The
thoughtful mind
Take
no thought for the morrow,
advised
Saint Matthew,
the
apostle’s counsel being to dwell
only
in this one fearless moment.
The
past – merely the wisp of a dream
within
a dream within a dream
and
tomorrow but a great imagining.
Only
the now approaches
any
sort of truth or utility, emerging
hot
and fresh from God’s creation,
where
the thoughtful mind,
(made
of scraps and whimsies),
operates
only as a hovering,
haunting,
ineffectual ghost.
O
child of God, where shall you find refuge?
Even the eternal now (per
Meher) is an illusion.
Let
Him lead you
Oh!
my vertiginous mind –
on
slippery footing yet soldiering on
through
this odd, upheaving world.
I
try to anchor my thoughts
around
an image of my Beloved
but
there are so many angles to Him.
He’s
always changing.
And
He has declared that His physical form
is
merely a coat donned for His work.
So
my mind continues to spin, in order to
sync
up with the world, leaving me
tipsy,
perplexed and slightly nauseous.
O
child of God, embrace your Beloved
and let Him whirl you
lightly across the floor.
My
warning bell
I’m
folded up again; trying to settle
my
roving mind . . . but it proves unruly,
intolerant
of such a betrayal.
My
companion from the first –
as
best I remember – my strategist,
instigator,
my warning bell,
my
mentor and tormentor,
my
fellow conspirator.
Hard
to abandon so constant a companion
and
face the Void alone. But maybe
I
have mistaken the mind’s
persistent
intrusions and admonitions
for
the silent companionship
of
my one true Friend
in
their ongoing and ages-old battle
for
my attention, my allegiance, my love.
O
child of God, if the Friend is one companion
and your mind is another,
where and who are you?
My
two coppers
My
words ring hollow if they have not
the
hope and heart I intended
when
I first strung them together.
They
are my lepta, the two coppers
I
drop into the coffer; the best I can offer.
My
pockets are empty of all else;
a
trifle yes, but through God’s grace,
a
blessing, perhaps, somewhere to someone
and
a worthy offering to my Lord –
a
richness that has blessed already
this
impoverished poet who first received
and
then shared them with the world.
O
child of God, offering your poems to the Beloved
is the return of your
gift to the Giver.
