ghamela yoga
Brian Darnell
Wednesday, November 6, 2024
Saturday, November 2, 2024
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.
Wednesday, October 30, 2024
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.
Sunday, October 27, 2024
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.
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