a constant gnawing
deep within
to be fed
and tended to
through The Mouth
that did not know
its mother’s milk
suckled instead
by the middle finger
of its right hand
The Mouth that spoke
not a word
its first few years
now relentlessly demands
food
attention
silence
rarely satiated
riddled with shame
and melancholy
a downward spiral
often begins.
here, now
this time
a long breath
slowly let out
through The Mouth
gentler with the hunger
less intolerance
more patience.
“Are you homeless?”
she asked,
penetrating my self immersion.
“No, why?
I responded, a tad vexed.
“Because of your bag,”
she said,
pointing to the shopping cart
I was wheeling behind me.
“I am homeless,”
she shared.
I stopped,
emerged from my shell.
We stood
face to face
under a first quarter moon,
meeting each other.
Yolanda was her name –
engaging,
loquacious,
deeply rooted in her faith,
enamored of the Celestial Realms.
She spoke of harrowing experiences in the local shelters,
of the inconsiderate and dangerous conditions –
especially
for a woman
alone.
Just a year ago,
Yolanda had a home,
a husband,
was employed with a car.
A divorce rendered her without,
leading to her sleeping
outside
for the first time
on a frigid and blustery night.
Yolanda alluded to
grown children,
yet gave thanks
only to the kind strangers
who kept her fed
and still alive.
“I will pray for you,”
I offered humbly.
And I have,
and will continue to
pray for Yolanda
and all in our human family
on their own
out
in the bitter cold.
This is not the way it’s supposed to be!
We are each other’s keeper!
Indeed, we are each other!
When did we forget this?
No mere coincidence,
my time with Yolanda.
Divinely orchestrated,
potent seeds planted.
An assignment awaits.
we fall down
and we get up
we fall asleep
and we wake up
back and forth
up and down
the spectrum of consciousness
we go
round and round
the cycle of unwellness
until
sometimes quite suddenly
a shift
from deep Within
Grace
a gentle beckoning
to another
completely different
way
most times
i find
humanity
perplexing
what we do
to ourselves
and to each other
and to the whole of
Nature
perplexing
utterly
and saddening
still
bits of Light
shimmering
when and where
the I can see
what have we become?
un-done
dis-embodied
dis-membered
fear-full
looking
here then there
longing
for a time
that never was
desperate
for salvation
from the outside
un-able to go
in
down
and way back
to lineage
repressed
depressed
lonely
confused
thankfully 🙏
a few
awakened
just enough
perhaps
to save us all from
The Brink
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,”
burgeoninc 