Make Me Visible

Worn thin


I am the

ghost of the


I used to be



in shadow

Haunting the night

Lost in the past

Lost in my head

My spark grows


My light eclipsed


Do you see me?


in the corner

Flicker of light

almost extinguished


Do you hear me?

Whisper in the


Haunting melody


Do you feel me?

Brush of fingertips

Warm breath

in the darkness


Do you sense me?

Whiff of lavender

Iron tinge of pain


Can you

make me



Can you

return me

to life?


Can you

remember me back

to the warm blooded

woman of curves and angles



who leaves the

lingering taste of

chocolate and fire

on your tongue?


© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved


I Am the Sorrow

Some days I do not just feel sorrow

Some days I am the sorrow

I am the grey sky

That threatens spitting snow

I am the heaviness in your limbs

Your shuffling gait

Reluctant to get

Where you are expected


Some days

I am the sorrow

The stark, leafless, skeletal

Branches of the trees

Dwelling in the in-between

Of not quite late autumn

Not quite early winter

That borderline of the seasons

When light is dwindling

And the darkness grows


Some days

I am the wistfulness

That longing for your younger self

When time stretched endlessly

Before you

The world full of possibility

And the crisp taste of golden fruit


Some days

I am the very ache in your chest

That you feel

When you despair of ever

Finding your soul mate

Who must be out there wandering

In this same twilight

Desperately longing

To find you


On Becoming a Poet

Originally published by the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

Sometimes, adopting the names ‘writer’ and ‘poet’

led her to encounters with the most amazing minds

connecting her with a larger community

At other times she thought that ‘writer’ and ‘poet’

were the loneliest names she had ever called herself

Waking up every morning

to unzip her chest, her gut

and bare her truths to the world

because like others of her kind

she was complex, messy, containing

multiple truths, not a singular one


Sometimes she felt like she was writing

to a small group of intimate friends

at others times,

she felt like she was calling out her truths

into an empty desert landscape

without even a coyote or armadillo

to hear her words before they fell away

forlorn and unread

unheard and unacknowledged

rendering the writer, the poet herself

invisible, diminished somehow


She was always struck by the juxtaposition

of her physical body negotiating

close suburbs,

crowded subways and jostling city sidewalks

on the way to her day job

while her heart and mind

wandered in the isolated wilderness

while errant words and wisps of dreams

and drops of feelings like rich, red blood

continued to seep out of her


© 2016 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved


December Ghost

I have been walking

Through the holiday season

As if from the inside

Of an ice tunnel

I see cheerful lights

I hear joyous voices

I smell pine

But everything is muffled, remote

I experience these sensations

From a distance


As I trod Locust Walk

On my way to my

Sterile subterranean office

I know that I will yet again

Spend too many hours

Trying to wrestle

My focus, attention span

Back onto work

Deadlines looming

My thoughts too easily

Wander away into ether


Other commuters

Look as though they

Are on another plain

Of existence

Our colors, our vibrancy

Do not match

No look of recognition

No acknowledgement

As we pass each other

They are like ghosts

Drifting by on the cobblestones


It occurs to me

That perhaps it is I

Who has become

The ghost

Washed out

Stretched thin

Rendered transparent


Liable to disintegrate

Become completely


If strong enough winds blow


© 2016 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

Hide and Seek

We are

lost souls

in the darkness

trapped in an endless game

of hide and seek



time and pain

have worn us thin


We stumble


get turned around

sense of direction lost

Formless shapes

pass us by

push us

bump us

out of trajectory

never stopping

never speaking


How will you know me

in this ocean of night?

In this sea of ghosts?

Will you know me

by the staccato rhythm of

of my heartbeat?

Will you know me

by the lavender scent of my tears

The iron twang of my blood?


Will you taste my pain

on the wind

know which way to turn?

Will the faint throb of

light that is my soul

be a beacon to you?

Will you brush by me

and recognize the contours

of my heart

a sigh of relief escaping your lips

as you instinctively

reach out to grasp

my hand?


Bringing us both into

sharp relief

Shading us technicolor

Hearts pounding

Hands trembling

Vulnerable eyes



as we finally know home


© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved



i am a woman

in a large

glass box

that is slowly


filling with water

covering my feet

my ankles

my knees

padlocks of my

own design

keep me trapped

in this watery prison

the opaque panels

block me from view

murals painted with

images of my placid

face doing routine things

deceive the world

inside the box

the water

has reached

my hips

my waist

this water has weight

has heft

presses against me

locks me in place

speakers outside the box

play my prerecorded voice



lulling the audience

while the water

the soothing temperature of my bath

continues to rise

covers my chest

suffocates me

part of me fights

struggles to break free

longs for fresh air

longs for the light

part of me is tired

so very very tired

how easy it would be

to just let go

relinquish myself

to the darkness

the clock is ticking

as the water rises

dangerously high

up to my shoulders now

my voice will soon be gone

can I pull a Houdini

or will I drown

in this unholy

flood of my tears

my blood

my liquid pain?


There was no comfort

to be found this night

in the still quiet

although it often

enveloped her

like a blanket of stars


There was only

the continued slow

unraveling of her soul

of her psyche

laid bare

for no one to see


She realized

that she was

becoming the silence

her very being

melting into the

fabric of the night


Soon there would be

nothing left of her

except a ghostly

scent of lavender

the memory of piercing


and lovely poems

upon a shelf


© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

photo credit: Scott Sawyer




woke up on the edge

of the cliff

unsteady feet

sliding on the loose gravel path

leading no where

I know that I



call for help

but my voice is hoarse

from disuse

only capable of

inaudible croaking

even if I could

calling for help

would mean admitting

that I have fallen in the hole

and cannot get up on my own

I know that I



reach out a hand

but my arms wrapped around

myself in a death grip

is all that is keeping me

from flying apart

I am slowly


sliding backwards

inch by inch

into the abyss

wondering why it is so hard

even now when the stakes are high

to say the word out loud



© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved


I can feel the fading

as color washes out of me

I grow transparent


my feet no longer make contact with the ground

I open my mouth to speak

there is no sound

A barely breathing ghost

who has lost gravity

I slide right through you

no impression made

barely stirring the air


© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved