Thursday, December 3, 2020

The book of the heart

The book of the heart                                                                                  
 
You thumb through my heart on occasion,
never bothering to read it, not from disinterest
 
but because You know so well the story,
written there even before its pages
 
had formed into flesh and blood –
ruffling my emotions, upending my complacency,
 
stirring more vigorously my longing.
One day You promise to let me read it –
 
my own heart-book – when it’s wide open enough
to reveal (by Your promise) the mystery of life.
 
O child of God, Meher came to retrieve (for your study)
that ancient, hidden book of the heart.




Seclusion Hill

Seclusion Hill                                                                                 
 
I climbed alone Seclusion Hill,
leaning into the strong winds
 
where You accomplished
Your Manonash work
                                                                                                     
in that little asbestos hut.
Annihilation of the Mind –
 
throne and root of all these problems.
O Beloved, it's Your strong winds
 
supporting me now.  They call out:
‘Climb the Hill within your chest.
 
Pare down from the Mind’s duplicity
to your one True Self.’   
 
O child of God, in deep seclusion He labored
that we might rise to true solitude.
 

                                    (from A Jewel in the Dust, 2011)

Monday, November 30, 2020

Moondust

Moondust                                                                                                  
 
I can make out the lunar mares –
the Sea of Tranquility just there, composed
 
of moondust rather than saltwater,
human bootprints now in the blue-gray tint
 
of its basaltic soil.  There’s a sea also inside of me 
made of the bitter, accumulated dust
 
of my past lives, which Maya may arouse
at any possible moment into a blinding storm,
 
dust borne on its almost irresistible winds –
the cause of my straying off course
 
from His (and even my own) will.
But with faith and His grace
 
of patience and insight, I might instead
let it gather and lie at the bottom of my heart,
 
tranquilly undisturbed, enough for my bootprints
to spell out legibly my Redeemer’s holy name.
 
O child of God, seek the mighty hand
of the One who hung the moon.




Desultory search

Desultory search                                                                                        
 
I’ve discovered the pilgrim’s path
offers a more-than-adequate opportunity
 
for running away from God.  Sufficient license
and elbow room out on that open road.
 
The pilgrim might settle unobtrusively
into a rhythm which affords some semblance
 
of diligence, some identity, some tattered ideal
of love and devotion in which to wrap oneself
 
but it rarely includes bowing down
in that oft-neglected, deeply-buried heart-shrine
 
with no room for anyone else but the Beloved –
a tomb where the pilgrim comes to a dead halt,
 
forsaking the hypocrisy and faux freedom
of his lifelong, rambling, desultory search.
 
O child of God, how studiously you avoid that tomb,
that cloister, that intimacy that would lead you to God.