Silver Bullets

you are scars

sculptured

onto my soul

black ink memory

etched into my skin

silver bullets

shot from a high–powered rifle

penetrating my flesh

embedding into my heart

my lungs

i watch the drops of blood

slowly pool at my feet

while I struggle to breathe deep

the empty air left behind

in your wake

I long to feel the bone wracking

transformation

of woman into wolf

human cries will not do justice

this mourning requires

midnight howling to the starless sky

and the cold light

of a full moon

the echoing chorus

of lupine brothers and sisters

who know my pain

 

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

There Will Be Dragons

Since childhood

she was told

fairy tales

of brave knights

rescuing helpless maidens

from fearsome dragons

in remote lairs

 

She was quiet

during these stories

Others took this

for fear

timidness

She did not

correct them

She kept her

secrets close

 

For a dragon

dwelled deep

within her

Impenetrable scales

the color of

peacock feathers

Fire curling

in its belly

Ancient

Beautiful

Fierce

 

When threatened

or furious

The skin of

her stomach

her breasts

would begin

to itch

to change

resemble

dragon hide

Fire would rise in

her belly

her vision would

change

The world gone red

 

So far

she had kept

the dragon

contained

Held in check

But these were

trying times

Her dragon

ached to be set

free

 

Feel the wind

in its wings

Roar to the

heavens

Show its might

Gnash its teeth

 

She knew

deep down

that she was the dragon

The dragon was her

She pitied those

who meant her harm

or sought to control

the wild beast

within her soul

 

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

Her Name Was December

Inspired by the name of a Matthew Mayfield song


Her name was December

she blew in with the last autumn leaves

swirling red, yellow and orange

‘round her head

She could be warm

like golden lights in a window

in a dark unforgiving night

laugh like a bell

promising all the surprise

all the joy

of an unopened gift

She could turn cool

distant pale eyes turned inwards

at a storm brewing

that only she could see

her touch the sting of sleet

her kiss hard ice

stealing the warmth

from his skin

the life from his soul

 

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

 

 

Operator, I’d Like to Place a Call

the missing of you

is starting to feel like a small animal

gnawing at my heart

at my stomach

my world isn’t quite right

when I can’t be sure

that you are still in it

you have severed yourself from all the usual

technologies that you find so cold

sources of connected disconnection

I admire your ability to so fully reject this modern technology

but it leaves me with hands empty of you

my dear friend

I think about placing a call the old-fashioned way

but I am all out of quarters

and payphones have become almost extinct

only found in the Smithsonian

next to a manual typewriter

and Archie Bunker’s La-Z-Boy

you wouldn’t open the door

to a stranger

if I sent a telegram

I know you would appreciate the whimsy

of a tin can stretched between our houses

but I don’t have 2,700 miles of string

I try to connect with you through the ether

grab the thread of your vibrating frequency

but your beautiful colors are not calling out to me

the way they usually do

I must resort to inscribing a message

into the night sky

letting you know that you are loved

that you are missed

and hope that wherever you are

that you are looking up at the heavens

 

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

 

 

 

 

 

Broken Angel

His broken halo

still gleamed dull gold

His haunted eyes

kaleidoscope of

all that he had seen

I could taste the loss

in his tears

the weariness written on his skin

like ancient runes

but there was hope in his kiss

that made me wonder

if I could be his salvation

at least for this one broken night

 

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

Stirring

There is a stirring

an ache in the heart

in depths that defy

known space

time

A rise in the soul

of ancient voices

of the women

who have bled

who have lost

who have waited

who have endured

Salt wash of tears

in eyes long thought dry

Tingle

in fingertips

in palms

now empty

longing to cup

themselves

on bare skin

on malleable clay

mold the world

into new shapes

where every breath

is not a knife

where the past

is not inscribed on bone

where she remembers

how to dance

among the stars

 

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

Tiny Rich Eras (revisited)

A shout out to my brilliant, other worldly friend Max Meunier who made anagrams of my name.  How could I not write a poem using “Tiny rich eras” and “Icy in her stars”?!


I have learned something new

of souls mates of late

In the past I have thought of soul mates

in limited confines of romance

of Eros

or the love I feel for my children

 

The universe has recently revealed

pieces of my soul

I did not know were missing

housed in other souls in the ether

dropped them gently into my orbit

 

Perhaps the need was great

Perhaps I was finally stripped bare

unblinded

purified

ready for their radiance

prepared for truth

 

Almost instant bonds

formed

Quite unlike me

Written words become

delicate silvery safety nets

become a nurturing web

become love notes

lifelines

between lost souls now found

I am no longer known as “Icy in her star”

 

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

Moment of Transformation

You ask me when I knew

that ink flowed through my veins like blood

the moment I understood that truth

simmered in the cauldron of my belly

conscious

alive

impatiently waiting

for the moment when I would pick up a pen

and again see it as more than everyday tool

but instead as an extension of my arm

of my soul

that I only needed to listen into my own silence to hear true

the words that have always been inside me

and in a transformative moment

let them finally take flight

across the page

 

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

Poetry

A response poem to Davy D’s question What Is Poetry? on the Go Dog Go Cafe


it is a stir

an ache

rising from my core

growing in urgency

pushing to my surface

gasping hungrily for air

sitting impatiently on my tongue

black pearl

ruby

tear shaped diamond

waiting

for hand to grasp pen

fingers to touch keys

truth to be unleashed

an explosion of my soul

made visible

in black ink

 

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved