That nonexistent shore

That nonexistent shore                                                                              

My little soul is not a mere drop in the bucket

but according to Meher a drop in an ocean

without a shore, without sky above nor floor below.

An ocean if there is only ocean.

And my soul is not on a journey –

no space to move through,

nowhere to go and no time to get there.

I have no fellow beings, no boundaries,

no autonomy, no existence.

And yet here I am – every day just as if

there were days and nights, lives and deaths,

flesh and bone, five senses, mind and knowledge.

Here I am, o Lord, calling to You

as if You had ears and I had a throat and tongue.

O child of God, let your mind twist and swirl

until it’s dashed upon the stones of that nonexistent shore.

Famous blue overcoat

Famous blue overcoat                                                                                      

O if I could shed my cleverness like an old coat!

Leave it in the seat of a city bus, say,

groaning on without me

or stuff it in a local thrift store bin.

Where it started out as occasional apparel

donned for style, secrecy, protection,

over time it became an essential part of me,

holding everything together.

It became how I daily get through life.

And now that I want to come clean;

strip down to simple naked faith,

now that I yearn to fall apart,

stubbornly, heavily it clings

(and I to it) concealing the real me

as I wrestle and suffocate

under its weight and cover.

O child of God, Meher is leading you by the hand.

Take solace in the truth of your plight.

This dewy morning

This dewy morning                                                                                

A green trail left in the morning dew 

where I have walked to the newly turned garden.

No point in asking where the dew

will be later on in the day

nor where it was the crisp cold evening last.

That’s all being taken care of by someone else.

I bend to work the hoe in dew-drenched hands,

till the dewy soil, strike with the blade

the occasional dew-like, hidden pebbles.

I anticipate a succulent harvest a few months hence,

fitting myself as best I might into this small patch

of the universal scheme, accepting whatever the price

and stipulations of its brief sustenance and bounty.

Everything else is being taken care of by someone else.

O child of God, surrender is a quiet thing,

begun every sunrise in humble, laboring silence.

Unencumbered of woe

Unencumbered of woe                                                                                   

Holding Meher Baba’s umbrella,

my long legs, tall frame keep pace

as He strides the rough terrain 

of early Meherabad. 

We halt in the middle of a field

and after a long silence He turns,

gestures for me to step nearer,

out of the harsh sun into the circle of shade.

I obey and leave beyond its rim myself,

my quest and all such fearsome bindings;

leave behind the rest of the world. 

No need for anything else

save His Presence, this shelter

beyond attainment, beyond understanding.

O child of God, to trust Meher

is to become unencumbered of woe.