Returned
to the Ocean
I
live alone but seldom feel lonely.
When
I do, I allow my solitude
to
remind me of the eternal aloneness
and
infinite loneliness of God
Who
created me as His companion.
I
haven’t changed much in the last few years.
I’ve
only become more myself, believing,
at
long last, that I am and always have been
precisely
the way God has ordained me to be –
a
curiously structured, affectionally ragtag
element
of His great scheme of things.
Feeling
more and more His hand upon me,
His
existence within me, my only comfort
in
the otherwise absolute emptiness of the Void.
O
child of God, existence is a river and unremittingly
you are being
returned to the Ocean from which you came.
Snapshots
I
have a photograph tacked
to
a corkboard in my office
of
a nearby river – a paper image
silent,
small and dry;
capturing
a moment, freezing the flow.
Our
perceptions of this world
are
but a string of fixed moments
wherein
we might imagine
a
continuity of sorts
but
our interpretation of such images
is
always, always, always
partial,
limited, fleeting and false.
O
child of God, even our brief, separative lives
can be viewed as
snapshots in the eternal flow of time.
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.
