A God of peace and rest is within us all
that is why we have to heed sleep's call.
On a daily basis that is usually at night
we tend to fall asleep devoid of any light.

In that unconscious darkness of our soul
we find true rest and peace playing a role
in everyone's existence no matter who it is
a likeness of that sought as heavenly bliss.

It's an unconscious union with our Source
of which most people aren't aware of course.
Throughout our lives this discipline we keep
being an imperative need to get some sleep.

No creature can ever ignore it for too long
as its force is overwhelming and so strong.
It's a universal call for everything to return
back to where it came from that we discern.

It really couldn't be any other way unless
we get to experience a state beyond stress
that may come about when one is awake
in tune with a higher energy and it betake.

There are some higher dimensions of existence
that can be experienced without any resistance.
We just have to seek and find the secret place,
that is hidden inside us all, with Divine Grace.
________

Written late 2017.

On the riverbanks I toasted the moon
between smooth pebbles and weeds
the silent silver bells tolling out
in tandem with your cries. Daddy
don’t you want more, more, more—
         Promethazine Queen and Heroin King
your beloved subjects, beatnik
so low compared to New Critics
the antithesis to the highs neither
He, She, nor I have reached yet!
Religious visions in the soup kitchen!
          Finding God in the backs of cars
while racing to the back doors
of the hospital her cream colored wings,
found new heights when you OD’d
the backseat confessional as we raced
along toll roads, laughing, out the window towards sea
God you cried out, won’t you dance with me?
Hell right at your feet, yeah sure, I heard
and then out we rolled, down the hills,
into the fishy sewers, their haven
and I wondered is heaven fish chomping
at the bit, and at our toes?
            I’ll never know, but on these riverbanks
I start to. On our private shores
transferring from one bank to
another, promising, hun
that our memories are safe
locked inside metal storage lockers,
with police men wearing collars
and every single American dancing
the electric slide to get in with a four
digit pin, they want priceless for the night
for the price of a hundred year of their lives!
They beg for skin to bone loans,
millions of them, something to eat,
chicken—cowards, liars, and thieves
we run on getting drunk with the government
coerced each other, just stick in it, just
stick in, I am wet for the American
dream, and Trump’s toupee, his orange
lips salivating after me, grab me by the pussy!
         Or at the very least release me, us,
the collective minds of our future gen
little boys and girls that will always
have to wonder, why? Did no one like them
and what kind of sins have their
fathers committed towards their mothers,
allegations, perpetuations, I just want
out of my own god damn skin!!!
So every night, before dying
I sleep with chocolate girls melting
into their Hershey nipples
their chocolate kisses
or find guys whose vision is
both of us strapped up from the ceiling
Mary and Magdalene, save your children.

The Owl finding,
The Crows shade bathing,
the bird bath,
an oasis,
a refuge.

Listening to
CBC Radio,
Saturday morning,
stories about miracles,
about healing.

Today is cooler
(cloudy)
than it's been
in the past
couple of months.
Last night was
clear,
moon and stars,
a chill in the air,
more darkness,
fall approaching.

Worrying
over
every little thing.
Weary,
worn,
resigned.

A deep fear
of losing face.

aged
raged
caged
ragged
bagged
gagged
inconsolable.

So,
a­ writer friend
passes me the
baton,
to inspire me
to inspire you...
I catch it
it is light.

It is light
like the
wing bone
of a small
bird,
perfectly balanced
for flight.

What to do
with this
lightness?
This gift?

I hold it
for a
moment.

I feel the lightness
and the balance.
I feel the flight.

There is a sense
of impossible
tranquility,
my spirit
lifted
suddenly,
as this
lightness
carries me.

© 2014 Verlie Burroughs

I am a naturalist, I find inspiration in nature.

I find the owl on the lawn
along the shady edge of the drive
where the crows lay down
after a bath
with their wings outstretched
and their breasts flattened
to the ground
to absorb the coolness.
Looking like a fleet of small black
aeroplanes landed there in unison.

I find the owl laying in a tiny heap on the grass,
unruffled, face up, eyes open,
so life-like.
No heartbeat when I pick it up.
I carry him back to the garden where I am working,
and place his tiny corpse deep in the shade
under an old gnarled Rhododendron shrub.

That was two summers ago.
This summer, so hot! While stretching out a soaker hose under the old Rhodo
I found the owl's bones, clean, white, and undisturbed.
I collected these remains (I don't know why)
They weighed almost nothing,
but I could feel some kind of energy
from them when I held them in my hand.

© 2014 Verlie Burroughs

It is a mystery to me where the poetry comes from, or why we bother with it at all. Like dreams we see and then forget, and once in awhile the ideas surface again, or we dwell on something that happens and realize there is a story there.

I was born from the ashes of fear, guilt and shame.
Cut me into pieces and I will grow separately from all the blood-spattered pieces of my being.
Freer than before.
I have those cuts hidden somewhere under my skin.
I still breath through unhealed wounds.
I still bleed every month.
I still believe in lies.
I still choose the wrong path.
I don't need your religion to believe in myself.
I don't need you to wipe my blood stains.
I don't need you to tell me what's right.
Not this time.
Burn me and every inch of my flesh will explode viciously to reborn again and again.
Fierce than before.
My blood is still boiling and running through my fresh veins.
I won't let you drown in the hollowness
I won't immolate myself
I won't give you a chance to carry my burned flesh.
I won't follow these path of illiberal rules.
I don't want you to compromise your love.
I don't want you to devour the poison.. alone.
I don't want you to suffer ..just because you are supposed to.
Not this time..
Not this time.

Mars Jan 10

When I was a seed,
with my helicopter wings,
did the wind just happen
to set me in the land of things?
Or did I choose where I fell?
To meet my spirits' need?
Does it matter if I wonder?
Or will that just pull me under?
Well, whatever this energy brings,
I am here to pay attention,
watching, without distraction.
No longer a seed,
I am rooted and standing tall
in this wonderful incarnation.

Kimberly Jan 9

Someone once asked me, "How does it taste?"

I responded, "Perfumey." because I didn't think that they would understand, "Fragrant."

They still didn't get it.

So I tried to make them understand what was meant when things were called "fragrant"
...and then I tried to get them to identify with smelling a smell so strong that you can taste it- I gave up...
and answered,

"I'm just weird. The food is good."

With life comes death, a beginning
and an end, to all things humans may
perceive, all we see, is born and lives,
then evolves until it dismantles into

disappearance, slowly vanishing beyond
our senses, as if suggesting nothing is
after it has been. Swirling particles
of hydrogen pulled together by a force,

labelled gravity to give, birth to stars.
By the same effect twirling dust and rocks
breed, planets scattered randomly through
a dynamic space expanding from day one.

Once more a beginning. Yet we’ve seen
supernovas and collapsing spheres,
mountains form and trees grow, flowers
blossom, animals reproduce, we multiply,

ourselves having babies if we are lucky
out of love, physical chemistry keeping
humanity alive, for a glimpse of immortality
striving to defy, time. Yet we’ve seen

mountains corrode under conditions,
atmosphere, sunrays, wind, snow and rain,
trees wither, flowers fade, carcasses decay,
into ashes babies grow to old age then pass

away. Everything inducing us to believe
all has, a beginning and an end, that with life
comes death, unable nonetheless,
to convince our spirits of the same.

Intuition proposing a never-ending always
has been, unfolding mystic carpet of bewilderment
and awe, where energy incessantly mutates,
and cannot be created nor destroyed.

On life and eternity
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