the truth is,
Soul whispered to self,
life need not be so hard 🙏
you tend to complicate
and over personalize;
to see the dangers
and the darknesses
well before the
deLightful bits.
for you, the challenges
come quickly to the fore
dragging along with them
the heaviness
of not enough consciousness 🙏
Beloved, you need not relent,
keep spiraling
reciting the same ol’ script.
stop ✋️please
take slow, deep breaths.
recalibrate 🙏
.
.
sadness
fear
fear is a Gate.
to where?
another realm,
a clearer lens,
an unimaginable
reality,
a new face,
a chance to awaken
and break
destructive cycles,
generational patterns,
and long expired
unconscious
contracts.
a different vibration –
more stillness
on this Side,
bliss-full contemplation,
grounded regulation,
time for deep integration,
leading to
coherence and its twin, remembrance.
Here too,
the surrender and freedom
that beckon
sweet Peace
from its longtime captor, fear.
NO MORE
what will it take
to study war no more?
how many precious Lives;
how much devastation;
to shed delusions
of “you”
“me”
“they”
“we”?
what will it take
to See
inter-sectionality,
inter-dependence,
inter-being;
that I am Me
because you are You?
how to be finally relieved
of this exhausting
burden and cycle of trauma
seeded in
retaliation
revenge
reactivity
dis-regulation
and perceived “wins”?
where is the Space
for cultivation of
mind-full
measured
response?
what will it take to just
STOP ✋️
consciously chose
LOVE
in lieu of hate?
when do we decide
we walk the paths much less trodden –
forgiveness, Truth, reconciliation?
what spells and prayers might we invoke,
sacred concoctions prepared
to awaken from our stubborn slumber,
to re-member our shared humanity,
banish war from our vocabulary,
curate abiding Peace ✌️ 🙏 only ❤️
Crimson
Dreamed of Crimson
last night.
The color of blood,
a symbol of pain –
Crimson on the streets;
streaked in the snow;
steeped in the Ground.
crimson on our hands,
we reek of it,
blinded and choking on it.
redemption can only come by it.
Marie’s Lamentation
The Mother gave birth
To three daughters
None of whom
Would ever bore another.
Two of the daughters –
The eldest and the youngest
No longer carry their uterus.
Two surgeries-
The one, reluctant to wake from Anesthesia’s deep slumber.
The other, she almost did not recover.
The only daughter with all organs intact,
Chose to walk a childless path.
The Mother
is sad
heartbroken
grief-ridden.
Blaming herself
for the end of the family line.
No legacy, only perceived decline.
“Why”” she asks, wailing at her Fate.
“Did I
in Life
make a horrendous mistake?”
family
family –
what does this word mean, really?
blood relations?
friendships?
resonance across space & time?
from the Latin word famulus,
denoting servant;
same root as familiar,
yet family can feel
more distant than stranger.
our people, our tribe,
our ride or die –
we so easily say,
but behave
often
in an entirely different way.
loneliness continues to rise
worldwide.
perplexed, we ask why
given so much connectivity.
might it be
because we
forget
how to be
how to do
family?
“Autobiography begins with a sense of being alone. It is an orphan form.”
― John Berger
hold on
i am tired, Lord.
hold on.
hold on for what?
for Me.
i don’t know that i can…
you can; you have.
i am tired, Lord.
I know; hold on.
Iron
I will not carry your Iron,
I will no longer bear your Burdens,
I shall not strive to Redeem you,
I will only Thank you,
for being the vehicle of this birth,
the channel through which this River flowed
into illusion, destined to forget
and then
to remember.
I was to spread these Wings
perhaps wider than was allotted to you,
parents, who did what was your story to do,
to “love” as you were “loved”.
Alas, ancestral trauma,
we drag it from
generation to generation
iteration to iteration
until it dissipates,
withers,
is transformed
back into the Love
from which it
ultimately
came.
All trauma is golden
at its core –
was crafted in service
and protection.
Without it –
likely no ancestry,
no bloodlines,
no opportunity to
re-member;
no journey to take
back to where it all began…
I will not carry your Iron,
I will play
my Role
in melting it.
Inspired by and indebted to Mary Oliver’s stunning poem, Flare
“my mother, alas, alas,
did not always love her life,
heavier than iron it was
as she carried it in her arms, from room to room,”
prayers to you
what’s it all about,
you coming into
this scared space
spewing your hate?
why not go outside
to the streets
into the Light –
strong and proud
expressing as you perceive:
that only white lives matter
all people of color
have “it” coming
that their lives mean nothing.
prayers to you,
for you truly know not
what it is you do.
you have forgotten
what You really are;
alas, you can see but so far-
only to the level of the skin
so utterly limited you are,
tightly constricted
unseen, likely never really heard,
lonely in your Little Box
amidst your tribe
of hardened have nots.
from such profound lack,
you shame and blame
easily kill and maim,
desperately looking outside
for what does not exist within.
no present capacity to self-reflect
nor the tools to adequately take stock
and practice personal responsibility.
fervent prayers for the lost pieces of you-
may you soon re-member and awaken.
Sacred Moment
this strange,
sudden
lonely
traumatic
seclusion.
A particularly fierce form of Grace.
All a bit of a blur-
so much has taken place
as revealed by this now wizened face.
Innocence gained and lost
as we endeavor to make the most
of what is truly a Sacred Moment–
a pause, a break, space
for resurrection and metamorphosis.
Who will come of this?
Already feeling familiar pieces
falling away – cannot retrieve them
for there is no going back-
only surrender –
a radical submission,
to humility and a facile generosity
born from the remembrance
of our connectedness
and shared ancestry.
burgeoninc 