Nonetheless
Liberation? You offer servitude.
Attainment? Lowliness.
Empowerment? Helplessness.
Purity and bliss? Ghamela yoga:
pain, grime, exhaustion –
ground to dust under Your
heel.
You drive a hard bargain,
Sir! What sort
of fools signs up for
that tour of duty?
Pilate thought to wash
his hands of Jesus.
You make sure we get ours dirty –
graves deeply dug; Your garment’s hem
muddied and twisted in our fists.
Desperate, prodigal and impaired?
Yes.
Apprehensive and imprudent? Yes .
. .
nonetheless, I love and
am slave
of the Slave of the love
of His lovers.
O child of God,
servitude? You bleat
at each pinch of the
fetters, each tug of the chain.
Reading the label
The mystery can’t be put
into words
but it can be written in
blood;
shaped by the arrangement
of certain human bones.
Truth walked the earth;
took in the view,
Your rambunctious body
upsetting the bullock cart –
pulses aflutter;
necks craned and
blushing,
ears pricked up;
heart-throats,
long empty, suddenly
filled with song.
The blood of Jesus is
precious
because it runs thick
with the mystery of Love.
Reaching for the hem of
Your garment –
(when You wore Your Jesus robe)
the infirm woman needed
not scripture ...
but the soul-stirring
presence of the Soul of souls
moving majestically
through the pressing crowd.
O child of God, please
understand – reading
the wine bottle’s label
will never make you drunk.
Sky blue coat
I followed a map of the
world. It led
down a narrow path to the
ocean.
From there I could see --
nothing matters
but the folding of myself
into You.
Let love be my measure
... and my guide.
I’ve known love enough in
this lifetime
to know it’s not blind,
but wide-eyed and
vigilant;
not intoxication but an
unearthly sobriety
penetrating the chronic delirium
of the false view.
How wondrous the heart –
at the same time
an encrusted anchor and a
fluttering bird;
bruised rose and captured
hare;
a torch, a goblet;
an upraised fist and
weathered valise.
The pages where my story
is written –
fold and tuck them away –
into the pocket
of my Beloved’s sky blue
coat.
O child of God, drop your
bags and run
headlong into the
Master’s arms.
Spinning tales
I hadn’t a clue – so You
scattered a few about –
sandal prints under my
windows;
sacred threads snagged in
the hedgerow;
Your blood staining the
cross within my chest.
People wonder why I go on
about this!
It’s ancient history,
they say.
I’m like the angler whose
trophy fish is mounted
above the mantle –
I can’t stop spinning
tales about it!
Especially when Your wine
gets me drunk
and I feel again the excitement
of finding You
on the end of my line.
Gone forever -- the
despair of empty nets
pulled again and again
from the sea of illusion.
My nets are bursting now,
my vessel in danger of sinking
under the weight of Your
bounty.
Jesus must have smiled when
I turned down Your street –
He’d sent me that way
years ago looking for You.
O child of God, the
Avatar is the fisher of men.
It’s His hook causing
that pain in your chest.
(drawing by Rich Panico)
