
(The linnet sang in my heart today);
The last gold bit of upland’s mown,
And most of summer has blown away
Thro’ the garden gate.
(A cuckoo said in my brain: “Too late.”)
– Trumbull Stickney, 1874-1904
“Song” Notes
- a linnet is melodious songbird finch
- a runnel is a narrow watercourse
- a gold bit mown is a field of hay
On The Impossible Task Of Poetry
Words
cannot convey
the beauty of a tree;
anymore
than leaves
in fiery flurries
can
sing and
dance the branch
into being
A Different End To The Story
This is about an event that happened last year…a full grown male human who exercised his power and privilege over other humans who were utterly powerless against him…UTTERLY POWERLESS.
Come to think of it…it fits the absolute fucker, trump, as well.
All full of himself and stiff
gait wobbly, bopping up and down
walk waggly, blipping circley side-side
aggressive lean forward looking
for something to pierce, to rip
pent up all day inside the clothes of decency…
Source: A Different End To The Story
My Vibrant Words
Another work from last year…I really like this poem!
it’s strange, how my words
are vibrant now, and safe…
my words are safe in themselves
they used to need your eyes
like vines need their trellis
eyes constant and seeing
and singing in the wind…
Source: My Vibrant Words
My Exodus
Reposting a poem from last year…any good poem applies at a number of different levels, some known and some unknown and waiting to be discovered…
I moved away while you weren’t watching
(it was easier than I thought it would be,
escaping past your X-Ray eyes
that look for flesh and blood
and thus missed my exodus)
I live by the sea, now…
Source: My Exodus
Blue There Living
The recent poems I published are my first since my surgery.
I find them quite informative to my rambunctious mind.
They jumped up, arms raised, excited small children
who wish the teacher would call on them, thus
sort of birthing them into the soft pure
air of truth, astonished at the blue
blue blue there,
living
The Edge Of Truth And Wonder
when I happened
upon this floating
basket run
aground there, on
the edge of water
and land, the edge
of full and empty
the edge full
of sky and space
I wondered
about who had
taken the child
who laid there in
the basket, in
that place and in
the edge between
those flowers gathered
in the edge
of truth and wonder
Boats Of Beauty
Some people think
these boats aren’t real,
are just conjured up
from mid air and
the rare taste
of my desire,
pungent, raw
and sweeter than
pure honey dripping
off the velvet
waters of time
but conjured boats,
the only boats
that float in dream time,
real Behind Time
on the surface
of the waters
in all places,
and all times
in every ever,
every where
the conjured
boats of beauty
Night Air
like the blossoms
soft and pink
and tender reaching
branches gentle
tracing tender
secrets of the
night and edges
on the glowy
downy silky
milky moon
so limerent, high,
so beautiful…
my fingers crawl
across your cheek
(your sleepy cheek)
kissing
caressing
blessing
in
the still
night air
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 …
Source: Roses out of Ruins
Under The Ice
it’s a dark desert to be endured
it’s some kind of bleak mountain
to be climbed, it’s boring and grey
and monotonous but it’s equal parts
beautiful and devastating too
it sees the sorrow in everyday occurrences.
it’s a man drunk at a party because
he doesn’t know anybody and plays the fool.
it’s a woman who tries on a dreamy
dress at a boutique and feels bad for
wanting something nice for herself.
these snapshots of despair
seem so trivial in isolation
but they are oh so meaningful
these moments of weariness
they tell us we’re not alone
they let us feel sad while
they rip our souls to pieces
they are so gorgeously wrought
and exacting at the same time.
this hurts me
I’m not sure if this
is a recommendation
or a confession.
I adore deeply
I have changed my life,
been cut to my core
but these moments
they are bleak
these moments
they hurt
their painful penumbra glows
with sharp, precise clarity
and everything else
before and after
feels like
a fuzzy
dream
it skulks along a snowy New England lane
so beautiful that you hardly even notice
the despair lurking there under the ice
you’ll see what I’m talking about
under the ice and sinking down
into the forever bony grip
of a moment
a moment
of weariness.
Oh Brazil! You Never Knew Me!
I recall writing this in somewhat of a fugue…
Landscape of Disruption and thick Decadence
washing ever over me in those thin emerald waves
teal and deep blue, muddy yellow and tan.
Your streets of light and music,
aimless, drifting bacchanalia…
Source: Oh Brazil! You Never Knew Me!
Miriam’s Song
A poem from 3 years ago…seems appropriate in light of the marches!
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, walki…
Source: Miriam’s Song
Charissa's Grace Notes 
You must be logged in to post a comment.