The perfect me
Forgive me, humanity, I
have not been
the human being – the
father, son, brother,
husband, partner, friend
– I had hoped to be.
Nowhere near, not within
a country mile.
What I am and have
been –
to complete perfection –
is the perfect me.
No one could ever come
close
to being as perfect a me
as me.
Soon enough I’ll meet the
perfect death,
this version of self
ceasing forever to exist
and move on to what is
next.
I will dutifully ask
forgiveness from God
and then thank Him for
sharing with me
the opportunity to
serve,
(fitting so aptly into
His plan)
by expressing precisely
all He wished
to be expressed, attaining
all that
was required by my
particular incarnation.
O child of God, don’t
worry. Be happy.
Perfection is in the eye
of the Beholder.
The turn of a knob
I hold my tongue (as You suggested
through a lifetime of silence)
and meet You in that immeasurable space
where real things are exchanged.
Even in these raw, preliminary stages,
I’m allowed through that door
where at the turn of a knob
I’m greeted by Your silence.
There to listen instead of barter,
quiescent rather than seeking,
immobile instead of on the prowl,
humble instead of scheming –
o Lord, I am the silence I listen to.
You are the silence I listen to.
We mingle there as one –
as I mutely place my hand in Yours.
O child of God, continue with your raucous verses.
Meher’s silence contains all sound.
Ocean shell
Cup this shell to your ear
and listen to the ocean –
its hollow, hushed white noise
somewhere between a silence and a roar.
Shell to ear, ear to heart,
this is the silence Baba left
(with its intimate roar)
to drown out the world’s bellow,
its furor and anguish,
sham and shallow glamour;
the mind’s incessant stream of self.
Cup this ocean shell to your ear
and leave the populous shore
for the solitude and intangible promise
of the deep high seas, farther out, farther out
towards oblivion and soundless nonexistence.
O child of God, ride the ocean waves
until you lose your boundaries in its briny vastness.
Under their trilling
The path of knowledge has
petered out
into a thick pine wood
ripe with scent and birdsong.
Its remainder does not
lie undiscovered up ahead.
It simply goes no
farther.
There’s no key to God’s
door
on my considerable chain
–
a weight I’ve accumulated
for years.
There’s no lock on God’s
door;
most likely there’s no
door at all out this far.
What I should do now is
toss these keys,
scatter the last of my
bread crumbs
for the gathered,
guileless birds
and await my Beloved
under their trilling –
hand outstretched but no
longer for begging,
merely waiting, do or
die, for Him
to take my hand and lead
me home.
O child of God, leave it
– your salvation
has always been entirely
up to Him.
(Drawing by Rich Panico)
