Wednesday, October 26, 2016

The lost language

The lost language
You had Your chance
but, held Your peace –

perhaps, because only a handful
understood Your language.

Later, Your silence became Gautama’s flower; 
a sand grain, a moon and stars’ silence;

the noiseless marrow of our bones;
the pause between heartbeats;

the silence of the backs of our hands,
the napes of our necks –

a silence wrapped in dust; the kernel of the grain;
the hollowness in the horn of plenty.

You had Your chance to speak –
and Your Word flooded the planes,

reaching the smallest, most turbulent and severe
of all our dry places; sated the heart

and began our re-acquaintance
with the lost language of God. 

O child of God, His dialogue is continuous and pervasive,
how could you ever feel beyond its range?  

(from Spoken For)           

I love love best

I love love best    
Gratitude roams the ruins of my heart –
tipping the scales in Your favor.

I’ve an urge to run through the streets
shouting Your name. 

Instead, I kneel and slowly burn.
Dawn bears the same fire on the eastern mullions.

It’s not so much that You love me
but that You give me love to give ...

more and more, more and more
and still yet more.

I know nothing of worthiness, except ...
it has everything and nothing to do with love!

O reader!  What might we discuss 
that you and I don’t already know?

Like the elephant in the dark –
everything is true at once!

I love love best as a fire in the chest – silently longing
for the whole house to become ash and cinder.

O child of God, what is there to say?
You are bewildered – inside and out.

(from Spoken For)

Saturday, October 15, 2016

Utter Stillness

Utter stillness                                                                                   

I have always adopted, in this human dilemma,
the rational approach,
but, secretly, I long for a love that makes no sense.

My every motive is self-preservation,
while my heart’s wings propel me, inexorably,
toward oblivion.

Let those royal falcons build their nests
in the clefts and crags of Your holy mountain.

I want only to throw myself over the edge.
Let them haunt the rugged peaks.

My fate is farther down the slope,
where Your ocean swallows me.

Below that rugged exterior lie 
the quiet disintegration and utter stillness I crave.

O child of God, your longing is romantic and self-serving.
When will you see yourself as you really are?

                      (from A Jewel in the Dust)  




They started with a stone hillside;
carved out everything that wasn’t a temple.

A poem should be like that –
from a vast vocabulary, an elimination

of words unconnected to one another
until the secret combination is found,

unlocking glimpses of Oneness, the inter-connection.
Words that tremble and hum

when placed together
belong to the realm of the Infinite.

The truth of a poem is in its transparency –
columns of words, sturdy as stone ... clear as glass. 

O Lord, take my life.  Make a poem from it –
chip away the awkward, the unrelated, the oblique,

the dissonant and obscure.  Leave me ...
sturdy, connected, crucial and transparent.

O child of God, the Masters say Truth is not
an acquisition but a paring away of the false.