Salvage and salvation

Salvage and salvation                                                                         
 
Over a lifetime, in my own way,
I’ve been moving toward You –
 
in darkness, by fits and starts, studying warily
the scriptures, claims, promises,
 
attuning myself to some real
or imagined inner guide.
 
Here and there at various speeds and coming
now and then to a complete stop,
 
wondering which bedimmed fork to take,
or why go on with such a lonely, desperate search.
 
But only very recently, the sun has peeked
over the heaving edge of the world
 
enough for me to see that I have
ever been trekking the vast deck of a ship
 
as You return me surely, safely,
irrevocably to home port.
 
I’m leaning on the rail right now,
taking in the breaking sun, the salt wind
 
and wondering what I might do, if anything,
to aid in my own salvage and salvation.
 
O child of God, learn your ship duties;
prepare well for the immeasurable voyage ahead.

 

This empty cup

This empty cup                                                                                 

 

Enough for me, this empty cup.

With your own lips

 

You have drained it of the world’s wine

and left a promise – the distant scent

 

and stain of Your own vintage.

Each day I enfold its rough clay

 

and murmur a prayer,

lift to my lips its soured nothingness,

 

taste the exasperatingly faint

intimation of Your nothingness.

 

And setting it down, abandon again

the world’s shimmering images,

 

imaginings and intoxications,

its brief, bitter sweetness.

 

For me, enough (is enough) this empty cup,

until its clay mouth is crushed again,

 

its hollowness filled with debris,

buried in the earth’s whirling wheel  

 

for yet another stab at Your ethereal lightness,

assured Oneness, Your sobering, holy wine.

 

O child of God, the world is mad with drink.

Rejoice in your disaffected indifference.

Call His name

Call His name                                                                              
 
The darning of a sweater,
a pulling on the oars;
 
the sawing of a casket plank,
a bell’s tolling;
 
a calling bird in the green wood;
its flap of wings across the sky;
 
the knocking on a door,
the chimes of a clock,
 
singsong, singsong, say His name –
Meher Meher Meher Meher . . .
 
sewing us up; sewing ourselves
to His silence, with each stitch
 
more inseverable, each stroke, toll,
call and flap; each knock
 
upon heaven’s solid, heavy door,
calling to the One inside.
 
O child of God, call His name
until it sings in your veins. 

The One Who never leaves

The One Who never leaves                                                          
 
O pilgrim!  We come into this world,
grow up, grow old and depart, or so it seems.
 
This existence into which we are tossed
stays and we move on, or so it seems.
 
But a few have come over the ages to say:
I am the One Who never leaves! 
 
They come to say: I alone exist
and you and I are not we but One.
 
O pilgrim, we are the One Who never leaves!
Pilgrim being a misnomer,
 
we are the One Who never goes anywhere –
the still river the bridge flows through.
 
Ceaselessly around Us, illusion arises,
flourishes, then is destroyed –
 
again and again – ephemeral, temporal,
illusory, flowing ceaselessly
 
around the One eternal existence
which is Who we are – the One Who never leaves.
 
O child of God, maya is the apparently erroneous
notion that you are born, you live and you die.