Since I Heard That I Was Dead

Posted on February 15, 2015 by charissagrace

It’s been a hard five days
since I heard that I was dead.

So many people dream
of being at their funeral,
well I heard about mine
second hand and I am haunted,
underneath dark skies and dusk
by those deeds done distant,
done in his name
by those who do not know me
or have ever even met me.alas, there lies that caterpillar
faithful in the inches
and persistent in the scrunches
when life was deaf to all request
and death carried school lunches.
And silken shrouds so empty,
that chrysalis completed,
a parachute no longer needed or desired
has been laid to rest so gentle
in my mind and heart and soul.

But what is that small worm to them?
A giant? Tall and towering?
A person real and powerful?
Or personage unworthy
who must be tolerated
until the 18th birthday
when silence can take shape
and lay down thick on all?A funeral…I thought those things happened
to those of brilliant value,
to those who are missed greatly
and mourned so in their absence…
certainly that news of loss
comes at me with such great surprise
because long silences took over
space and time so long ago
when conversation died and lives
were lived beneath unknowing clouds
of mute decisions made in secret
and consequences suffered
in pig styes in strange lands.I guess it leaves me rivven most,
the fact that I am not yet met,
or even known, or even thought worth knowing.
Nay, as I flutter on this twig
and let my wings dry out and strengthen
in the niggling sun, I am accosted
by their past and held accountable
for the willing spinning
and cocooning of my future
that the inchworm made for me. tumblr_n5s4s9FkHc1tq7o0to1_1280 And in this time
my throbbing heart
was struck a blow
surprising and so shocking,
and she flew to make things right.
But while I prayed for her,
I found it beyond comprehension
that I would ever be seen
or noticed as the wonder that I am,
or even noted when I am
at last released from these bright wings…
even a shrug is more
than I can conjure up in hope so unrequited.

Five days…hard.
since I heard that I was dead.

Fresh Washed Sheets and Yeasty Bread

Posted on February 15, 2015 by charissagrace

a bed of fresh-washed sheets
and smells of fresh baked bread
waft yellow down my hall
into my twitching nose. tumblr_n12khuWFgT1s6nbxco1_500 I find more nakedness in those comforts
than in the brothels of the Romans.
They strip away my cloaks of fear,
they dissolve my masks so carefully applied
and let my face lay fallow and unharrowed
while I am carried off across the gulfs of time…

Another me, both proud and vulnerable
and peeking thru my fingers at my stomach
and those fine glistening hairs white
in the morning sun beams refracted
thru the window pane
while birds sing lazy and slow trilling
on the outside.My bedside table has you there
in memento and framed, still
but straining at the edges
with that unrestrained smile.

My thighs are creamy white
like fresh bread broken
and awaiting new churned butter
still wet with milk and clotted cream.

That red affection and connection
and there like butter yeasty bread
and crusty breakfast wait
with a warm and singular
latte on my swelling hips.I let go in strength, and feel
weak and without grip
and without need to grip
because my core is not containable
or needing a container
because it is me, and home…
every curve and crevice,
every speck and scar.

The tinkling jangle of
forks and dishwasher racks
jettisons that lovely past
and I am here again
in that bed of sheets
and baking bread
and serrated knife
that goes right thru that loaf
like it’s butter beneath
burnished bronze edges
and steady fingers.

Those scents will not flash forward,
but I dream of a day
that I might be unmade,
fresh sheets shown beneath,
yeasty bread laid bare
beneath a faithful blade. tumblr_njgj2kmduC1r2zs3eo1_1280

I Squint At Light

Posted on February 15, 2015 by charissagrace

Will you look into the sun?
Squinting, leaning sideways
so that the razor shards
can’t slice your sight so tender?

I want to remind you, darling
illumination still
begins with Light,
God Unobscured
(though cloaked in clouds
of Knowing Dim Unknowing)
Incomprehensible and Present.Bathed in brilliant living light
I see my true identity fair
yet so different than common stories
of princesses soft and helpless in a castle! tumblr_njff6q44p51rv2dfko1_1280 I dwell in soot and ashes low and dusky
but live inside a towering castle bright
where I imagine happy ever after
is more than just a jump-rope chant in time.

I am a treasure hidden in these ashes
and swaddled in the sackcloth of life’s sorrows
I am much more than currently imagined
and I transcend the myths of their assumptions!
Because I squint at light and still believe
in magic and in happy endings bright
and evil queens who fail to taint my beauty
because against their twisted schemes I fight
until they finally fall to fates deserved and serve them right.

Because I still am glad I fell in love
and so will never fall upon death’s sword
(though I will suffer sword stroke fell and final
but not so final in that Final Throw!)

I will sit tall today and dream in color
because my dreams are valid and enough
and that enough depends upon my Mama
and my persistent buzz of joyful trust. tumblr_na1ju1FKtL1t00v8po1_500

Disruption in Gethsemane

Posted on February 15, 2015 by charissagrace

Disruption
confusion and disorder
(or merely interruption)
come fatal and so final.

Belief is baffled, battered
by numbing contradictions,
and competing experiences
storm our sunny smooth white walls
with scary scrabbling quick movements
and alternatives quite shocking
come compelling in assault.

Disrupted
we encounter mirror faces
and radical indifference
we’ve never known before
never anticipated,
afraid there, we are frayed
and fractured and
disrupted.

our brittle self-sufficiency
illusory, confused,
our “self-control” confounded
our trust and self-reliance
confabulates with darkness
in that Gethsemane
of dread disruption beating…
and all our treasure hauled away
dispatched midst scattered plans
and strewn cross ruined hopes.

And we at last are laid to rest
beside the ancient stony press
our sweat run red like blood upon
our faces taut, abandoned, wrenched…
and finally alone with God…

the Disrupter
of our plans
of ideas
entire lives
turned topsy turvy
in the current of the common
and expected day of life
come in the chaos of the moment of
disruption.

They alter every altar
They smash down every idol
that sits so still and solid
but quiet in the night,
and far more so than silence
that roars without a word.

Unnerving and unsettling
toppling the familiar
overthrowing order
to bring a lasting Kingdom
run on Unexpected Love
peaking round the corners
into every heart,
and contradicting all
we blithely take for granted
as absolute in history
and real enough to trust
midst diamonds and rust.

But then They get quite cheeky
and mayhap downright rude!
They talk as if the dead shall rise,
returned again to life, what does that mean
about realities and rules for our lives
we take for granted as the order
and the way of everything?

Well, some think that disruption
plays teeter totter games
with resurrection on the other end
and our soft hearts their fulcrum
and God the Gravity so constant
prevailing over all!

But me?
Well, what do I know
in the tidal changes constant
and the ebb and flow
of people never here but never gone?
It’s a landscape of adventure
navigated by a compass
marked by faith and pointing true
at the lodestone thick with grace
and crystal clear in brilliant love,
crystal clear in brilliant Blue?

No…that is not quite accurate,
not “what I know”, but Who…
the Disruptors of my tragedy
the Resurrectors Kind who Love me
and in this I find that this disruption
is a start of something permanent
and lasting so much longer
than my ebullient grin.

Prima Donna

Posted on February 13, 2015 by charissagrace

Je suis belle d’amour quand d’envie tu me prends
Touchant ma nudité d’une voix sensuelle
À bout de souffle encore avec tes yeux brillants
Comme l’or du champagne aux saveurs éternelles.

Sans tabou, ni motion, tu feints la raie cardiaque
Jouant la partition d’un violoncelle hors pair
L’adrénaline monte aux vertus volcaniques
À mon sein tu te pends, goûtant aux mœurs de chair

Je suis tendre ingénue à mon cou tu respires
Un rêve intemporel éveillant l’appétit
Corps et âmes liés , tu deviens mon empire
Parsemant de cailloux le soleil de mes nuits.

Au point de non retour, dépassant les limites
J’élève l’émotion au rang d’accord parfait
Au secret des lèvres sur nous la mort subite
Déclenche lover dose aux multiples effets.

Je suis énigmatique au sourire angélique
Joconde provisoire étayant ton exploit
Mon cœur est de velours quand tu me peins mystique
Allégeant les heures me séparant de toi.

Un opéra de chambre éclabousse l’extase
Vibrato contre peau, tu te lies à mes reins
Dans un fougueux désir d’accéder à l’emphase
De ma gestuelle qui défie tes sacro saints.

Je suis belle d’amour quand d’envie tu me prends
Touchant ma nudité d’une voix sensuelle
À bout de souffle encore avec tes yeux brillants
Comme l’or du champagne aux saveurs éternelles.

Mystic4ever
Le 28 Janvier 2012

Lamentation On Behalf Of My True Friend

Posted on February 11, 2015 by charissagrace

Bad news swirls stark,
cold leaves on carny winds
and in this rising tide
I fear the ship is sinking.
I am choking on those
gall-soaked fingers of despair
jammed down my raw wracked throat
while I wretch and wrench
and heave to summon optimism,
that phantom failed-familiar. I do all I can to bail the rising water,
even as I wrestle against fear and anxiety.
It’s in these times that sadness overwhelms me
in a blurry growing storm of weary longing,
a tragic tide of lonely isolation
sweeping deep over me, drowning me!
I have befriended long lament
and I take comfort in loud cries
and blasting mourning echoes throughout time
and history in crying, captured true in poems, songs
and statements of lament, a dolor
that submerges hope and quenches dreams.

I groan in deepest cries of agony, of anger and confusion,
of disorientation, of sorrow, grief, and protest
that linger as mere echoes of a long ago lamenter of every human loss:

“Harvest is past, summer is ended, and we are not saved.
For the brokenness of the daughter of my people
I am broken; I mourn, dismay has taken hold of me.
Is there no balm in Gilead?
Is there no physician there?
Why then has not the health of the daughter of my people been restored?” But now I face realities that feel completely overwhelming:
illness, death and loss and being ever on the losing end of things
and that through no fault of my own but always in last place or left behind.

My cry of pain is this:
my deepest acknowledgment I am still not home,
here divided from my body and my own deepest desires
found in my dearest relationships.
I am separated and long for utter restoration
in this overwhelming sorrow…

I find myself within this crucible of transformation
and discover that the waters of despair that seek to drown
and overwhelm can become waters of
glad cleansing and repair.

lament may yet have
its own way of transformation.

“For if the Lord causes grief, then They will have compassion according to Their abundant lovingkindness.”

and Shining *

Posted on February 11, 2015 by charissagrace

crucifixion singing in the center
giving voice to what is broken
in this dark and dying world
and Shining

one song inextinguishable
paradoxical, inexplicable,
surging somehow inside life and death
and Shining

it galvanizes all things, transforms everything,
it plays, this lone hymn hanging
of the Hangman Finally Hung
and Shining

in dissonance, resolve,
tension and release
inexplicable black tragic tenor notes
unexplainable red suffering,
scrawling over bass drone
deep and purple-bruised
by perplexing dark despair

and I stare…I stare…I stare…
in mute horror mixed with wonder
and the jarring jangly notes
swirl and slash, they cut and caper
around that Body Broken
and Shining

the dissonant nightmare score
is writ there on His face
is writ there on His back
is writ there on His head
is writ there on His hands and feet
is writ there in grace notes
is writ there bloody, permanent.
is writ there permanent

and shining.

Oh Brazil! You Never Knew Me!

Posted on February 4, 2015 by charissagrace

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 bright and colorful
snaking through the throngs teaming
and strong smell of no limits but your streets
of cluttered trash and timorous times and eyes looking
pleading pits of hopeless wincing and no pity present,
just despair metastasizing monstrous and insidious

You never knew me. You looked at my surface
you thought me shallow and giddy.
You missed that shredding heart tested. Yes! I said it!
Tested in your dismissive glance.Well, my glance is not shallow or naive,
my heart is shrewd and assessing and my eyes are clear and courageous
in the maelstrom of fear and fascination as I walk your streets…
and they walk me as well

streets of flowers and perfume, streets of plenty piled perfect,
exquisite in their rich opulent promises
and other streets too, decorated
with tarp-roofed hovels masquerading as houses
and sex-crazed humans masquerading as homes
and lost souls writhing in streets with no roof at all.And you distrusted me!
You called me threatening and treacherous,
and your gimlet eye wide and white
glinting with ignorance and fear
but really just too damn lazy to make the effort
to climb inside this sleek white skin God borned me in,
this suburban Illinois pelt from streets
with singular but uniformly similar looking
roofed houses, with more than enough food, clothing,
and resources to meet needs and wants…
no. You never looked deeper.
You never gave me a second glance.
Oh Brazil, I never had a freaking chance! tumblr_nhf2qs1kUr1r2zs3eo1_500

You are too comfortable in your schizophrenic status quo
to see me, different on the inside than I am on the outside,
too confident you are one and known…
to yourself and others…
keep telling yourself that comforting untruth.

but you are just like me
and you don’t even know it!
You never knew it.
Will you ever?
Know it?You with your rivers merry and feeding your heartland
and used for all things at once?
bathing…defecating…washing…drinking…
(and I am the polluted one?)

You with your monkeys quick and mischievous
and your giant wads of sloth hung lazy in the lush trees
verdant and slow…unaware, unaffected, unbothered…

You…pet monkeys and parrots in the midst of poverty and pleasures
and the never ending search for food or other treasure
in dirt and filth, in gold and glitter.Oh Brazil! You never knew me!
You never tasted the blood I gave you
in laughter and singing and abounding smiles,
in unspeakable desolation and despair,
shriven of hope for a moment and too close to the cold…
I bled while you merely blinked blankly.

Well, I survived, no thanks to you.
I moved on before you could fall from trees
or sneak in windows or bite my soft arms
with hard beaks and bright feathers.
Oh, you left your forever marks
but I am still myself within my pulsing heart,
I am still and always will be red…
red red RED against the backdrop of your
splashy showy palette…and you so puzzled in my singularity.

Well I like it, red…I like me! And I walk on
my head held high and face into the wind
and I am unencumbered by your war and free
but alas for you, Brazil, alas!
Though I know you, you never knew me. tumblr_niuw130dds1ruxmcho1_500

Sky and Sea and Wind and Time

Posted on February 4, 2015 by charissagrace

Here, at this late and early shore
in clammy mist and silent roar
shriven and stripped, scoured to my core
and needy midst this weather-war. 10555184104_d06464db63_b I wait for you with my torn heart
Clutched in cruel claws and pulled apart
by lonely memories sweet and tart
in loss I’m given this fresh start. tumblr_n8rdf9rMDR1sbg1lmo1_1280 Remembering fire in this rain
Remembering sweet in suffering
Remembering roots thrust deep in pain
and incense smoke removes my stain. tumblr_niwavp4zff1qllucco2_1280 Old wood, dead wood and debris
and underbrush, flammable me
has fed the flames’ raw hungry plea
Consumed, renewed and set me free. tumblr_ngyjtuRmRp1to6p13o1_250 Sky and sea and wind and time
wash me clean of my past’s thought crime
And scrub away my grief and grime
I’m born again in Love sublime tumblr_nh5m0leAcn1qgk7mfo1_500

Around Crooked Corners

Posted on February 1, 2015 by charissagrace

Be careful to peer around the crooked corners
and slide around the slippery slopes
(not down them…it’s bananas at the bottom!)
because life lurks there, around corners
and is easily missed.

But you must not look straight at it
or it will simply fade and leave
that grin hanging in mid air.

No…look askance, in glimpses…
watch the work-worn wrinkled hands
of old women scraping turnips,
or the quick certain pittipats and flour puffs
of the baker and her turnovers and pop-ups…

if you can stand it, and not blink
you will see God take the stage
in the need of our hearts
for stories…stories!
Once upon a times
and happily ever afters!

Oh, this life is not for everyone!
Those puffed up Pillsbury dough boys
all full of wealth and self-importance
and those Mr. Cleans engorged
with religion and selfish knowledge,
well they are dancing around idols
of such gross magnitude
they cannot be disturbed
by such trivia as butterfly kisses!

They cannot bear to gaze
upon the ordinary, or wade
in the shallows of Overlook Creek.
It has too much weight for them,
the weight of ordinary life.

And so they do not see that Garment Grasped
they do not hear that Bartimaeus cry
they do not know that life on the fringe
is the center of the universe.

Grace on Grace on Grace

Posted on February 1, 2015 by charissagrace

That prideful young fool who ran off to the pigs
and that old man who ran to the end of the lane again,
over and over and over again, and the hearts there revealed
in the choices they made and the actions they took…

And the hard man who stayed behind, bitter and stiff
in the work to be done and estate to be gained
and the putting in place of a lazy young fool
and an old sentimental man, soft in his dottery doting…

The Shepherd related this story of hearts, common,
ordinary and intertwined with each other
in intricate detail and boring old sameness.

This story, it echoes to all in the human race, ever…but
I always ponder in my heart another heart…
What of the mother of these slanted sons
and the wife of this kind-hearted father, what of her?

The hidden mother of the prodigal son?Was she allowed to the end of the lane
to look yearningly for her child headstrong and stubborn?
Did she put her healing hand on the strong haughty
arm of her eldest, so driven and hardened in countenance?

I think that she was with her youngest child
in her heart and her mind and her lullaby songs
in the lonely nights as she was sleepless and wakeful
and weeping compassionate tears for the blindness of youth…
and then holding the household together by day,
the buffer between tender father and bitter son
cut off by care from the heart of the other…She is the one who transformed ordinary pain
into foundations of all sins forgiven,
she is the agent of grace in this story
and that is why she is unmentioned and hidden,

as quiet as grass growing, loud as a heartbeat
the roar on the far side of silence at dawn,
she pulled back the curtain of tragedy so the next
Act of Amazing Grace could flow unceasing,
filling the infinite distance between lost humanity dark
and God in Their grandeur resplendent and generous
so full of Mercy and such Lovingkindness.

The prodigal son, the hard elder brother,
the father so tender, the Shepherd so gentle
and there…Mama…pouring out
Grace on Grace on Grace. tumblr_n4xx9l5k781tqglaio1_1280

Homecoming

Posted on February 1, 2015 by charissagrace

If you are a skeptic be careful
when you stroll by the sea.
So much in this world
hints at so much more to be,

We are intricately bound
to this world of woven wonder
and its all-encompassing gain
bled thru the all-encompassing loss.

I am caught there,
snagged on the loom
of poetry, and poems of mourning,
poems of profound lament.

They chronicle abrupt realities
and tales of exile in this realm
under the sun, and never new
and they go silent, choked on vanity.

You see, I am skeptical of happiness and yet
I am also skeptical of sorrow, that mere
A to Z acrostic of grief and loss expressed,
because it has its built in default limit.

These our exiled lives in disarray,
spirits torn out of our homes
and singing songs of misery
much deeper than we can endure?

These our exiled lives of aching mystery?
This pert uncertainty?
This frank finality?
This haunting history?

It ends with bleeding blossoming,
our longing for that shining home
that waits across the water
and that notion, bright as noontime.

and that foggy haunting certainty,
that aching homely homesickness
that sings a deeper song unceasing…
All that tells us home is there

and waiting our return.

Cracks in the Concrete

Posted on February 1, 2015 by charissagrace

I have come to appreciate
the struggle of tree roots
and pushy weeds that seem to not know
their role is to stay down
there.

Under the concrete carefully poured
and scraped smooth and uniform
confining and eradicating
anything else.

But beyond supposed to,
surpassing speculations
they triangulate up and around
and poke and prod in green needles
of absolute commitment.

Concrete contains
the lack of imagination
but nothing else and cracks
at the slightest pushback
so long as it is unquenchable.

Until it is broken up
pulled apart and broken thru
and broken down
dust to dust
returned to dirt.

Root and branch, flower and weed
join in that chorus unstoppable
while the wren sings and sings
and the stars dance in delight
over the mute, dull concrete

broken,
crooked
and irrelevant
to the tides of life.

M’aimeras-tu toujours ?

Posted on January 29, 2015 by charissagrace

M’aimeras-tu toujours quand je serai trop vieille
Avec plein de rides, que mes seins tomberont
Sous mon corps sage et que mes mains trembleront
Dis me chanteras-tu encore des merveilles.

M’aimeras-tu toujours quand fanera ma fleur
Que ma vue baissera à l’ardeur des étoiles
Et que l’hiver sur moi aura mis son grand voile
Dis feras-tu encore une fois battre mon cœur.

M’aimeras-tu toujours quand ma peau fripera
Que mes cheveux seront aussi blancs que la neige
Que sur mes yeux l’automne aura mis son cortège
Dis pourrais-je à jamais me poser sur tes pas.

M’aimeras-tu toujours quand l’ombre sera fébrile
Que le temps signera de noir mes insomnies
Que l’ocre de ma plume obscurcira ma vie
Dis voudras-tu de moi même si je suis fragile.

M’aimeras-tu toujours quand faiblira ma voix
Et que mes oreilles seront dans le silence
Que le jour et la nuit n’auront plus de nuance
Dis mon amour voudras-tu encore de moi ?

Mystic4Ever
Le 18 Mai 2010

Mystery

Posted on January 28, 2015 by charissagrace

The horse we ride through this dark night
of velvet shadows, points of light shine
swimming high above us there,
those flying hooves running on air
to lift us up into that Where
and When and Why, and flowy-free
we ride the back of Mystery…

host to Host

Posted on January 25, 2015 by charissagrace

In this morning mist and cold,
wet sand twixt my toes and me
and gritty ‘neath my knobby knees
I remember beginnings
of this moment long ago
and culminating in this now.

I woke then, to find my heart
had been torn open, then ripped from
my heaving chest in one harsh yank
and there were towels and pads all round
me there beneath those storm cloud words
still ringing

“Clean yourself up and go outside and play!”Those long years ago I learned
to cry silent and hide my tears…
on the insides of my cheeks
where they would run back down to pool
inside that empty place my heart
used to be. It used to be.

I wandered and I found places
that I could pour me out…I don’t know
what hurt more: the emptiness
just pouring out or all those tears…
running down and drowning me.

So I lay me amidst the flowers
in lush grass meadows green and there
learned to abide, endure, persist…
and yearn. Oh how I learned to yearn.
tumblr_nhr7ihIf1n1rnsb2oo1_1280 But that was then, and here, now…these
long years later and miles travelled
down time’s trail…I stirred myself up
from underneath my soft blankets
and threw on my big boots and coat.

But I left my cane behind…
limps are irrelevant when we
are down on our knees, Yes? They are.
tumblr_niozsiDmhG1rg59vvo1_500 I walked the old beach access road
but my achy and empty core
walked contrary, backwards in time
to take on shape, substance and form,
becoming in the memories
the who I should have been back then
instead of this hollow and shipwrecked

me here, kneeling in this moment…
and I dreamed of what never was,
and sang of all that should have been.
tumblr_mtnr4td5YI1s24shdo1_500 Then I arrived at ocean’s edge
and just in time…because the wedge
of memory, the urge to jump
had become great. And so I stood
and let my tears run down the outside
of my cheeks while waiting for
the sun to walk its path to stand

on the far edge of the horizon

and then to jump into the sky
and make its run once more across the void,
once more across the void.
tumblr_me6fkg32As1r37et1o1_500 The sun, the sand, the sea

…and me…

stood there where they met.

My eyes roved o’er the curved and graceful
backs of waves swimming in droves
while songs abound until they found
that old wreck stubborn run aground
on rocks, foolhardy in its heedless
balderdashy thrust against
the foghorn blast and lighthouse beacon. tumblr_ni6vxzfGYI1tw1yvro1_1280 Still there, rusty, sodden, and yet
not much worse for wear…not much.

Its familiar hollow hull
echoed my own empty hollow
chest…my locked up knees began
to tire, then give way at last…and

that is how I got here,
in the sand,
on my knees…
and waiting. tumblr_n57bhbuFqm1qf9n3ao1_1280 and in that place my heart should burn
inside at last I felt the rising
of a voice or was it something else?

the rising of a tide?
A fountain? No, a mountain? Mmm…
A spring

welling up in supplication
all my yearns found wing and from
my lips they flew into the heavens,
beyond that marching willful sun

to land at last safe
there in Mama’s lap.

And now…now.
Kneeled here…I listen.

I listen for the Word come down
to take up residence within
my empty chest, to become…yes
a presence Present, to have become
substantial substance and I think
maybe I can become a host

to the Host.

Regardless…kneeled here,
I cast it all away to Her
and let myself diminish, grow less

and become more.
And I am grateful for Her answer
in the graceful break of waves
and the ever rushing sound
of Her forever Kiss tumblr_nioedv74sT1rn12zko1_1280

Small Joys

Posted on January 25, 2015 by charissagrace

Clouds rolling in fast and full
like cows urgent for the barn
and the hands of release
tugging, pulling, granting
warm utter relief.

The tinny music of the stream
against the bottom of the tin pail
filling up and changing pitch
as the cats sing along in desire
and preen in anticipation.

My heart reaches skyward clutching,
wringing at those needful straining clouds.
It yanks and tugs, pulls at them, wishing for the rain
to tumble down tramble down
thunder down and shout drop by drop

against the tin roof of the barn
gleaming in the deluge of release
and I snuggle in the straw warm,
nestled against my doggie musky wet
and groaning content in her doggie-dreams.

I close my eyes and listen for simple things:
I look inside my heart and hear the sound of an empty bookstore,
tinny music floating tentative round the stacks
and my feet quiet kitty feet scurrying twixt
tall towers of treasure, those leafy time machines. tumblr_mlj3xkyExX1rg5bsho1_1280 I succumb to the incense of barn and cow and rain
mingled together under the hovering close grey clouds
so flocculant and soft around the edges (my heart, my heart)
and drift away on that raindrop-rapping raft of sound
while the purring cats stand guard with slitted happy eyes.

I dream of sitting on the back stoop at Grandma’s house,
listening to her twangy voice flat as West Texas
singing of sheaves and rejoicing and heaven’s starry shores.
I keep time with the potato peeler and peek inside to see her smile
and I think that I would like to never wake up

but just stay…right here…in the midst
of all these towering small joys.

River-Washed Stones

Posted on January 24, 2015 by charissagrace

People are as different as river-washed stones,
the ones that roll in the rapids
down the scoured bed, banging together
with gurgly shouts while dodging the trout
and getting their edges knocked off.

Some just keep moving, they gather no moss
and stay perky slick and quite single
and slide through the water like weighty round silver fish
or lurking submarines silent.

But others twirl tightly in riverdance spins
and catch eddies to the brown bank
to sink there in shallows where the water’s warm
and plantlife caresses their surfaces hard
there to cling tight in dear loving life.

I think I’m the latter, sinking in shallows warm
with tender plants, because I want you near,
to be clingy with me, to call me and talk funny
just to hear my giggle laugh.
I want you holding my hand when we go out to coffee,
to kiss my cheek when we meet & when we depart.

I like the shallows of
relational fussing and fun.

But then again,
I feel that tendril, a thrill and tickle
of deep water trickle passing by me
smelling of slatey grey and cool purple promises,
I hear a faint “clak-clik” echoing from the deeps
where the smooth stones clash and grow ever smoother.

That’s when I think I’m a rolling stone,
gath’ring no moss, and plumbing depths like
some lost kingfisher who learned how to breathe underwater…

and I like that you trust me enough
to leave me alone, to know I am utterly
and always only yours,
end of story
full stop.

I like the depths of relational mystery
I like the depths of you, you so different,
ever the same and always so well loved.

I love those River-Washed Stones.

The Crossing

Posted on January 23, 2015 by charissagrace

Shuffling back and forth between…

night and day
week and week
(weak and weak,
strain and struggle)
sighs and sorrows

…the pain of this passage
of time and tears
is present always,
palpable still,
pulsing in my yearning heart
gone nova with the memory.I lay awake midst pain and memory,
I neither sleep nor slumber
but instead ache and remember…
I re-member, piece by peace,
arrivals and departures.
We wear memories and longings
like stained t-shirts and chinos
and shod in our torn sneakers
we shuffle down the path,
so pebble-strewn and painful,
so rough hewn, uneven
and inevitable.

As soon as we arrive,
our hearts know we have to leave.
As soon as we leave we burn,
knowing that we must return!
Each journey punctuated
by our songs sung in the night…

songs of lament and longing
songs of suffering and sorrow
songs of remembrance and redemption
songs of deliverance and the coming day

…alas…memory is a river terrible
that must be crossed.
The crossing…the crossing!That’s the common factor present,
primary and consistent,
pervasive and persistent

and it moves,
from background
to foreground and
back again

while it waits its turn to step up and partake
of the Communion Feast, its Sacred Supper,
the Holy Sacrament of our Sojourning Hearts.I’m decided, I am settled.
I’m on the right side of pain!
I’ll not let anyone or anything keep me captive,
stranded on the wrong side of memory

and out of phase with time!
I intend to feel the pain of others,
bind their broken hearts,
be marked by suffering…
…no, wait: be marked
with suffering by my Mama!

In this looming collision between
uncomfortable mystery and unyielding mercy
and that suffering, ahh…
I can neither sleep nor slumber
because She who inhabits Eternity
neither sleeps nor slumbers but Is
Awake with those who suffer
and There with those who faint, who fall
and falter in the crossing…

She is there (I’ll be there too)
in Her house held up by beams
from that battered rough-hewn Cross,
shining fair with great doors open
thrown wide open to receive
all Her suffering children broken
in the crossing…in the crossing
and Her invitation spoken

Come and rest here at Her table,
there’s a place for every person
in the ending of between
and arrival of the Present
Oh, the greatest Gift of all, the Present!
When the crossing’s done …

I neither sleep
nor slumber, waiting…
pregnant in this moment
and present in
the crossing.

This My Plaintive Plea

Posted on January 19, 2015 by charissagrace

It falls, from Your clay-smeared hands.
Casual, elegant and of a piece, unassuming yet so present.
The door swings open and music
swirls out of the depths of symphonies
not yet written but already played.

Beauty tears at my heart, wanting to drink
its tax of tears and collect its
payment of my pounding pulse
and my nose red with glory
and unruly, running to beat the band.

Oh Mama, that delicate wonder
that traboccant thunder, clapping
for Your willowy way so lithe
and lean, spare but not stingy
and always sticky with goodness!

You make me ache so, inside!
How is it that You can tear me open
and I don’t even know, until I am
bleeding moonlight and bathing
in velvet night?

Alas, for my wounded heart!
Pincushion for Your Arrows of Light
so precise and knowing, and each one
tipped with Deep Desire
so strong, so sweet, so savory!

I wanna be like You when I grow up, Mama!
I wanna inhabit my self as You do Yours,
I wanna see around corners and behind curtains
without going there or raising them
and giving up the game!

Sink into my bones, infiltrate them!
Permeate me with You, every pore
a thirsty throat to drink You in and then
becoming places which pour You out
on thirsty ground and suffering hearts so poor.

Let me know Your rhythms,
Let me hear Your yearns!
Let me be disciplined, but unrestrained!
And above all, let me know Your heart
and this knowing shape my own forever.

Amen.

The Sun of Love

Posted on January 19, 2015 by charissagrace

I look
at shimmery stars
swimming high.

They dive
low into the lake,
but they float…

without leaving
a mark, a trace
except within my heart.

That sky,
that lake for stars,
that ocean

where stars
are pearls and planets
are whales swimming in circles…

ah…
that sky
is everything.

Am I
a sky? For anyone?
Stretching out above

and inspiring
heart-leaps and runnings
in circles around

the Sun of Love?

That Infernal Scale

Posted on January 17, 2015 by charissagrace

“On a scale of 1 to 10,
how would you rate
your pain today?”

attempts to understand
and manage dirty pain
only cause more
pain (slivers and shards growing like crystals)

that daily dun-brown inquiry
into ourselves seizes us,
the hot buzz sting
of the growing awareness
of mortality….
aggravates deeply (pain)

more than I could say

and redly amplifies
the original stark question.

what if you answer 10
at 3 AM
but by the afternoon…
what then?
what of the futile measurement?
what of the meaningless guess
and what of the meaning-haunted guesser?
adding mortal insult
to immortal injury (pain).

Morality whispers of a wrongness
to pain
but I have wondered why
we think pain recognizes morality.

That’s the real question, innit?
Why we think there are
floors and ceilings
in the house of pain.

So in the hard and hopeless
of the darkness before dawn
we sit between these moments
when all things are defined
and that infernal scale
is shattered by the triumph
of pain held to the standard
at last made manifest
revealed first on a cross
and then revealed
set free
of scales, of measurements,
of guesses in the night, while
golgotha gasps and grasps
futilely at our cloaks
that we have shed as winter
surrenders to Sweet Spring.

That Spring
That 1 and 10
Ever Spring.

In The Dusky Rose Glow of a Summer Evening

Posted on January 16, 2015 by charissagrace

In the dusky rose glow of a summer evening
She held my heart in her hand
and held my hand in her heart
and held my eyes in her forever.

I had placed my heart so tender there
and given it free in moonlight shining on her hair
while all around us silence sang of lovers in the night
And we alone were there and swimming in Love’s magic light

She looked at me as solemn as the owl standing guard
Her breath upon my cheek a sonnet of gravest import
And it did shine there shielding me within its towering fort
My heart safe in her hand, my heart so broken, torn and scarred.

She smiled, she took my heart into her mouth like bread
She swallowed without chewing it to keep it safe from harm
It moved and then it snikked in place so perfect and she said
She’d keep it safe within her as Love’s everlasting charm

Oh Love, to keep my broken heart safe you have shadowed me
Within your care and kindness always underneath your tree
As summer became autumn, autumn winter, then comes spring
It’s in the endless summer of your love I always sing.

In the dusky rose glow of a summer evening
She held my heart in her hand
and held my hand in her heart
and held my eyes in her forever.

Pas De Deux

Posted on January 14, 2015 by charissagrace

the kind of love
that breaks your heart
in a way that somehow
makes it feel more whole,

that’s my Mama,
loving, breaking,
healing, asking.
She is always longing

for what I value dearest
and wants to be gifted
with my heart throb center
and bloody core.

Because then no more shells
no more shields
no more protective masks
just gentle yields. tumblr_n5wgcaKPS21qfhbsvo1_1280

Can I give up the thing
I most want to hold onto?
Can I turn from these things
(house, clothes, ease)?

It’s not a bargain, really…
this heart She drives for!
From either of our points of view
it seems we each stand to…what?

Really, what? Do we gain?
Do we lose? Or do we
dance here, and choose
one another forever?

And if I do…give
houseclothesease
(and everything else)
but hold myself still

what is that gift
but the gift of lies
and the withholding
of the only truth I am?

Yes, Mama, Yes
security, love, reputation
no…me…I give You me (again)
and all I am most fiercely

Her Name is Terri, and She’s a People-Mover

Posted on January 11, 2015 by charissagrace

‘it’s like a roller coaster!” she said.
her eyes caught the dim light, dark light
that swam in that murky place
awash in muddy music
and clattery chattery din,
they reflected it back
changed and amplified,
pure and clarified
and charged with
that thrill of being alive,
that thrill of being.“ya gotta let go!” she went on.
my heart was stirred by her words,
like a drink sitting and then a straw
just hops into the drink
and rattles and revolves and churns
the spirits and icecubes
until it refreshes and is spritely
and cries out for lips
on its rim…and sips…yeah…
my heart was ready to be sipped.

“just raise your arms
while you drop and scream
your fool head off
in joyful terror midst the fall!”
and her smile, so lovely to us all
sitting entranced and inspired
must have been so fell, so grim
so terrifying to the forces of hell
that lurked nibbling at the edges
and stealing bites of hearts and souls
with electric metered music teeth
and measured shot-glass jaws. tumblr_ng2uonFfDW1rhpg9vo1_1280

“cus you’re gonna be held in place
and when you’re done you’ll be
so glad you did…raise your arms!”
and then she tossed her head back
just a couple inches
but whole tides turned on that sweep
like the moon across benighted skies
tugs whole oceans below in some
heavenly waltz or dosie-do!

her name was Terri
her name is Terri
and i was forever encouraged
in the meeting…and for me the word
terrify
will ever have layers and connotations
because of her,
towering red and turning
the dim to shiny from the inside out
her there across from me
and shiny red and clear all at once
amidst the dim and the dark and the din.

she leaned forward and laughed
a brilliant smile into my soul
and I felt Mama kiss the world
and rested in the moment
a little bit more whole.

Epiphanies

Posted on January 7, 2015 by charissagrace

aienkien
(A form of Japanese Proverb)
合縁奇縁
[あいえんきえん, aien kien]
shared bond, mysterious bond
(lit.: shared/mutual fate/destiny/bond, strange/mysterious fate/destiny/bond. This phrase is a classical yojijukugo
(a four-character idiom in the style of classical Chinese)
used to refer to the mysteries of attraction and relationships
between men and women; perhaps also between men and men,
or women and women, though no such usage has been seen classically).

shared bonds mysterious
played out in fates mutual,
proclaimed by destiny

destiny conquered, that is!

400 years and dead silence
under the sun, inside
the ruin and run
of life lived praying
to a “no comment” God.my faith persists 合縁奇縁!
my faith like white blood cells
spawning from my bones
and then devouring anything
they deem dangerous to destiny…
and then dying in the James Dean Code
of live fast and die young.

In the 400 years.
Of Silence.
Under the sun.I felt it like bones, the silence!
I felt it like bones, my faith!
And I knew it like I know my bones
aienkien…合縁奇縁

And from here and now,
after the Word spoken
400 years seems like seconds.

But what about the people
who lived then, under that sun
and were 合縁奇縁
by history
by destiny
by bond?Whole lives lived and
not a word!
not a finger!
lifted to lay them down gentle
in the bluebells of a warm midnight!
God sat in Heaven like Summer
and said nothing like Winter.

Silence…400 years…and people
living whole lives from gun to tape
and not one word in
aienkien 合縁奇縁 .So when was it enough? The silence?
How much is enough!
Did God finally see people yearning
like kindling yearns to be tossed
into the fire and be consumed
and become flame,
become heat,
become smoke
rising and fragrant and free?

I’ll never know here.
Now.
But I sense somehow that
Silence has its languages
that speaking knows not of,
verbs that act in stillness not moving
and speak to a people

(aienkien 合縁奇縁)

thru epiphanies.

aienkien
合縁奇縁

Silken Tears: Written in the memory of Leelah Alcorn

Posted on January 2, 2015 by charissagrace

i saw her there, in the dark woods,
so fair of movement, fair of face
she walked beneath the milky moon
and bathed in silken light like lace.

she glowed with beauty’s blessing kist
upon her brow, but knew it not
for hatred choked her slender throat
and in its death grip she was caught.

i ran to her, and called her name
my voice it was a whippoorwill
my voice a falcon stark and shrill
i called her name in terror-trill

but she could not hear me approach
her, buried under long reproach
so cut off from a future hope
and bound by hate’s black biting rope

so I just stood beside her there
just her and me, her broken stare
and dirges echoed through the night
and she in tragic silken light…

and then she ran straight to the moon
it rushed at us! alas, i swooned
upon the snowy cold fields fair
and when i woke, she was not there tumblr_nbehmpPs4v1smipnlo1_500

i asked the owls and talked to trees
and heard the moon had stooped so near
had come down to grant her release
from stony hearts and hatred’s sneer…

so now i haunt those woods, those vales
and listen hard inside the night
in case a singer runs for me
as i to her ran desperately

but silence croons so clear and cold,
the lonely moon is wreathed in gold
so distant, never drawing near
to where we stood in silken tears. LeelahEdit

Dread and Presences

Posted on January 1, 2015 by charissagrace

Dread.

I feel it still.
Laying

at the base
of my throat
and throbbing dully,
quietly slumbering

with one leering eye
cocked open always
and leaning towards
my heart.

My heart…
chipped and worked,
touched and chilled
by the frozen fingers
of dread and

shards of it lay scattered
at my feet clear,
jagged glimmering
broken.

I step to the rail and look back
peering intently into the fog
thick and lingering, but
2014 is shrouded, hidden
and if I hadn’t lived it
I wouldn’t have believed it
was anything more
than a dream.

It was a year that hollowed out
thinned out, emptied out
but never declared its intention.

I don’t think it ever knew
or if it even could.

It was a year
without windows
but many doors
and ladies
and tigers.

There is more to life than meets the eye,
more than can be measured
by the senses or a census
but this morning there is just
the fog behind and the early dark
ahead awaiting dawn.

and Dread

and my heart shaped
in its cold hands
and God’s Warm Heart.

Across the prow of my ship
the rain slants and glints
in the deck lights (dark lights)
like silvery needles
sent to stitch
the past and future
together in this moment.

I think of Presences.

Emptiness…
Nothing…
Silences…
Absences…

Love…
Memories…
Hope…
Them…

there and here with me
in time and triumph,
tears and tragedy
but only One
does my heart
awaken in this dawn
and set afire tears
upon my face

a God of grace,
a God of love,
a God of…justice?

Justice.
I don’t even know where
to start with that!

I face forward
into dawn’s early light

empty,
confused,
seeking,

the way of grace
not effort!

This Brilliant Indifference

Posted on December 31, 2014 by charissagrace

tumblr_nh5lyiZ6JT1qgk7mfo1_500 I am a childe of dark, a childe of light.

I was born beneath the shining moon
but just outside it’s golden touch
there, on dim green meadows blanketing
the warm red earth in comfort midst the singing dark and stars.

I was born upon the stones that radiate residual heat
as they remember blazing suns so brilliant beneath that blue sky
that blankets those same meadows green and glorious in the day
but now those stones lay bare in the cold night, as I am bare as well, uncovered.

I was born in darkness, and outside
looking in upon the singing stars
hung in night sky velvet-soft and sable
surrounded by splendors from some lost fable.

Outside.

I was born outside the secret knowledge that every other person seems to have
of just how goddam dull and ordinary everything around them “really is”. I mean
just look at them, shining so brilliant each day and acting like it’s only night! I see
their flaming hearts a-fire and blazing but they just trudge by feeling bored, uptight.

I watch events unfold and want to sing in joy and caper!
But when I open up my heart and shout and point in wonder…
well, those fish eyes turn and stare and those mouths gape and mock, hung open
and I am named too much, inglorious and out of order…out of order…out of order.

Childe dwelling in the swelling dark of gloomy bored indifference
Childe dwelling midst the dazzle vast and glory of a day

(just One Day that unfolds brand new
over and over and over and over and over
Full, expressed complete miraculous
in every single same lily white
in every single same bird flight
in every single whispering wind
that echoes ever over the same ever different waters bright)

I am a companion with no company to keep because I’m
elated and afraid,
curious and fearful,
confused and wide awake
and seeing all around me
the marvels that they fail to see

(or rather, what they see and call the same?
the same ole same ole same ole same ole same
and let the repetition rob them of the vision
and leave them drunk and sober but
out of proper phase for when intoxication
is called for in this moment and when sobriety is come
to sing us back at last to proper sanity). tumblr_nh5isnxmlS1rk1cbbo1_1280

And on the cusp of Dark and Light I’m homeless in the day, the night,
homeless and repudiating that blank stupor of disinterest
that surrounds me…tries to drown me, pull me in it’s vicious grip
and trap me in its undertow of

violence unfolding
suffering repeated
oppression and injustice
become mere background noise
to serenade those bored yawns
and sighs of such indifference
that boredom has become
a way of life.

Out of phase (childe of dark)
and out of synch (childe of glad day)
delighting in monotony…
another walk beneath beauty…
another page before I sleep…
do it again! do it again, God!
another minute sharing hearts
because our moment is delight
alas…this childe born but belonging
not to day and not to night.

Autant que toi by Mystic4Ever Dec 2012

Posted on December 30, 2014 by charissagrace

Une nuit de plus s’étale au grand jour
Se propageant comme un feu de Bengale
Au cœur des veines stratifiées d’amour
En puisant sa force au fond sidérale.

Le brouillard étreint l’horizon fébrile
Dans un corps à corps aux contours parfaits
Et même la lune a des airs graciles
Lorsqu’ il l’habille de cotons épais.

Quand le vent sabre un à un les nuages
Un ballet sensuel s’anime là-haut
Le silence est toujours le point d’encrage
Et la pluie menace à jamais les maux.

Le temps se dissout en discontinu
A genoux le ciel fait sa révérence
La terre tremble à perte de vue
Dans son sillage mène cette danse

Je vois mes larmes au bleu de tes yeux
Tu vois tes larmes dans les miens verdâtres
Et nous les regardons brûler ensemble…

Mystic4Ever
Le 27 Décembre 2012

Between the Lines

Posted on December 29, 2014 by charissagrace

Tree-lines mark the end of alpine meadow-frolics green
and the start of stone relief against the ever-constant skies
stretched out in steely greys and stellar silver blue sky-lines,
and space between connected by the ties of trial and time.

Far below this mystery waltz I walk deliberate down the lines,
railroad tracks slow, stretched out stark twixt here and there, and ties that bind,
the ties that bind are cracked with age and splintered in worn weather-cloaks
of rushing trains and tumbling time…

rumbling down the tracks,
trickling down the rails,

down the lines…
and over ties that bind.

I am between the lines and walk in lurchy stride
from tie to tie in my own quirky dance and graceful glide.
I look sideways, askance with eyes that look inside
to know what’s hidden there between the trees and skies tumblr_nh4aoh3jEn1rgfa66o1_500

and in between the lines,
where I step stride by stride…
and move from tie to tie.

I walk the rail, steps mincing,
my arms swing, flail, balancing,
on that hard steel there, long stretching,
so distant-quick before me,

and falling far behind me,
and steady just beside another rail
that’s always there but can’t be touched
across those ties, beneath that veil.

That space between the lines tugs hard at me,
I fall forever in that six inch gaping gulf
to step again on ties, ties carved from trees
cavorting early with those steel grey skies above,
and I am finally caught again
and touch upon the frosty earth

like fog touches trees
like skies caress crags
like roots touch stone

and there I walk, alone between the lines,
my feet upon the ties, the ties that bind
and my heart ponders lines, and ties and spaces
in between the lines, the ones inside of me and what is hidden
there to see by those who stop and look and listen

…and take the time to read between the lines.

Living Bread or Primal Soup

Posted on December 25, 2014 by charissagrace

believe in a virgin birth?
implausible, absurd, immature!
a miracle problematic and troubling!!
inconvenient, that! disruptive!
Why, I don’t prefer it!

go walk on water, or multiply yeasty slices!
but inside…my body…my body…MY body!?!?
Nay! Do as You please with Yours but

git Yer greezy paws offn mine!

(it’s my precious!)

what’s that? why not?
Why not this birth inconvenient and impractical?
Why…because there is no mystery about this whole mess!!

Simply:
somehow, somewhere, sometime, someway
there was a soup

(not mine, I assure you, and whose?
well that ain’t my department!!)

a group of molecules

(from somewhere, sometime, someplace)

got together without knowing

(because: before knowing, ya ken?)

they just got together and became self-replicating

(i don’t know about that…
but we have that problem yet today:
self replication…ah self, you cursed demon!)

Hmmm…this sounds ummm,
well, I don’t want to be a smart ass
but I will risk becoming a talking donkey
and ask you:

If there was a Virgin Birth, what happened?
Molecules insensate unknowing
tasting soup without primordial tastebuds
and becoming out of nowhere
the Bread of Life?

And that’s different…how?
(except it excludes Love, oh such Love contained therein!)

Our smartest blindest tell us this:

‘…the universe can and will create itself from nothing.
Spontaneous creation is the reason there is something
rather than nothing, why the universe exists, why we exist.’
(ima duck my head now and giggle!
and the tome called The Grand Design…
design…
by a not-Who
in a not-Where
for a not-Reason
but Grand.
and Design.
lol…molecules just laffed out loud)

Look: this never happens, not anywhere.
So, accepting that mystery, well then
we’re all the same and somewhere we leap

in faith.

‘Cept I leap at Mama…not molecules.
I eat of Miracles, not primal soup,
but I will dunk such Living Bread
as given to me
into the cup of suffering
for the sake of Love
and a Baby
born of a virgin
and my Mama dancing.

Advent Poems: The Season of Revelation

Posted on December 25, 2014 by charissagrace

the arrival of that miracle
our hearts all know lurks
just outside this skein of time,
practicing its own waiting
for the miracle moment of emergence…and
redemption of yet another season of waiting.

Revealed.

A God
shouldered It’s Way
into the world today…
This God, revealed
rough and roaring
and wrapped in the skin
of this baby asleep,
hidden here in our heart

Revealed.

Reunion waits for me and you…
That towering act of redemption
Resounds throughout all of creation, today

Revealed.

Lion, Lamb and Baby through the smoke
Paying every Promise that They Spoke

Revealed.

God has stepped into our world
to dig us out of every prison
we disguised as snug burrows
and cozy hobbit holes

Revealed.

This Christmas,
nothing has been exposed…

Revealed.

Time will never simply pass by
without engraving its mark
in a stab to my heart or a tender sweet touch
or a mortal wound bleeding and dark

Revealed.

Kneel where you are, for that is where it is,
that lowly manger unseen by the great
and in that manger, there inside of you
your face upturned and wet with Heaven’s dew
the Christ Child comes to make all things brand new

Revealed.

They…hungry…ready
to come to us now.
Them with us
move in us
empty us
to satisfy us
dine with us
and hunger ever sharp and sated
all at once

Revealed.

…and we?
With gratitude we enter, invitation tightly clutched to aching breast…
we kneel hushed and astonished safe and sound as we are changed
by this Child’s Gift (or is the Child Himself the gift that’s given?)
Invited to approach and revel, knowing what we’ve always known
is finally here and shining present, Sacred Heart Alive Forever
in the season of fulfillment pure and everlasting…

Revealed.

…and so we yearn, together, aching
in the lonely moments waiting
perfect timing of those winds
to blow away the mists
and let that mountain shine again
in solid clarity and splendour promises
that someday the Divine Loneliness
and human grieving longing
will be overcome by
Faith and Hope and Love

Revealed.

I am mindful of
many things I hold in faith,
committed to God

Revealed.

For here it is we sit and wait,
for the coming of our Heart
Their meaning to our Core impart.

Today, the Life Revealed,
the Heart of God Revealed
utterly different than the heart of man
revealed.

And you?
Here in this season of Revelation?
Do you dare?

Look within
Look without

and see what is revealed.

Advent Poem: The Season of Silence

Posted on December 24, 2014 by charissagrace

Today hubbub and hustle
tramways trollies and trellises
crammed with travelers, trophy-takers and talkers

the cacophony joyous ascends, surrounds, spreads
and in this din great tidings of cheer resound
and rebound, and return round again.

But at the core, where I sit,
(you are sat there too, you know. Just listen)
it is silent. The Quiet is here.

Thick. Palpable, wooly white and
smelling of seasoned woods and wet forest kneeled
and of the hush in the heart of the Snow-Covered Fields.

It descends, swells, covers and crawls
(on feet like Sandberg’s cat)
and fills the core of cheer with substance

The substance of Silence.
The presence of Anticipation.

For here it is we sit and wait,
for the coming of our Heart
Their meaning to our Core impart.

And as the night stretches out and goes on
and the din dies down exhausted and content
the silent sound of labor has begun.

The shriek of sweat trickles down
(fingernails down life’s blackboard revealing white beneath)
her face, contorted in composed intent concentration

Bearing down, the groaning of contractions
and the towering soundless shouts of no one there with her
except her earnest clumsy man so loving, so full of silent fear.

*me sat here, throat lumpified and choked,
mummified and heart stokes,
smoke stacked up, backed up
and no where to go but inward,

no words to say no deeds to do
no place to go no getting away
no arriving new just sat here,

enduring, waiting*

The silent moment flexes hard and pushes
Her face a rictus of the wrenching passion
of the passage of a God, her baby

and then deliverance and everything on pause
every heart breath held and chest unmoving
until the night is pierced by One Small Cry that echoes still

across our darking skies,
in the fullness of Anticipation
In the Season of Silence, this Holy Present Silence.

A Palate Discarded

Posted on December 23, 2014 by charissagrace

I am without any poetic elegance.
using words like paints,
with my St Vincent’s Heart
and Random Jackson’s Hands,
one ear gone
snatched by That sword.

I long to make
something beautiful
because I am something not…
beautiful.
I long to create
things warm and worthwhile,
glowing valuable inside
because I am not,
valuable.
I just manage
to echo value,
remind of Light
in my weak and futile
fading flicker. tumblr_mzmyeelf5Y1qzskcyo1_1280 Oh!
I think I know now…
I’m a palate,
daubs of paint!
Streaked, smeared chipped,
a mess of abilities and gifts
They dip into with brushes
bristly and disturbing.
They make paintings
and me in hand there…
well I guess that’s the closest
I will ever get to beauty…
until I am laid down
and They done painting

for now

and me there,
then discarded,
set aside and yearning
languishing, staring,
looking up at that painting pretty,
at that bending beauty
so near and yet so far,
so very far away.

Hey,
wouldn’t it be great
if there was
a gallery of palates
used and slathered
held and blathered
in mess and in creation,
the partner of an Artist
and co-mid wife of beauty?

That’s a hall
I might haunt,
a place where chaos
is considered
in the context
of the range of raw materials
present and poured out.

Advent Poem: The Season of Promise (in haiku)

Posted on December 23, 2014 by charissagrace

The sound of raindrops
and the smell of fir branches…
I was lapped by time.

I am mindful of
many things I hold in faith,
committed to God.

In this reverent mist
silver memories descend
gentle on my face.

I think of my heart,
its four chambers birthed from me
leaving Their Promise

soft there inside me,
layers of a tight red rose
blossoming each day

It’s these Christmas gifts,
given in deep love, bright hope
Of that final gift…

…of arriving home,
every Promise made fulfilled,
All Things Then Restored.

Advent Poem: The Season of Loneliness

Posted on December 21, 2014 by charissagrace

Unbidden,
moving like mist in mountains
slow and fast and slow and long,
and lingering, white laced in grey,
and crawling, clinging to ramparts
and ridges that stand
strong and stark and still
catch an occasional ray of sun
from outside…but dimming
as the sun retreats before
the darkness of the night
that rushes over everything
with recollections
haunting,
isolating,
obliterating
sight.

Unknown,
vaporous,
real but irresistible and arising from…
*moan*…
and meaning…
*sob*…

climbing,
clinging,
clutching
clouding out,
shutting out
shouting out
solid rock stable and holding hands
reeling, cavorting, swirling

Undoing,
settling down on everything
and growing quiet,
and gaining in gravity
and growing heavy,
and draining memory
of every drop of blood
until everything
is overwhelmed and overtaken
and surrounded in the silver
of the dull fogs of what once was
and alas will never ever be again.

Alone,
in fields, waiting,
staring at the skies
so clear and so occluded,
every loss hung there bright brilliant
on deep black skies never ending,
every sorrow there is twinkling,
every hurt is glowing blinking there
so merry, so unyielding,
I gaze upon my starry constellations
of great loss and ruination
marking time and pointing steady
so unchanging in this night…

Cold,
missing home,
missing that place (and time)
where all things hushed and gathered
noisy in a deafening din,
all collected, full, o’erflowing
from my tender heart within
the very center of the moment
in the Advent Season Present
bathed in wonderful quick joy.

Real,
that place then but lost now in my mind
(like ridges and ramparts now submerged).
The sheep rustle restless
and underneath their bleating
I hear the sound of bleeding
in the heart of living memory
of hearth and home now pierced
and rent and disappearing…
and I wait here,
lonely in this mist and overcome,
hunkered down but kissed and left so numb
as I recall the bliss of Christmas past
and have no hope of Merry Christmases
to dawn and to me come.

Winds,
well they exist,
and they do blow!
Cleansing from the North
and from the south they flow
in warmth and restoration,
dispelling every fog of gloom
and routing every hurtful memory
that ever happened.
I fix my gaze on that One Star,
that portent bright, surpassing
all the mocking, twinkling titters
of the past its reminders constant.

Here,
in the season of loneliness
my lonely Advent heart
echoes that loneliness that lingers
there inside the heart of God
and so we yearn, together, aching
in the lonely moments waiting
perfect timing of those winds
to blow away the mists
and let that mountain shine again
in solid clarity and splendour promises
that someday the Divine Loneliness
and human grieving longing
will be overcome by
Faith and Hope and Love.

Grace,
and peace,
in the season of loneliness,
Love, Charissa

Advent Poem: The Season of Fulfillment

Posted on December 20, 2014 by charissagrace

1
All the world is hushed and still,
waiting under heavy burdens
white and grim and unrelenting,
groaning, crushed and disillusioned,
longing for redemption, peace,
goodwill and aching for release
from darkness, loneliness and death,2
and outrage…OUTRAGE
seething in this Silent Night
that echoes with Death’s violation
and defilement of our dreams
and destiny…such desecration…
Death so vicious and relentless
in its Never ending hungry lusty rusty horror.

tumblr_naz7399eA11qlh9eeo1_500

3
He came small and vulnerable
to bear the scars of our outrage,
came near enough to prove He’d stay,
regardless…Closer
than we realize or can imagine
in this night so long and lonely
Small He came to us, undignified and oh so tiny.4
That nearness, Love Personified
The Incarnation towers tall
Mysterious, absurd and all the while
Undignified, God’s Trump card (HIM)
played foolishly and weak
upon the table of the strong
confounding all the worldly wise, so clever and austere.

5
Dignified? Undignified!
when Love became personified,
“Immanuel Undignified and one of us”
(and yet still outside twisty time)
approaching us as one of us,
held guilty and responsible
accused of shattering religion! Such a glory crime!

6
And dwelling here in innocence and staying in our sorrow cold
but not to merely dispel shadows or resolve conundrums, no!
Bearing our humanity, and present with us in the midst of darkness,
Oh The Truest Light, The Deepest Joy, The Most Glad Heart
Fulfilling All Expectancy when every hope will come to pass!
Submitting to a grisly death to hold the whole world in His Heart that
He had held dear in His Hand to mediate our case to God…

7
The Child did Bleed, the Child did Die, and we?
With gratitude we enter, invitation tightly clutched to aching breast…
we kneel hushed and astonished safe and sound as we are changed
by this Child’s Gift (or is the Child Himself the gift that’s given?)
Invited to approach and revel, knowing what we’ve always known
is finally here and shining present, Sacred Heart Alive Forever
in the season of fulfillment pure and everlasting.

Advent Poem: The Season of Hunger

Posted on December 19, 2014 by charissagrace

a pregnant mother waits…hopes…fears…
weary and unflagging, full of energy
and yet, so still and growing
larger with each day.

and inside her heart each quality increases…
hope and fear, expectant joy,
after all, it’s said she is expecting!
Expecting…and growing larger.

But with her hope grows hunger!
A hunger for the end of every minute waiting!
A hunger for her baby, to hold and cuddle quiet
A hunger to sing songs of love and comfort in the night.

Expecting…and growing hungry
for bread of life within her
also growing and expectant,
rising in the oven of human worth.

(other ovens hungry ate their fill
of offerings from monsters of the Breach
but this was not unnoticed by The Justice
nor beyond the scope of Mercy’s reach) tumblr_meim9rS2Ce1rguz4ho1_500

She hungers, swelling curved expectant in the night
The word becoming flesh and bone is served
a feast of human need and sorry fright
and love, devotion, faith, and truth and grace
and laughter there on each expectant face.

We…pregnant…waiting
in our weakness,
lonely lowly moments silent

They…hungry…ready
to come to us
Them with us
move in us
empty us
to satisfy us
dine with us
and hunger ever sharp and sated
all at once.

Just Remember…

Posted on December 18, 2014 by charissagrace

always…there is another person on the end of your tendrils
always…there is another whose story trumps your own
always…what you think everyone would get if they only understood
is what they want you to understand and get from them
always…the choices we make because we feel we must
are their own style of choice!
always…the lives around you mirror you in all need and desire
always…your children are who you were once
always…your parents once were just as you
always…do unto others as you would have them do unto you

always ever treasured

Posted on December 18, 2014 by charissagrace

in the silent moments,
when nothing speaks
(you did know that, didn’t you?
Nothing speaks.
Have you not heard its voice?)

and to stopper its relentless words
my mind goes elsewhere,
and I wander back thru pages of the days
and chapters of the years
and past volumes of the decades
until I stop at last
in children’s books well thumbed
and read nearly to death.

it is there I see you still,
and in your running laughter
released and giggly grasping
our guts in gales of mirth.

i see your eyes unguarded,
your innocence intact,
your trust still whole, unshattered
unsullied by grief’s touch.

I see your wispy curls, I see your toothless grin,
I hear your nonsense singing always
and you there, secrets within and harbored deep and lonely
I see you there within.

you cannot know how I feel, here
now…because the books won’t open
into your life unlived and yet to be discovered.
Well…you could believe and listen
when I reach out wholehearted
and full of love to give
and wanting to redeem all
that depression ruined
and self-loathing polluted.

lovelies I was always there
though trapped so deep inside!
I was shipwrecked just as you
when you felt choked by your hometown
well I was dying in my body
smothered in its horror.

The present yous swim into view
and lay yourselves upon
the little yous there innocent,
those brand new perfect yous
and I see at the same time
the spectrum of your beings
in scintillating sharpness
so smudged by separation
and blurred by longing tears.

I see your cold and austere looks
I hear your voice demanding
your questions stark, commanding

“what does your flaw have to do with me? What is your point?
So you suffered, big deal! Worse, you broke me mangled, mutilated
folded spindled, permeated all the air I ever breathed
with your dysphoric world!

“I was not given a choice! If I was, it would not be you!
so just step back, just go away and fade into the pages back
before our volume started, we are now ever parted”.

But as I said…they cannot read into their future
those pages remain stuck together, gummy in a messy wad
of yet to be determined, yet to there be written
in the blood of choices made and in the ink of voices raised
to speak of deeper things…or not.

regardless, I can still take out those books
and thumb the well worn pages
and read the much loved stories
of long lost wholesome glories.
and I will always love my babies there so cherished
and kissed and ever treasured, ever, ever treasured
always ever treasured.

And I Could Be Either One

Posted on December 18, 2014 by charissagrace

the dreamer longing,
the lonely unrequited.
the dreamy girl alone
and aching on the staircase,
betwixt two places, seated
within the place of passage
but still while all around me
others arrive to home…

or yearning doggie loving,
transparent in the moment
unnoticed in the wistful hurt
and past trauma returning
just hungry for a gentle pat,
or give a doggie comfort
and drink in human pain.

Yes…I could be either one.

Debt and Gratitude

Posted on December 18, 2014 by charissagrace

in this morning still, in the murmur of the quiet
my tender heart is open and from it graceful tendrils
of gratitude entwine with the quiet stillness.

Would that then be a quietude?
Quietude: a moment grateful (a grateful moment)

dawn is hushed and waiting still
crouched beneath the misty shrouded hills
that shelter things not yet awake,

birds, heads tucked awing
deer swaddled in wild grasses tall
ducks, there so still on the silent lake
as it always was, and as it is, wondrous still
in my time and place of debt and gratitude.

I was born beneath these burdens heavy
(taxes ripped and torn from my life blood)
and I owe debts that were inherited
a thousand times bequeathed beneath these tear-stained skies
I pay my debts in tears and grieving cries

but something else, surprising, unexpected
has crept into this life of streaming days and hovering nights

a bird awakes and sings
a hart rises to eat
a squawking duck upon a laughing lake
a cedar incense scent upon the night breeze gentle
that stirs the sleepy dawn and wakes the dead.

quietude: the grateful giving of my thanks
that I am made a treasure hard to find,
tough to discover and hidden in a box of yellow pine
inside a cup of silver filigreed
with Mercy’s Motto and with Grace’s Creed.

and I at last grow thankful for myself
a life of so much more than dusty shelf
and windows shuttered, four walls grim and dull
and debt that never rests, is never full

a tender thought arising there within me
a sacrifice unnoticed but rejoiced in
a song sung graceful, skillful hidden,
a gentle touch so faithful and committed
to stir the Day awaking and Undying
in the never ending Light of that Becoming.

Advent Poem: The Season of Eternity

Posted on December 18, 2014 by charissagrace

Time running in streaming ribbons behind laughing children
twisting in a holiday blur of color, movement flowing
Time swimming sinister, sleek in the silent night
hungry to devour the Child there before it quiet
and in that cattle trough.

Snuffling with snout insistent, inhaling fragrances
of common birth and bearing…and something else
coming…the smell of death overlaid in incense
but underneath…the smell of…what?
The smell of other.

And then those guileless eyes flash open,
dark and endless but not with perpetuity
no! Endless in the Moment never ceasing!
Endless in a present never moving but never still either,
And time found itself hooked and billeted and beached.

Time is just a boat, no…a moat…a mote in eternity’s eye
Time is but a note in Wonder’s Symphony!
And with the Baby’s birth inside of Time
Eternal bells of joy ring out the chime
Olly Olly Oxen FREE!

The season of eternity is nigh,
when God gives Their response to our hurt cry
and renders youth and age trite matters moot
and blows away the ashes and the soot
revealing hearts like stars still shine beneath.

Advent Poem: The Season of Redeeming Time

Posted on December 17, 2014 by charissagrace

I’m surprised by the passing of time
it waves as it dances along
and leaves me here on this bench in the park
with astonishment gripping my heart.

Time will never simply pass by
without engraving its mark
in a stab to my heart or a tender sweet touch
or a mortal wound bleeding and dark.

And I think of the birth of a child
who will dance with time in ignorance
and get lost in occasions of beauty and joy
and its happy and frolicking lark.

But time walks away without caring
as it always has, does, and will do
and that’s when the child sees the back-side of time
as it passes austere, tall and stark.

The back-side of time is a window
to somewhere beyond time’s long reach
So I follow, and run after fleet-footed time
as it swims like a quick-silver shark.

But time just leaves me for dead.
Tell me, why is this such an outrage?
This act of irreverence, indifference unfeigned
in every crude step of time’s arc.

But I know a secret inside
the heart of my heart: come, and listen!
Proud hungry time is caught up in hubris
So I laugh, on this bench in the park.

Are People Books?

Posted on December 14, 2014 by charissagrace

my books…
my true treasures
faithful and constant.
always there,
waiting for me…

they never cry off
as too busy,
too tired,
too too too too…
they’re always
there always…

each time
there is something new,
something I didn’t see the first
(or second or third or fourth)
time thru…

I swear that books
write themselves,
add things based on
the currents we have
connected to them
like veins,

and what we are living
somehow informs them
and they change in accordance…

Advent Poem: The Season of Emptiness

Posted on December 14, 2014 by charissagrace

I remember
last Christmas,
lingering in my mind
midst memory’s fogs
and memories
…just grey mists now,
swirling and coiling
back on themselves,
roiling forward
from the past
and boiling over
into this morning,
this day…

this time sitting
in the midst of ashes
dead and flat remaining
from that cold conflagration
of becoming thru the fires
of that season.

Friends, job,
name, family,
reputation,
all consumed
by fire,
all revealed as
morsels of the moment
(that lasted 55 years and still just a moment)…

last year,
I had it all
at least in the eyes
of those who don’t matter,
I had it all…especially
the awful yawning
void of nothing
gaping inside
me, most real
inside me,

I remember
the day after Christmas
reduced me to a place
in the hills adjacent
to the place a woman
took her own life
this year,
reduced me
to screaming incoherence
because I had run out
of words to scream and
I had just begun
to scratch the surface
of what there was
to scream about,
that awful
substantial black
nothing.

that day,
it was a close matter
a razor’s edge tumble
into red greedy flames
burning long and low
all year until
they blazed in fury fanned
when smothering shrouds
were snatched away sudden
in torn and tattered strips
to consume the bribes
and chains of nothing
clothed in costumes.

This Christmas,
nothing has been exposed,
revealed as the imposter
it still masquerades as.
I am empty of screams
but full of me and
ready to receive
the Promise of words
to give voice to
what’s unspeakable, unnameable,
to dress that wound
infected with nothing
and salve it with
the scratchy tickle of truth
and set free we
shadowbound to be
our shining selves,
casting shadows
instead of being flat
and cast by them.

It is the season of emptiness, and places
prepared by pain are hungry
for the Presence
and the Promise
that only emptiness contains.

Advent Poem: The Season of Expectancy

Posted on December 13, 2014 by charissagrace

I’m homesick for a Blue Place
that might not be real…
but I know it is.

It has to be!

It floats here,
Azure in my silver
longing heart unsinkable
and it’s scarlet voice calls
from Beyond into beyond,
to that Place
I have never been
but can describe
oh so very well,

down to tittery wine
that brings all joy
but never leaves
hangovers in its wake
and the drippy bread that breaks
crusty with truthful crunch
and fills you up
without filling you out. tumblr_nd3f1fcRM41sktpb4o1_500

Slow down, to open
quick windows of awareness
and be of thick spiritual health.

Find jubilant quiet Mystery
inside stillness’s expectant embrace,
the only Place that God’s own Face
can safely show Itself, It’s Grace.

God’s Grace, God’s Face,
an infant among us…
Good God with us
(a freaking BABY??!!??!)…
a disruptive Mystery
wedged into reality
and stuck in the craw of dismay.

Where only They can fit. tumblr_ng0upkntmb1sn5m44o3_1280

But Mystery, even a disruptive one
(no…especially a disruptive one!!)
is well worth

stillness,
wonder,
contemplation.

This Mystery is rich enough
to make us stop and wait,
and is poor enough
to catch out all pretenders
greedy for gain alone
and thus lost of soul.

God has stepped into our world
to dig us out of every prison
we disguised as snug burrows
and cozy hobbit holes.

Listen.
If you cannot hear it
you will miss it.

Make room.
Divest yourself
of lists and budgets
and endless holiday labor
and fretful commotion and
freeze-dried contentment.

Contemplate
empty your heart
and your hands of stuff,
of chaos, of injustice and
hatred, death and despair.

It’s the season of Expectancy
so heavy in the air, and that is
miracle enough, from there…

from Blue…and from Beyond.

Seeds Busy Becoming

Posted on December 12, 2014 by charissagrace

I live in longing wonder
I’m mindful I’m a seed
buried deep within time’s flower garden
and sprouting there so quiet
and working hard to flourish
while everything takes place beneath the surface.

And those who throw dirt on me?
Why, they do God the favor
of releasing me, breaking me out prison
inside that hell, that hull
that thick and clumsy null
and so I am immune to their derision!

Every single person (every single one)
is living the greatest triumph ever witnessed
while also walking thru the hardest tragedy
this world has ever seen in all its seasons.
So therefore when you stand in anybody’s presence
remember that before you run your mouth.

And let that knowledge tender
be the only hoe you handle,
the only rake you wield to labor worthy
Because you are surrounded
by seeds busy becoming
Eternal blossoms in Their Garden Sacred.

Advent Poem: The Season of Hope

Posted on December 12, 2014 by charissagrace

I set off on this journey full of hope.
And wrapped in splendours of belonging here…
or there…it doesn’t really matter there or here
which far exceeds being nothing nowhere

But as I walked the crowds all fell away
and cruel branches raked across my face
disfigured me, tattooed with brutal scars
my garments stripped and used to block the stars
and so my world grew dim and I alone
and my companions left me trapped within

The last straw to which I desperate, clung
was dashed from my hands, hope was trashed and flung
to the four winds and blown away in dust,
left me un-moored, an object of disgust.
tumblr_ng4x5plD3Z1qccjsuo1_500
But hope is funny, indomitable
and it is sneaky, looking empty, full
and when I dried my eyes, what did I see?
But hope returned to heal and rescue me.

That Absent God so silent and so cruel
had made a move, become the Supreme Fool
and suffered as a lost and lonely peasant
and in absence became Supremely Present

It’s Here, in this fog, everything in shroud
Listen, hear that coming footfall loud
Lion, Lamb and Baby through the smoke
Paying every Promise that They Spoke

There…wet…thin…starving and alone
that’s me abandoned wet, drenched to the bone
and nothing beautiful, nothing of worth…
to this manger…that’s me…comes Christmas birth

And so I will press on, and I will grope
thru deep darkness in this season of hope.

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