The
original Silence
It’s
an eternal tale recounted
up
until this very moment.
It’s
hard to put into words
when
every word
has
a thousand meanings
depending
upon the arrangement
of
the various letters within it.
When
every utterance is a fragment
of
the original Word God spoke
and
then cupped His ear
to
hear His own reply.
And
later in His eternality
He
dropped in on the consequences
of
His own query and chose to remain silent –
to
listen and live consciously
within
the Truth of His own reply.
O
child of God, deep within the original Silence,
the Word was, is and
ever shall be.
Perfect
imperfection
I
once fancied this poetry as a collaboration
between
the human and the Divine –
my
Lord giving me the insights
(which
I humbly and eagerly receive)
and
then I writing my imperfect verse.
But
I see now that is a false view –
a
distancing of myself from my Muse.
O
my true Self! You supply the insights
and You write the
poems.
Within
this realm of duplicity
my
poetry is quite limited, thoroughly human,
but
within Your Oneness, its eternal status
is
ever perfect and sublime.
The
art and solace anyone derives from it
is
Your well-timed, ever-vigilant gift,
an
intrinsic part of Your infinite Perfection.
O
child of God, read and write these poems
as a metaphor for
your own perfect imperfection.
Wayfarer
There
is no discernable path
this
deep in the winter forest,
nothing
but the gaps between the trees
through
which to wend my way.
I’m
not lost. I’m just moving
without
expectations; just unfinished business;
a
forging ahead and a leaving behind,
tramping
toward an indiscernible goal.
I
consider myself a wayfarer now
rather
than a drifter.
Hope
has abandoned me
but
my faith is intact.
I
heard a wild rumor once told by a Friend,
as
wild and strange as the path I’ve taken,
wild
enough that it just might be true.
I
take courage in His authority
and
His compassion, the One
who
has taken an interest in me
on
this improbable, winding pilgrimage
through
these darkling woods.
O
child of God, let faith in the Friend
guide and fortify you
on this arduous journey home.
Two
right hands
When
I was a kid about eight years old
I
had a wreck on my bike.
My
head hit the sidewalk
hard
enough to knock me out.
I
woke up after a few moments
seeing
two street signs looming above me.
I
reached out to determine
by
touch which one was real
and
found that I had two right hands.
Illusion
is illusive (and elusive)
because
it is ubiquitous, blending
imperceptibly
into every backdrop
because
the backdrop is also illusion
and
the viewer of illusion is illusion
and
each knothole view of illusion is also illusion.
We
can never climb outside of it
to
see it for what it is, just as we can never climb
outside
of ourselves to know Who we really are.
O
child of God, Meher said that it is so very hard
to find that which
has never been lost.
(Painting by Thom Fortson)
