A poem of mine has been published in The Gambler Magazine, online. The poem is called “Winter” and is part of the January “Snowed In” theme. Please take a look, and feel free to share … (yes, there’s an expletive in it, I know …)

This is really exciting for me, to have something chosen for publication. ~



I grew up in the Midwest, and first saw the Atlantic Ocean when I was 12, and the Pacific Ocean when I was 16. I do not ever take for granted living so close to such an amazing gift — the beauty and immensity of the Ocean. It is my cathedral, my spiritual place, a special spot for me to cry, to grieve, to reconnect and recharge my batteries, to meditate, to play my drum, to picnic, to nap, to pray, to read, sometimes by myself, sometimes with a friend – just jumping in my old car on a weekend and heading north, or south, and seeing where I end up. …

This was taken about 3 hours north of Oakland, near Mendocino, on Highway 1. This Thanksgiving, I am grateful for the beauty of the Ocean along the North Coast, and the freedom that I have to enjoy the Ocean nearly any weekend I want. I feel blessed. ~


Oakland Redwoods

They are so beautiful – just a few minutes drive off Skyline Boulevard at Redwood Regional Park. It’s so quiet up there, and cool. I love the smells, the textures of the leaves and the redwood bark, and the shadows. Here’s one gorgeous tree that caught my eye on one of the trails. … Nature’s cathedral.

Oakland Redwoods

The Hole poem

A few months ago, I drove up north for a few days and had a much needed break — part of what came out of that experience was the following insight and poem.

The hole


The Hole
c) Christine Lias


Floating above a great hole


If I close my eyes I forget that the hole is there

There are moments

When I cannot breathe

The air

It goes I do not know where

I close my eyes

I forget that the hole is there

I do not know

when the hole will go


how long I will be above the hole


if I will fall from the hole

I cannot think about falling or I will fall

This is when I feel as if I cannot breathe

My lip starts to quiver

I put my arms out on either side of my body

For balance

My arms that have been a part of me for my whole life

My arms are strength

My arms have pushed me forward

They have held me up

I have fallen before

I breathe healing air

I know that I can breathe

The oxygen floods my brain

I am drunk with oxygen

My eyelids flutter

I do not have a plan how to move forward

away from the hole


I cannot think about the hole, or I will fall

I look down at my feet, one foot, and then the other foot

My square-shaped toes that have carried me forward to this point

My toes, my strong feet

They have walked hundreds of miles, and will walk hundreds more

I look down at my body, at my breasts, my hips

I feel tired

A woman’s body used by others

Left shamelessly on the side of the road

Tossed out the window like a cigarette

Without a goodbye

Or an apology.

Because all I really wanted was an apology.


Too trusting of the word love

As it slipped from their lips, the moment her bra strap slipped off her shoulders

She mixed the two words into a cocktail — love and sex

Feeling comforted on the cold nights

It don’t matter, she kept telling herself

Those demons come back to haunt you

Running away from the past

Getting into her car and driving away

She ends up driving with herself.


This is a poem that I wrote for my poetry class at Berkeley City College, and it received good feedback in workshop. It was based on several dreams I had. “Calabash” is a gourd. I have no idea why I was dreaming of a gourd, or where I heard that word. Dreams are strange.


By Christine Lias, c) 2015


You hold me close

In the moment and

I feel your hands gripping my waist

Both tough and tender

I look down and there are flower petals on the floor

But then suddenly the floor melts into a pool of water

The flower petals become water drops

I lean down and touch the ground, now a pool of water

I dive toward the bottom of the pool

Diving fast, like a bullet, or a train

Toward the concrete bottom —

A hard, flat, rough edge at the bottom

I’m on my own in the water here

There is no one to hold me anymore

No hands gripping my waist

No one to protect me.

I protect myself now.


There is a storm drain on the street

Running toward the Bay

And there is a pool of blood

Flowing down the gutter toward

The drain.

The flies are gathering on the

Blood that is headed toward the drain.

The blood is sticky in spots

Where it is not moving.

The flies are relentless.


I hear the word “Calabash”

And the word “Calabash-ish”

From someone saying the words repeatedly

I wake up in a panic and

Tip over the table by my bed.

The little drawer falls out and my heart beats fast from the sound.

I have not been able to sleep through the night

Since last year.

I wake up every night in the middle of the night

Hearing a sound from somewhere in the building and

I cannot fall asleep again until the light falls through

the flowered curtains hanging at the window.

August Sunset

I wrote this earlier this month. Today is the last day of August, so thought I would share. …

August Sunset
c. 2015, Christine Lias

The sunset lights the sky
on fire
I watch it burn
thinking of you
wondering if the colors
could be more true
the reds, the purples, the orange
melting even more toward the horizon.

An honest sunset.
An emotional sunset.
Sinking, falling, deeper
toward the unknown.
As we fall, and tumble as such.
My emotions overcome with their honesty
The honesty that comes by falling from a different place.
A place from on high.
A spiritual place.
A place without words.



c. 2015, Christine Lias

I saw her in the crowd and she looked so familiar.
From another time, another place in my life.
Her cut bangs, her cuffed jeans.
Her hair dyed punk rock pink
Wearing dark red lipstick
She scanned the room, looking for someone she knew
But saw no one.
Staying cheerful, with her phone, instead.
I knew her from someplace.
And while I sat back and listened to the music
My brain was transported back several years.
To another time, a cheerful time
A packed room, just like this
Music playing from a live band, just like this
Wine flowing freely
Laughter echoing in different pitches
Along with the music.
She was an artist at the party.
Hustling the crowd, looking for someone she knew.
A packed room
Full of possibilities
Strangers there for free booze and food.
She stood out because of her hair, cut a certain way
Cheerful to everyone, including me
Stressed, tired, looking for you.

A packed crowd of hustlers asking questions about her art.
They wouldn’t stop with the questions.
Now, years later, time circles back and
Allows us to see how far we’ve come.
Allows us to see how little we’ve strayed.
Putting down roots where sand blew them away
Breaking through the cement along the way
Finding who we are in the process
Wading through the muck, the debris to find clear water to navigate off shore.

Life is not a coincidence.
These meetings are not coincidences.
These actions, these people who drift in and out of our lives, like the foamy laps at the end of a wave, knocking against the shoreline.
They are not coincidences.
The natural order is interrupted by chaos and change, if even for a brief second of questioning and doubt.
Something has evolved.
The natural order of sameness cannot remain the same.
Can it ever remain the same.