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)
This
old horse
Looking
out my window. So strange!
People
going about their business,
all
the while still aslumber in their bunks.
Everybody
wants to go to heaven
(goes
the old joke), but nobody wants to die.
I
am a fortunate man. I’ve learned nothing
of
the secret knowledge
but
I know the secret exists.
I
may not know what Truth is
but
I’m learning what Truth is not,
seeing
Illusion as Illusion
and
counting my blessings accordingly.
This
old horse has gotten a whiff
of
the barn and is on his way home.
O
child of God, are you the horse or the rider?
Or, are you the scent that is summoning you home?
Of
ignorance and faith (The Great
Mystery)
Poetry
has found its way back to me
after
a long absence
and
I am grateful to again be so trusted.
Poetry
that validates my faith
and
rewards my devotion;
a
gift from the Awakener
in
this lifelong dream, reaching me
intimately
now in my need.
O
child of God, compose yet another poem
of
ignorance and faith concerning
your
Beloved and the Great Mystery
which has so
graciously intervened in your life.
Poem
about a mystery
I’ve
been unduly busy lately,
plumbing
the ocean with a six foot pole;
mystified
by my lack of success.
Dutifully,
I cast my bread upon the waters
but
it hasn’t returned to me yet.
Is
there any greater foolishness
than
writing a poem about a mystery
you
know nothing about?
I
end up with a nonsense verse; not quite
gibberish,
but it makes about as much sense.
My
next one I’ll write in disappearing ink.
It’s
less embarrassing that way.
Then
I’ll drop it through the barred window
of
my cell onto the street below.
O
child, how might you judge what is worthy
if everything is
provided to you by God?
